The Gardener (32 page)

Lemley looked at the coins with wide eyes. He reached a respectful finger to touch them, and Tom realized that the old man had probably never seen so much money in his life.

Then Lemley looked back at Tom, quirking his bristly white eyebrows. “Will you not give it to her yourself? She’d be glad to see you, my boy.”

Tom shook his head. “I'm learning the past is better left in the past. I have seen you again, and by Jove, that’s enough for me. Do promise me one more thing, though, Lemley.”

The old man shifted against his pillow. “Anything in my power, lad.”

“When she asks you again to come live in her home—say yes. I shall not be content until I know you’re in a house with a loving family around you. Every man deserves to end his days with others around who care for him.”

Lemley's rheumy eyes fastened closely on Tom’s face, and the younger man had the impression the suggestion took the aging gardener by surprise. After a few moments, he nodded weakly, rubbing his bristled chin. “By gad, Tom, I believe I shall. Yes, perhaps I shall. That is…if you are sure I'll not be a burden to her.”

Tom’s mouth twitched, remembering brusque, hard-working, good-hearted Rosie. He knew full well that if she hadn’t wanted to take the old gardener in, she would never have suggested it.

“She’ll be glad to have you, Lemley. For one thing, it will save her coming all this way to check on you. For another, these gold pieces will enable her to hire a serving girl to help.” Tom leaned forward and somewhat awkwardly embraced the old man. “Unless I can persuade you to come to America instead. You could make your home with my wife and me, and her father….”

“Leave me motherland? Perish the thought!” Lemley looked scandalized, and Tom laughed.

Tenderly he looked down at the spare man who had been a father to him. It had been worth it, he thought. Worth the long trip across the ocean, worth leaving Abigail and the children, worth risking capture, to ease the last days of the man who had saved his life. He wondered how many times Lemley had wondered if Tom had managed to evade the gallows for good. A bit gruffly, he bade his old friend farewell, and the two men clasped hands.

As he stepped to the coach, still waiting in front of the house, someone called out behind him.

“You there! What is your name? Tom, isn’t it?”

Tom’s heart skipped a beat, and he turned slowly.

Jonathan stared at him while leaning heavily on his cane. He limped forward slowly. “You’d be the gardener I made a footman, are you not? I almost didn’t recognize you. ’Twas your height that gave you away. And those questions you were asking. Why should you care about my family?”

Tom stood stock-still, hand gripping the coach’s door handle. How could he have been so foolish as to think he could get away unrecognized?

“There are not many men in this world as tall as you,” Jonathan said, stopping several feet away and staring at Tom’s face with narrowed eyes. “With hair that fair, and eyes that color. It started coming back to me, bit by bit. 'Twas a bouquet of white flowers, and a carriage and a team of runaway horses that brought you to my notice. Later I gave you a book, in the library, didn’t I?”

“You did.” Tom cleared his throat to speak, but he raised his chin high and stood with shoulders thrown back, legs planted apart, body tensed. Why should he deny the truth? “I owe you a great debt for that book. Because of it, I have risen in the world until I stand before you today, your equal.”
If not your better
, he silently added.

Once he had dreamed of saying similar words to Jonathan’s father. Now he had said them aloud to Lord Marlowe’s heir, boldly and defiantly. He waited, every sense alert, for Jonathan’s reaction.

It came. Jonathan raised a dark eyebrow. A vertical line appeared between  his eyebrows. Then, to Tom’s surprise, he gave a sharp, bark-like laugh.

“Then I’ve done some good in my miserable life, in spite of myself,” the scion said, shuffling closer, and taking a pinch of snuff from a bejeweled box. Tom recognized it with a sickening twist of his stomach: the object that had started all his troubles. “And all these years I imagined you ended your days dancing from the end of a string as a result of my trying to preserve my sister’s unworthy reputation. A wasted effort, too, from all reports.” Jonathan saw the direction of Tom’s eyes, and, with a flick of the wrist, the snuffbox disappeared into a pocket.

“It was a low thing I did, pretending you had stolen this to explain your sudden disappearance,” he said, his face growing serious. “I suppose you’d say I have paid the price, though, eh?” He gave a deep, ironic bow, which served to emphasize the shabbiness of his formerly elegant clothes. “I’ll admit, I’m rather glad to learn you’re alive. One less regret from a life misspent.”

A wave of pity swept over Tom, causing him to regret his defiant words of a moment ago.

“I’ve done many things I’m not proud of,” Jonathan continued, “but perhaps you will allow me to strike that particular misdeed from my conscience since it appears to have turned out favorably for you?”

Jonathan was asking his forgiveness? “Certainly.” Tom was surprised how easily the word came out, as the old anger and resentment fell away. “But may I ask one favor as well?”

Jonathan's eyebrow glided upward, curious.

“You say you remember I was once a gardener here.”

“I do.”

“Then I would like a cutting of one of those rosebushes. For old time’s sake.”

Jonathan looked at him with surprise. “Of course. Help yourself to anything you wish.” He turned to shuffle toward the house, cane thumping under his weight.

*     *     *

On the way to London, Tom felt his heart grow light. Old worries had been laid to rest. Jonathan must find the answers to his own problems; Tom cared nothing about them now. All he could think of was how quickly he could return to Abigail’s waiting arms, the children, their farm, and whatever future duties President Jefferson and the new state of Ohio found for him.

He permitted himself a last stab of pity for Jonathan, lurking in the moldering old manor house. Then he brushed aside any lingering memories. There was work to do in America, a bright and hopeful future to build.

*     *     *

Favorable winds pushed the ship westward quickly, but they could not push it fast enough for Tom’s satisfaction. When the bright-green New England shore came into sight, he was the first on the bow, watching for the beloved figures waiting for him on the dock. He was not disappointed. There they were—the short female with chestnut hair peeping from under her straw hat; the older man, now white-haired yet still straight and dignified; and the bouncing children, clinging to their grandfather’s legs.

Tom did not pause to supervise the unloading of the poplars, but elbowed aside the rushing sailors almost before the gangplank was in place. Galloping down, he laughed aloud while catching up Abigail by the waist. She had left behind her father and rushed up the gangplank to meet him halfway, ignoring the surge of sailors and activity around them.

Despite her bulging belly—she looked about to burst—he whirled her around until her hat flew off and her hair swirled like the flames of a torch. “Abby, I’m back! I promised, didn't I?”

“Stop, silly! What will the children think?” She laughed, but her arms were tight around his shoulders.

“They’ll think their father loves their mother, that’s what.” He kissed her, long and hard. But he had to set her down, because all three children had eluded their grandfather and were pounding toward the gangplank. "Papa! Papa!” Their shouts were so loud that other passengers turned to stare.

Tom scooped each of them up in turn, while Mr. Woodbury shuffled up, using his walking stick and grinning. “Welcome home, Tom.”

Arms encircling his wife and children, Tom marveled at how things had changed since he had first met Miles and Abigail Woodbury on another dock in faraway England. Then, he had been a desperate fugitive trying to evade Lord Marlowe’s agents. Now he was a respected son and husband, a returning envoy of the president of the United States of America. It was a scene he once would never have imagined, even in his wildest dreams.

A team of sailors tramped by, grunting under the weight of the Lombardy Poplars, which would eventually soar to over a hundred feet. And in the smaller burlap parcel he had set on the ground next to him….

“What is in that?” Abigail asked, following the direction of his gaze. At his nod, she opened the bag and stared, wide-eyed.

"More roses?" she exclaimed.

"Yes. These are special ones. Let me tell you something I have known for a long time, but only recently understood."

"What is that, Tom?"

He thought of Lemley. "When one lops off the head of a rose, it grows back stronger and more beautiful than before."

She stared at him, and her expression grew thoughtful.

"With these roses I shall create a hybrid with the Damasks you brought from Cambridge. We shall call them 'Abby Roses.' They will be beautiful and fragrant. The best of old and new.”

She nodded. Wrapping her arms around him again, she whispered in his ear, “Yes, my love. The best of old and new.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Catherine McGreevy lives in Folsom, California. She has a husband, three children and two cats. A former teacher and newspaper reporter, she is an omnivorous reader and a historical enthusiast.

Other Books: The Jewelry Case,
a novel of romantic suspense

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