Free The Gardener by Catherine McGreevy

gibbet before the week's out! Hold him well, Campbell!”
    Before Tom could utter a word, the gold-handled stick crashed down, and the lights in the room went out.

 
     
     
     
    Chapter Six
     
    Abigail privately thought that Maeve Marlowe's wedding could not be said to have been a success. Jonathan, seeming startled out of his usual state of sleepy good-humor, dropped his humorous pretense at wooing her and excused himself several times to go to his sister's side. Once, when passing down the hallway that led past Maeve's room, Abigail thought she heard muffled weeping.
    On the day of the happy event, the bride seemed wan and distracted, and when the vicar asked her for her vows, she had to be prodded before responding. Even then, she looked up and said, blankly, “I'm sorry, what did you say?”
    The father of the bride looked tense as well. Lord Marlowe's puffy face was an unnatural, raw-beef shade of red, and his gold-handled cane sported a fresh dent in it. The festivities that followed seemed forced, and when the couple left abruptly for their new home in the West Indies, Abigail had hardly a chance to wish them farewell.
    Miles Woodbury decided to cut short their visit, and their hosts did not press them to stay. On the bright side, Abigail thought as Lady Marlowe's lady's maid arranged her hair on their last morning at Blackgrave Manor, she had come to a decision not to marry dour, practical Benjamin Pinckney. Who cared if he published one of the best newspapers in Boston?
    She winced as the maid pulled a lock of hair a tad too vigorously. Startled out of her reverie, she looked with surprise into the dressing table mirror. The maid was a beauty, possibly the prettiest girl she had ever seen: porcelain-skinned, with curls of golden hair escaping from under her mobcap, and slender, agile fingers that transformed Abigail's unruly locks into a coiffure that would satisfy even a noblewoman. Her scalp ached from the pulling, but peering into the mirror, she had to admit the result was worth it.
    “Well done, Jenny,” she said and swiveled to smile at the girl. “You've a gift.”
    “Thank you, Miss.” The girl traced a short curtsy. Like everything the maid did, the movement was graceful and becoming, but there was no note of kindness or warmth in her tone. “Have I leave to be dismissed, Miss?”
    “Of course,” Abigail said promptly. “I could have done my hair myself, you know. If Lady Marlowe hadn't insisted—” A thought occurred to her and she twisted in her seat to look at the maid again. “If you do not mind, Jenny, may I ask a question before you go?”
    “Yes, Miss?” The girl folded her hands in front of her neat white apron, where they lay as still as resting birds.
    “Is it my imagination, Jenny, or has something been amiss these past few days?”
    The girl's eyes widened fractionally. “Whatever can you mean, Miss?”
    Abigail wasn't sure herself. She waved a hand vaguely. “Ever since the night of the rehearsal dinner, it seems that everyone has been on edge.”
    “There was some trouble below stairs, Ma'am. I believe a servant has been sacked.”
    “Not that footman who dropped the fish, I hope?” Abigail felt distressed. She had caught a glimpse of the accident, from the corner of her eye. She had almost forgotten the event. It had been over so quickly, with such a minimum of fuss, that she had hoped, for the footman’s sake, that she was the only one who had noticed.
    Jenny shrugged. “I'm sorry, Ma'am. That's all I know.”
    Abigail considered talking to Lady Marlowe about the matter. It hadn't been the footman's fault, for Anatole had thrown his arm out in one of those grand gestures he had picked up from his Creole friends and knocked the platter clean out of the fellow’s grasp. But what if she only made matters worse? Lady Marlowe would not appreciate her guest interfering with the workings of her household.
    And yet Abigail hated injustice. She gave Jenny a distracted nod.