Free The Gardener by Catherine McGreevy Page A

“Thank you, Jenny. I shall not need your services again.”
    “Yes, Miss.” The girl curtsied again and withdrew.
    Taking a last look at her transfigured self in the mirror, Abigail went downstairs. Jonathan had promised to take her riding her last day at Blackgrave Manor, and the weather boded to be fair. As she stepped into the stirrup with the aid of a stable boy, she wondered once again what had become of the footman who had dropped the fish.
    Then Jonathan rode up on his enormous bay and, laughing, shouted, “I shall race you to the lake.” He switched his horse, and was gone.
    When she caught up with him, laughing, her hair torn by the wind from the elaborate hairdo that Jenny had constructed so painfully, she had already forgotten the servant's misfortune.

 
     
    Chapter Seven
     
    A splitting pain in Tom's head awoke him. For a moment he lay gazing up at an unfamiliar low wooden ceiling that swayed from side to side, wondering where he was. Then gradually he realized he could not move his arms. They appeared to have been secured behind him with some type of cording. A sudden sickening lurch and a clicking of hooves against cobblestones told him he was in some sort of conveyance. An enclosed wagon.
    He thought at first he was dreaming. Soon Campbell would be shaking him out of bed to light the fires. Then he remembered the gold-handled cane striking his temple, and, less clearly, the thrashing that had followed by several of the other footmen. His body throbbed from head to foot, and he tasted blood in his mouth.
    The wagon hit a bump, causing his head to bang against the floor, redoubling the pain. He cursed as the memories returned. There was no mystery about his destination, he realized. He was being transported to gaol, and soon, after a hasty trial, he'd be led to the gallows, as Lord Marlowe had vowed.
    Tom did not consider for a moment the possibility that a kindly judge would find him innocent. No one would take the word of a mere servant against that of a nobleman, or a nobleman's daughter.
    He wondered who had betrayed him. Some unknown enemy among the servants, perhaps, who had made a lucky guess as to why he had been called to Maeve's bedroom, hoped to use it against him? If so, the plan had paid off handsomely.
    Bitterly, he remembered Lemley's warning to stay away from the Marlowes. He had not heeded it, and now he was paying the consequences.
    Looking down, he saw he had been stripped of his satin jacket and that he had lost his wig in the beating. His head throbbed, his bones ached, and a few teeth felt loose. Lost in dark thoughts, he barely noticed the wagon lurch to a stop until a stocky constable threw open the doors.
    “Awake, then, are ye?” The policeman bundled him out and a doorway that led into dark corridor lined with cells. A foul odor turned his stomach.
    Fitting a key in the last iron-barred door, the constable placed a beefy palm on Tom's back and shoved, hard. “Maybe you'll manage to stay out of trouble 'ere, eh?” He laughed as the door clanged shut.
    With his hands tied behind his back, Tom was unable to break his fall. is His cheek hit the flagstone floor, unleashing a burst of raucous laughter from the dark recesses of the cell.
    The policeman's key rattled noisily in the metal door, and footsteps echoed back down the hallway.
    “God love me if it ain't one of the bloody 'ouse of Lords! Look at them fancy rags!” A boot tested Tom's newly bruised ribs. He had been about to push himself to his feet. Now he decided it would be prudent to remain where he was: prone on a hard, cold floor that reeked of urine.
    “ Knee breeches, by all that's holy!” said another voice. Rough hands pulled at his boots. “An' fine new Hessians. Look at that shiny leather! Do you suppose they'd fit me, Jake?”
    “Leave them be, fools,” said a third voice. It was smoother than the others, and more thoughtful. “Those boots will do neither of you good where you're going. Besides—” a