Free The Gardener by Catherine McGreevy Page B

slight pause—”the fellow might prove useful to us.”
    “Useful?”
    “’E's dressed like a gentleman, isn't he? Who knows but what ’e might have powerful friends?”
    “If 'e 'ad powerful friends, 'e'd hardly be here , would 'e?” sneered the first voice.
    'Oh, he'll prove useful enough. He'll balance the gibbet,” said the second at the same time, and the laughter burst out again.
    But the tugging stopped, and Tom felt it safe to open an eye. As his vision adjusted to the darkness, he saw two ruffians looking down at him, greasy, untrimmed hair falling across their faces.
    A third man sat on a ledge jutting out from a wall. He was older than the others, and his clothes appeared of better cut. His thinning brown hair was secured by a limp ribbon, while artificially enlarged eyes studied him through thick wire-rimmed spectacles. The shrewd intensity of the gaze made Tom suddenly self-conscious.
    He struggled to his knees, a difficult feat with his arms tied behind his back. The constable had failed to release the bonds, and by now he had lost nearly all sensation in his wrists.
    “So—” The middle-aged man removed his spectacles and began polishing them on the front of his shirt. “What are you here for, mate? You seem a cut above the usual lot who pass within these walls.”
    Tom turned his head away. He had no desire to consort with criminals, even had he wished to relate the events that had brought him here. There was no way to tell the story without looking a fool, even to himself. How easily he had played into Miss Marlowe's scheme! he thought bitterly. If only he had defied her, or stormed from the room, as a real man would have done. But he had proven himself to be what Miss Maeve expected: a trained monkey, good only to do others’ bidding.
    Then the flame of rebellion flared again in his belly. Never again. Never again would he let another man or woman dictate his actions, he swore, as rage filled every vein of his sore, aching body, giving him strength. If by some miracle he were freed from prison, never again would he blindly obey anyone. Never. Even if his last act was to defy the hangman, he would fight until breath left his body!
    “'Ain't the talkative type, it appears,” said the first man, a broad-shouldered thug with a thatch of hair as thick as an otter's pelt. “No matter, I 'eard the guards talking through the door before the wagon arrived. This fellow's no gentleman, e's a servant. 'Ad an eye for his master's daughter, they said.” He laughed and spat, adding some details as vulgar as they were false.
    “Is that so?” the older man said mildly. He settled his glasses onto the bridge of his hooked nose and studied the newcomer again with interest.
    Ignoring them, Tom crawled to the nearest corner and propped himself against the wall. The cool stone felt good against his aching back, although the reference to the gibbet made him feel more wretched than ever, reminding him of his hopeless position.
    His comrades at the manor would never know the truth, he thought. Blodgett would never allow the real story to come out. Miss Marlowe would be kept out of any version of the tale. No doubt they would accuse him of stealing silver, or some other petty crime: a few spoons missing from the butler's pantry would answer any questions about his disappearance. After a few days of speculation, Tom would be forgotten, just like the long-departed Jenkins had been forgotten, and life at Blackrock Manor would continue as usual.
    Of course, Lemley would miss him. And maybe …. Jenny's face swam into view, her soft lips parted in a warm smile. His gut twisted with longing. Surely she would miss him. She would wonder what had happened. Perhaps his absence would cause her to  realize the depth of her feelings for him.
    Although by then, of course, it would be too late. He remembered the gibbet, and shuddered.
    During the next few hours, the ruffians lobbed questions at him, but when Tom sullenly refused