The Gardener Read Online Free PDF Page A

stairs to her lady's quarters.
    One night he raised the subject to Campbell as they lay on their beds relaxing in the small room they shared.
    “Jenny Doyle? Lady Marlowe’s lady’s maid?” Campbell dragged on the strong-smelling brown cigarette he treated himself to each night. “And here I thought it was the new girl, Ada, you had your eye on. If that's not the case, I believe I shall look after that red-haired lassie meself.” He chuckled. "It's one of the advantages of our position. We are the roosters in the henhouse.”
    Tom felt himself blushing, and Campbell rolled an eye in his direction, grinning. “I've seen their faces as you walk by, my lad. Don't worry, there’s enough for all of us.” He propped himself up on one elbow, warming to the subject. “Just mind that Blodgett doesn’t hear of it. That was Jenkins’ mistake. He fell for a lassie that wore a wee golden cross around her neck, and when he tried his usual tricks, she complained. Next thing you know, they were both out on their ear.”
    “The girl was sacked too? But ….”
    “’Twasn’t fair, do you mean to say?” The footman snorted. “No one cares tuppence what goes on below stairs, as long as they never hear word of it, but if something does come to their attention, they don't give a damn who’s at fault! There’s plenty of others beggin’ for the job; why trouble themselves sorting it all out? Let it be a lesson to you, my friend.”
    Tom listened, tucking this away with other useful facts he had learned over the past weeks, such as the rivalry between the cook and housekeeper, Blodgett’s weakness for a glass of sherry before retiring, and Sir Jonathan’s burgeoning gambling debts. One never knew when they would be useful.
    “But Jenny?” he repeated stubbornly.
    “Aye, Jenny.” Campbell laid his head back on his pillow and blew a nearly perfect smoke ring toward the low ceiling, where it spread and broke apart. “She’s new to the household and rarely comes below stairs, only to fetch things for the missus. Thinks she’s too good for the rest of us, I suppose. Take my advice and pick another lass, my man. Lord knows, there’s plenty to choose from.”
    Unsatisfied, Tom blew out the candle. If Jenny Doyle was proud, what of it? He was no longer an ignorant, blushing gardener. This past week, he had begun learning to assess wine (“Just a sip!” the French sommelier had warned, standing guard possessively over a newly decanted 1760 Chateau Lafite), and when he had informed Mrs. Snow with new authority that the béarnaise sauce needed a touch more tarragon, she had complied without shaking her mixing spoon at him, earning him the admiration of the other footmen.
    No, by Jove, he thought, staring into the darkness. He'd ignore Campbell’s vague warning. Somehow he would find Jenny alone and make her his.
    *     *     *
    There was one great impediment to his goal, however, of which Tom was painfully aware. Although since assuming his new duties he had been working on improving his coarse accent and occasional lapses in grammar, he was still sensitive about his ignorance. How to overcome this obstacle, he did not know. The answer came in a way he had least expected.
    It happened as he was in the library oiling rows of leather-bound books, which the master had presumably bought for ornament since many of the pages were uncut. Everyone knew a great house needed a well-stocked library. It mattered less whether the books were read or not.
    Out of curiosity, Tom flipped open the heavy volume he was holding and gazed at the strange markings that crossed the page, idly wondering what they said. Then, turning the page, he found a surprise: behind a protective sheet of translucent paper appeared engraved images of grains, vegetables, and other plants. Vegetables? How absurd! Weren’t books reserved for more lofty subjects?
    A voice startled him, almost causing him to drop the book.
    “Hello, there! I do not suppose