The Making of a Gentleman

by Ruth Axtell Morren

  Keeping her movements careful and deliberate, Florence brought one of the chairs from the table toward the fire. The chair wobbled when she sat down. After assuring herself she wasn’t going to lose her balance, she removed her gloves and stretched her hands toward the blaze.

  She heard a scraping noise and turned to see Quinn dragging the table closer. Then he placed the other chair in front of it and sat down. He opened a leather satchel thrown down by his companion and proceeded to remove its contents: a round loaf of bread, a few paper parcels and a bottle.

  He unwrapped the first parcel, a wedge of cheese, and the second, a small joint of ham. With his knife, he hacked off a piece of cheese and immediately stuffed it into his mouth, even before proceeding to slice the bread and ham.

  Those condemned to die were fed only bread and water for the last three days of their life, so he must have been famished. As he took the first bite of his rapidly made sandwich, his gaze fell on her. “Hungry?” he said through his full mouth.

  She stared at his bulging cheeks, feeling a faint disgust, but surprised nonetheless that he had asked. “Yes.”

  “Help yourself.” He cut off a few more pieces of bread and placed them on the paper holding the slices of ham and cheese.

  “Thank you.” She noticed he didn’t leave the knife lying there, but stuck it back in his waistband after wiping it clean on his sleeve.

  She moved her chair closer to the table and took a piece of bread, eyeing the dried-looking cheese. Quinn was halfway through his bread before she’d even finished arranging her meat and cheese atop hers. He reached across the table and took a swig from the bottle.

  He caught her watching him. He lowered the bottle, setting it back with a thump before wiping his mouth with the same sleeve he’d used to clean the knife.

  His eyes weren’t dark as she’d first supposed. No, they were bottle-green like the one on the table, reflecting the flickering flames of the fire, beneath thick black brows and curly, brushlike lashes. For a split second, staring into those deep-fringed eyes, she thought she read vulnerability, a lost soul needing a message of hope. The next instant, he blinked, appearing once more savage and ferocious.

  She looked away and took a bite of her bread and cheese, tugging as delicately as she could at the dry crust to tear it free. Although the stale food made her thirsty, she refused to drink from the bottle. No doubt it contained cheap gin. She noted he didn’t offer her any but did leave the bottle within reach of them both. The chill in the cellar seeped to her very bones. What she wouldn’t give for a hot cup of tea.

  The Lord would provide in His time, she reminded herself, more certain than ever now that He had a purpose in bringing her here.

  The edge of her hunger abated, she folded her hands on the rough tabletop and formulated what she should say. Above all else, she was the Lord’s vessel. She licked dry lips. What would her brother do in her place? Damien was such a thoughtful man, so sweet of temperament. She slipped her watch out of the pocket of her dress.

  Quinn was immediately alert, watching her movements.

  Slowly, she lifted her hand. “It’s my watch.”

  Relief darted through his hard expression and he looked back down at his food.

  It was only half past eight. She found it hard to believe little over an hour had passed since she was standing at the gallows. She snapped the watch closed and stowed it away.

  She cleared her throat. “How long do you plan to hold me here?”

  He continued to chew. Finally he shrugged. “Until I figure out what to do with you.”

  “You won’t get away, you know,” she said, ignoring the fear his words had sent through her. Would he keep her here the entire day? What of Damien? Had he noticed her absence yet?

  Quinn glanced up briefly from his food. “What d’ye know of anything?”

  “Your only help now is Christ.”

  He swore.

  She pursed her lips. “That certainly won’t put you in His good graces.”

  When he said nothing, she continued. “They’ll soon begin combing the neighborhoods. They’ll flush you out like a partridge.”

  He snorted. “In this stew? They’re scared o’ stepping foot in here.”

  “Not if they’re well armed.”

  He shrugged. “I’ll keep moving. They’ll never be able to look in every hole of this rookery.” He wiped his mouth again with the back of his hand. “The place is filled with Irish. They’ll never give me away. They hate the English too much. Like as not, they’ll send the soldiers on a wild-goose chase.”

  She pressed her lips together in consternation. His escape from the gallows certainly had done nothing to lessen his arrogance. “For a time, perhaps, but eventually the arm of the law is too strong. Where can you run?” Maybe if he were desperate enough, he’d listen to reason.

  He swore at her. “Shut your bleedin’ trap. It’s none o’ your concern.”

  “It is since you kidnapped me.”

  “That was to ensure me safety. As soon as it’s nightfall, you’ll be free to go. I won’t be here, if you’re thinking o’ sending the constable looking for me,” he added with a rude laugh.

  The relief at his promise of her freedom was tempered by the fear of being left by herself in this rookery. “You needn’t worry that I’ll turn you in,” she said with a studied indifference. “You’ll have plenty to worry about on that score from the people in the neighborhood—or from your own companions, for that matter.”

  That last remark caught his attention. His eyes narrowed under his heavy brows. “You’re the prison lady.”

  She acknowledged the name they called her at Newgate with a slight inclination of her head. “Yes.”

  He swore again. “I thought there was somethin’ familiar looking about you. You’re the one that offers the condemned false hope.” He pushed the remains of the food away and belched. “As soon as you leave to your warm dwelling, they’re left in the filth and cold of their prison walls, trusting their future to empty promises of a savior.”

  “The only One who can help you now is that Savior.”

  “Bah! I’ll take my chances on me own.”

  “Where do you hope to go if you stay here? You may elude capture for a few days, maybe weeks, but eventually, they’ll catch you. If you leave here, there’ll be even a greater chance of detection. Someone will recognize you. Most people will fear you, the way you look now, like a great wild beast.”

  His eyes widened before they flickered away from her and back toward the fire.

  She leaned forward. “You can stow away on a ship, but then what? Where will you go? France? We’re at war with them. America? With the blockade?” She gave a doubtful laugh.

  Quinn’s large hands clenched on the tabletop, the only sign that her words were having any effect.

  “You could always turn yourself in—”

  “Never!”

  “In a few hours, days at most, they’ll have this place surrounded, mark my words—”

  He stood, knocking his chair over backward. “They’ll never take me alive.”

  She knew in those moments, as his green eyes stared into hers, that he spoke the truth.

  Realizing the futility of arousing his ire further, she tried another tack. “You could petition to have your case retried. It’s been done before.”

  “What do you know of my case?”

  “I know enough to know you may be as innocent as you claim.”

  Her words caught his attention. Picking up the fallen chair, he retook his seat.

  She leaned forward. “I’ve been around Newgate long enough to know that witnesses can be bought or sold.”

  He seemed to weigh her words a moment longer before shaking his head. “They’ll never believe me if they didn’t the first time.”

  “In any case, your innocence or guilt is not the most important issue. The fact is the Lord has given you a reprieve. You would have been c
ondemned to a fate worse than mere death if you had swung on that gallows today.”

  His eyes registered surprise for a second. Then he threw back his head and laughed, a deep, rough guffaw. “Worse than mere death?” he mimicked her cultivated syllables. “I beg your pardon, madam, but it’s easy for you to call it that since you haven’t had a rope strung about your scrawny neck.”

  “I may not have stood where you stood today, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t watched enough souls go to their grave to understand the seriousness of their eternal destiny.”

  He leaned in close, his green eyes glittering with mockery. “Are you one of those who like to watch a man swing from the gallows? It shows how little fine manners separate the scum o’ the Earth from those born to wealth.”

  She jerked back. How dare he accuse her of enjoying the sight of someone strangling at the end of the rope? Before she could think of a suitable retort, he had turned away from her as if tired of her conversation.

  He swung out his knife again. She flinched, but relaxed when she saw he used it only to pick his teeth.

  Florence shifted her attention to the fire, which had burned low. “May I replenish the fire?” she asked softly.

  He grunted. Taking it for assent, she stood.

  There were only a few sticks of wood left. She used one to stir up the remaining embers and laid what was left atop them.

  Damien, I pray you don’t worry about me. By now, he may have heard something about the escape. As far as she knew, no condemned person had ever slipped the noose.

  “Did you know you would be rescued today?” she asked into the silence.

  “No.”

  She drew in her breath. The enormity of his reprieve took her breath away. The Lord had indeed heard her prayer for mercy. “You were prepared to die today?”

  He laid down his knife and looked at her. His expression was flat and unreadable. “As ready as a man ever is.”

  “You refused to kneel and pray.”

  He turned aside and spit on the ground. “What, kneel for the benefit of a jeering crowd and play into the hands of that cleric so he can use it as a lesson to hold over the other poor prisoners?” He clasped his hands together and closed his eyes. “Yes, dear people,” he mocked the pious tones of the ordinary. “Witness here a dying man’s repentance for a crime he never committed.”

  She had no words to reply to that. She knew the man he was referring to and could hardly refute what he was saying.

  Not knowing what else to say and feeling stiff from kneeling by the fire, she stood and shook her skirt out. Although the chill had left her limbs, she felt exhausted. The night’s vigil and the day’s excitement were taking their toll. She sat back down and recommenced praying. The Lord surely had a plan, and she needed to know what He would have her do next.

  Instead of showing signs of fatigue, Quinn seemed to grow restless. He stood and began to prowl about the low cellar. He investigated every corner of it. Then he checked the door. Finally, he came back, spread out a dirty blanket on the hard ground next to the small fire, and lay down.

  “Remember, if you try anything, I have the knife right here.” He patted the blade, which rested beneath his hands on his broad chest.

  She sniffed. “It’s not up to me to turn you in. The Lord spared your life for a reason.”

  He turned his back on her.

  After a while, she heard the deep, even breathing that told her he was asleep. She began to recite Scripture. She felt her own lids grow heavy. Finally, able to fight the fatigue no more, she rested her head on the pillow of her arms and shut her eyes….

  Chapter Two

  Jonah opened his eyes. He tensed, as he’d done every morning in his solitary cell in Newgate. The fire pit in front of him brought reality back in a jumble of images.

  The feel of the rough hemp about his neck. The cap over his face blocking out the sea of faces in front of him.

  He was going to die, and he didn’t know if he’d disgrace himself before the crowd. How they loved a good show. Would he suffocate quickly, his short, insignificant life snuffed out, or would the rope prove uncooperative and leave him swinging there for agonizing minutes?

  Before he’d been isolated in the condemned man’s cell, he’d heard richly detailed stories from other prisoners of how chancy a clean death was. Often the hangman would have to pull on a prisoner’s legs so he’d die the quicker. A rare prisoner even survived the hanging, his throat raw and bruised, only to have to face the rope the next day.

  Jonah didn’t think he could go through such a proceeding twice.

  Despite his bravado, he’d been terrified. He’d stared at the dank, stone ceiling of his cell as the hours ticked by, and contemplated his demise. What would the morrow bring? Where would his soul go after the rope cut off the breath from his body? Or would his life be ended for good?

  He passed a hand in front of his eyes now, wiping away the last horrible memories. His shoulders ached from his position on the floor, though he was used to a hard surface from the wooden pallet in his cell. The fire had long since gone out. His feet felt numb.

  Quiet breathing alerted him that he wasn’t alone. The prison lady.

  She—he didn’t even know her name—still sat on the chair, but now her head rested on her arms and it was obvious she slept. She looked peaceful and harmless. He laughed inwardly, thinking how little the image reflected the reality. The woman’s words were like barbs, pointed and skillfully aimed at a man’s weaknesses.

  They’ll flush you out like a partridge. Her pale eyes had taunted him, her tone as self-assured as the presiding judge’s at the Old Bailey. You would have been condemned to a fate worse than mere death if you had swung on that gallows today.

  What did she know of his life? Who was she to judge? Had she ever been accused of a crime she didn’t commit? How would she have responded to a rope around her neck? Would all her preaching help her then? Not for a moment had she truly noticed the man in front of her.

  He observed her in her sleep now, her back rising and falling in an even rhythm. A strange curl of something snaked through his gut. Something he hadn’t felt in so long. Then her cutting words rose again and he saw her for what she was. His prisoner.

  The tables were turned. He, the prisoner, with a prisoner of his own. He wasn’t quite sure why he hadn’t let her go once he was away from Newgate. Surety against the soldiers? Perhaps. Although he doubted the value of one woman’s life to the soldiers. Especially such a scrawny one. He remembered how slight she’d felt when he’d half dragged, half carried her along the streets.

  He shrugged. It no longer mattered. He’d let her go soon. She was of no use to him now. He’d have enough trouble keeping his own hide in safety. Two would be nigh on impossible.

  He stood and listened but could discern no noises from the street. If the soldiers hadn’t ferreted him out here, he might actually have a fighting chance. For the first time since his escape, he began to believe in his freedom. It had happened so quickly. One moment facing his death, the next offered a chance at liberty.

  He didn’t even know who had organized his rescue. From the few words he’d exchanged with the cove who’d led him here, it sounded like an underworld boss. He certainly didn’t have the kind of friends who’d risk their lives for him. If anything, circumstances had proved how quickly his acquaintances in the city would betray him.

  Eventually they’ll catch you. The prison woman’s words came back to him…again. He threw an angry look at her sleeping form. How dare she invade his mind with her convictions? She was a nothing, a self-righteous little nothing.

  And yet, her direct words, those clear gray eyes that cut through to a man’s soul, haunted him, worsening his restlessness. He rose to his feet and paced, ignoring the pins and needles as his feet came back to life.

  He thought of the many eyes in this rookery. Even when the streets appeared deserted, there were dozens of watchers from the
broken and boarded-up windows. How long before someone turned him in? What if the Crown offered a reward for his capture?

  He halted. Suddenly the walls seemed to be closing in on him, and he remembered the feeling of confinement in the dungeonlike cell at Newgate. He would not go back to that. They’d not catch him, he swore. They wouldn’t! He’d die first.

  The woman stirred and raised her head. Her hand went to her bonnet, half fallen off. Then she turned and her gaze met Jonah’s.

  “’Bout time you woke up.”

  “How long have I been asleep?” she asked, rubbing her eyes. The sight of her slim pale hands curled against her face gave her a vulnerability she’d lacked before, and Jonah felt an odd protectiveness sweep over him. What had she been thinking, exposing herself to prisoners and mobs? He remembered the other man’s lewd words when he’d left him and they sickened him. This woman had a refinement that belonged to the drawing room, not hiding out in a hovel on Saffron Hill with a fugitive.

  He remembered holding the knife to her delicate neck and guilt stabbed him. She smoothed back her hair while he watched. What was he going to do with her? He shrugged to hide his dismay. “You’re the one with the watch.”

  She fumbled beneath her cloak and finally managed to extract the timepiece. “It’s almost six o’clock.”

  “It’ll be dark outside.”

  She pushed her hair away from her forehead and looked at the cold grate.

  Her longing for a fire was clear. To distract her, he said, “I haven’t heard any hoofbeats on the road above us so the search hasn’t reached this quarter.”

  “Yet.”

  He glared at her and turned back around. To think he’d felt a moment of pity for her.

  She began to untie the ribbons of her bonnet and proceeded to remove it. She wore her light brown hair in a simple knot and her cloak was gray. Was she a Quaker? Despite her plain appearance, she had the air of a lady. It was more than her speech. It was something in her gestures and the cut of her clothes. Not that he’d ever had much contact with ladies in his life.

  “You said you didn’t know you were to be set free today, but did you know any of the men who stormed the gallows?” she asked.