The Making of a Gentleman

by Ruth Axtell Morren

  He was beyond help.

  It was only a matter of time before he’d die of exposure or the authorities would catch him. Already he’d felt a burning in his throat that had grown worse each day until he could hardly swallow. The gin was long since gone, so there was nothing to relieve the pain.

  He scratched his itchy scalp then folded his arms once more over his chest, tucking his fingers under his armpits. How had he gone from a life of hard work but basic satisfaction at the end of the day to the life of a virtual beggar in the city?

  He’d never wanted much. Life had been good the way it was. He’d come home to Judy and the two babes, eat his plate of potatoes or bread and butter, sometimes with a piece of bacon, stretch out his legs before the fire, then retire for the night in their small cottage. That life seemed one of a king now.

  The decline had come fast, starting when he could find no work in the city because he was an “unskilled laborer.” He’d learned the meaning of that term quickly on. His wife had been more fortunate at first, finding piecemeal work, picking over silk for a family in Spitalfields. But with the difficulties in that industry, the employment had soon dried up.

  He’d only managed to find work for a few days at a time, mainly digging ditches. The day he was forced to snitch a piece of fruit off a market stand to bring something home to the wee ones, he thought he’d sunk as low as a fellow could.

  For a while Judy had taken in laundry, but it left her exhausted, her hands worn, and when the cold weather set it, she’d gotten sickly spending so much time wet. One by one, the little ones had also succumbed to the fever until Jonah had been the only one left.

  That’s when he’d met a cove by the name of Stevens. He’d seemed an upright gentleman with an honest trade. He’d promised Jonah employment in his shop. The wages were low, but Jonah was desperate enough to take anything.

  The job had been humble enough. Sweeping the shop, unloading the wares from the delivery wagons, all used goods, sorting through the dirty clothing and odd assortment of wares. Gradually, Jonah had grown to wonder at the steady supply of merchandise, especially when he’d seen the number of pocket watches and rings. When he’d begun to ask questions, his boss had laughed and told him to mind his own business.

  Then came that fateful day when Mr. Stevens had asked him, with that cherubic smile on his face, to take the banknote to one of his suppliers.

  The next day, he’d been accused by the man of passing a false bill.

  It was only during the long months sitting in Newgate awaiting his trial that Jonah had pieced it all together. Stevens’s shop had been nothing more than a front for stolen goods. When Jonah had begun to question things, Stevens had seen that it was time to get rid of him. No one had believed Jonah’s simple denials in the face of the evidence of the forged note. The evidence was irrefutable. The trial had lasted no more than five minutes before he was declared guilty and sentenced to hang.

  Jonah bowed his head on his folded arms. Why did he fight against the inevitable any longer? Why not give up the ghost and be done with it?

  A woman’s sharp words pushed past the despair engulfing him. If you find nowhere to go, come to my brother…. You’ll not be turned away by the Reverend Damien Hathaway.

  She’d not given him away when she’d had the chance.

  Despite her snappish tongue, she’d proved to be a true and stalwart ally.

  Was she his only hope?

  Chapter Three

  Florence walked from the chapel through the dark orchard to the rear of the parsonage. The rain fell in cold hard drops and she was glad of her hood. She had just finished arranging things on the altar for tomorrow’s service.

  She quickened her step while trying to avoid the muddy puddles, but it was impossible to see them all in the dark. Ahead, the lights of the house windows beckoned with their golden glow. She fumbled with the latch of the door to the walled kitchen garden. The box hedge brushed its stubby wet branches against her, sending forth its pungent odor. They’d have to trim it back come spring.

  A sudden rustling made her heart jump. She froze.

  “Who’s there?” her voice rapped out. A vagrant or Gypsy seeking a roof over his head for the night?

  A large figure moved from the shadows. “You said I could come to you.”

  More than his voice, she recognized his size. “Mr. Quinn!”

  “Shh! I’m a wanted man, if you haven’t forgotten.” He stepped closer.

  His face was filthy and haggard. Dark circles ringed his eyes. She wasted no more time on questions. “Come along. You’ll freeze out here.” Without a backward glance, she quickened her step along the stone path. How long had he been standing there in the freezing rain?

  “Oh!” She felt her foot slip on a slick stone. Before she could land on her backside, a strong grip stopped her fall. She well remembered that iron hold.

  He let her go as soon as she regained her balance. “Watch your step.”

  “Tha-thank you.” She straightened. “Come along,” she said, her tone firmer than she felt inside.

  Where had he been since she’d last seen him? It had been, she calculated, five days. She’d prayed for him each one and thanked the Lord that he was still free—if alive—since her visits to Newgate had told her he hadn’t been apprehended.

  They’d only questioned her minimally. Few people had even been aware she’d been grabbed by the prisoner. The warden let the matter drop when she gave him the scant details of her abduction. She was thankful she hadn’t had to lie. She’d merely told them Jonah Quinn had let her go once he’d found a hiding place. She had told them nothing of the location of the cellar. In truth, she would have no idea how to find it again herself.

  They reached the back door to the parsonage. Quinn closed it behind them and she turned to look at him in the lamplight. The warm glow only emphasized his drawn cheeks and rough beard, all dripping from the rain.

  “My goodness, you must be frozen.” He wore the same jacket and breeches she remembered, everything soaked through. “Come along to the fire.”

  She gestured to the bench in front of the hearth. “Sit down, while I fetch my brother and some dry things for you.”

  He looked as if he wanted to say something, but she hurried from the room. It was a miracle if the man didn’t catch his death.

  She rushed to her brother’s study first. “Damien, you must come immediately.”

  “What is it, Flo?” he asked, half rising from his desk chair.

  “It’s him. He’s come.”

  “Who?”

  “The escaped prisoner, Jonah Quinn.”

  He dropped his pen. “Where is he?”

  “I’ve brought him to the kitchen. He’s chilled to the bone. Who knows how long he’s been standing in the garden.”

  Damien was already heading for the door. “I’ll talk to him.”

  “Yes. Let him know he’s safe here, for now. I must get some dry things for him.” She eyed her brother’s slim frame. “May I rummage about in your clothespress? I doubt anything of yours will fit him, but he can’t stay in those wet garments.”

  “Rummage away, even if it’s only for a nightshirt.”

  Jonah turned at the sound of the door. A young man—a gentleman by the look of his refined features, neatly trimmed hair and dark clerical clothing—stared at him. Of above average height and slim, his resemblance to his sister was obvious. Jonah remembered she’d said he was a curate.

  The curate stepped forward, a pale hand outstretched. A distinct limp brought Jonah’s eye to a wooden leg, just below the knee. Pity.

  “Welcome.” The word held genuine warmth. “I’m Reverend Damien Hathaway. You met my sister, Florence, the other day during your…adventure,” he added when Jonah said nothing.

  After a second’s hesitation, Jonah stood and held out his own grimy hand. The other’s shake was firm, despite its more fragile, neat appearance.

  “Jonah
Quinn,” was all he said.

  “Please, sit down, Mr. Quinn. Welcome to our home.” Hathaway smiled, and Jonah was struck by the friendly goodwill in the man’s clear blue eyes.

  “Goodness, Florence was right. You’re soaked through. She has gone to get some dry things. You’d better get out of those as soon as possible. Let me help you with your jacket.”

  Before he could comply, another door opened. He tensed, wondering if he must flee again. A gray-haired woman peered in.

  She gave Jonah a sharp look and it was all he could do not to look away.

  “Ah, Mrs. Nichols,” the curate said, as if Jonah’s appearance was the most natural thing in the world. “As you see, we have a visitor with us on this inhospitable evening. I was just going to fetch a blanket for him. Florence has gone for some dry clothes. I suggest some tea and perhaps a hot bath?”

  “Of course, sir, I’ll have Albert fetch the tub. Dear me, it’s an awful night to be about. Come, let me take your coat.” She gave Jonah a quick curtsy. “Elizabeth Nichols, at your service.”

  Jonah gave a quick bow of his head then stopped. He couldn’t give his real name. He hadn’t thought of that wrinkle. All he’d thought about was getting to somewhere warm and dry.

  He looked across at Reverend Hathaway and read understanding in his eyes. “Kendall,” Jonah finally said. That was his mother’s family name. “William.” No one would think to connect Jonah Quinn with his brother’s name. “William Kendall, at your service,” he said, and held out his hand.

  “Very good, Mr. Kendall,” the servant said.

  Hathaway stepped forward. “Mr. Kendall has come to stay with us a while.”

  “Of course, sir.” She turned away and went to hang up his coat, as if she were used to having ragged guests appear at all hours of the night.

  The next moments were filled with bustle and confusion as Jonah sat on the bench by the fire, unable to stop the shivers racking his body. Mrs. Nichols came up to him with a large blanket. “Here you go, sir. If you’ll remove your wet things, you can just wrap yourself up in this till your bath is ready.”

  “Yes, madam,” he answered, suddenly overwhelmed. He’d never been waited on in his life, except by his wife, who’d served him his supper when he’d come in from the fields and cleared it away from him when he was done.

  When the others had left the room, he slowly began to remove his boots. Both were split at the soles, hardly affording protection against the wet streets. His stockings, full of holes, were soaked through. After removing them, he hesitated, wondering where to set them. The flagstones looked clean enough to eat off and the Dutch tiles along the wide-open range shone.

  Just as he laid the dirty socks in a sodden heap on the floor, the door opened. The prison lady, Miss Hathaway, reappeared carrying a bundle of things in her arms.

  She seemed startled to find him alone. “Where did everyone go?”

  “To fetch me a bath,” he answered, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders.

  She laid the armful on the table. “I’ve brought some of my brother’s things, though you are larger than he is. It’s mostly nightclothes once you’ve had a bath.” She spoke quickly as if she, too, were nervous. She wasn’t still afraid of him, was she?

  An older man entered the kitchen, carrying a tin tub in one hand and a bucket in the other. “Evening, Miss Hathaway.” He gave Jonah a quick bob of his head before going to the range to pour the bucket of water into a large black kettle.

  When the man had left again, Miss Hathaway indicated the rest of the things she’d brought. “Here are towels, a bar of soap, a hairbrush and, as I said, some nightclothes and a dressing gown from my brother. I shall leave you now and prepare your room.” She turned to go.

  Before she reached the door, he said, “Those others—” He cleared his throat. “They won’t, uh, give away who I am?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Nichols? Oh, no. They’re used to seeing strangers come and go from here. As I told you, my brother never turns anyone away from his doors. You’ll find refuge here.”

  “You don’t think they recognized me?” He remembered the odd look the woman had given him.

  Miss Hathaway fingered the white lace at her collar, her only sign of hesitation. “I…cannot be certain. They know I was…abducted by you five days ago, but with scant details.” She looked away from him. “I thought it better to say little of the matter to anyone save my brother. I was questioned by the authorities of Newgate. Again, I gave few details, as I didn’t wish…to lie. I—I was glad then I knew little myself. I wanted to give you a chance to be gone from London…as you said you were planning.”

  He could feel his face heat. Fine job he had made of his chance at freedom. He thought on her words. It didn’t bode well. Perhaps he shouldn’t have come here, the very place the authorities might look.

  As if reading his thoughts, she said, her voice regaining its self-assurance, “I shouldn’t worry too much. My part that day has been all but forgotten and the Nicholses are trustworthy.”

  Alone again, he sat wrapped in the large blanket, sipping a cup of tea before the fire and pondering where he’d ended up. From huddling in the freezing cold for five days to being treated like an honored guest. The open warmth and acceptance with which the curate and his sister had received him left him uneasy. Could he trust such kindness?

  And Miss Hathaway. Jonah shook his head in further amazement. She’d not only held her tongue, but seemed to have forgotten how he’d held her at knifepoint and kept her hostage an entire day.

  The old manservant returned and poured the heated water into the tub. When he’d gone, Jonah rose, feeling the full weariness of all those days on the run.

  With an effort, he shed his torn breeches and eased into the hot water. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a bath, not even a pitcher of water and cake of soap. Even though he couldn’t stretch out his legs in it, he wished he didn’t have to leave the water. His body couldn’t seem to get warm despite the steaming water and blazing fire in front of him.

  He grabbed up the bar of soap. As it hit the water, it released a fragrance. He put it up to his nostrils. Despite his stuffy nose, he got a whiff of lavender and saw the little purple buds embedded in the bar. They reminded him of life in the country and the herbs his wife used to hang upside down from the rafters to dry.

  He dunked his head in the water and began to scrub the months of filth from his scalp and beard, working his way down to his neck and chest.

  His bathwater soon turned gray. With a sigh of regret he took the pitcher full of water left for him and let the clean water run from his head down the length of his body, feeling cleaner than he’d felt since arriving in London.

  By the time he’d toweled dry, he was shivering again. He put on the nightshirt. It was long enough, but a trifle tight around the shoulders. The dressing gown was the same. He sat in front of the fire and rubbed his hair dry, hoping to get warm again. A voice called through the door, “May I come in, sir?” The older man, Nichols, peered into the room.

  “Aye, come in.”

  “Good, I see you finished your bath. Mistress says to come up to your bed as soon as you’re ready and we’ll bring you a bowl of soup, if you’d like.”

  Soup. His very gut rumbled at the word. “I could use something hot.” He rose and followed Mr. Nichols up a carpeted stairs, the plush material blissful under his bare feet. He wondered if he could ask for a shot of gin. That would further warm his bones.

  He entered a neat bedroom. A full-size bed filled most of the space. A fire burned in the grate.

  “There you go, sir. Just make yourself comfortable. I’ll bring your soup up in a trifle.”

  “Tha-thank you,” Jonah found himself stumbling over the simple words, words he’d rarely used of late. Suddenly he sneezed.

  “Coming down with something?” Mr. Nichols tut-tutted. “Here, let me get you a handkerchief.” He rummaged about in
a chest of drawers and handed him a white square.

  Like everything in the house, it appeared clean. Jonah brought it to his nose. It also smelled clean.

  As soon as he was alone, he climbed into the bed. He felt the full exhaustion of days on the run, of being afraid to sleep, of running from place to place…

  He was roused with the arrival of the older woman who was carrying a tray. “Here you go, sir, some hot soup and a hot toddy to help put you to sleep. Albert said you sounded a bit congested.”

  Jonah sat up as the tray was placed on his lap. In a split second he’d downed the tumbler of sweetened hot water and rum that stood beside the bowl. He smacked his lips before picking up the spoon and going to work on the soup. The woman adjusted the pillows behind him.

  The soup was tasty, thick and savory, with chunks of beef and barley through it. So much like his wife’s cooking, back in the days when life had been kinder, except this contained a lot more meat.

  He’d just finished it, and was almost wishing for a second dish, when Miss Hathaway reentered with her brother. The curate smiled at Jonah. “How is everything?”

  “Good,” he answered, his attention still on his food. He was debating whether to ask for some more soup, or just collapse into sleep, when Miss Hathaway approached his bed. Like the other woman, she arranged the pillows behind him. He could smell the scent of lavender on her gown’s sleeve as she reached past him.

  Suddenly she stepped back. “Look, Damien, he’s full of vermin.”

  Jonah turned to her, a hunk of bread halfway to his mouth, not liking the alarm in her tone.

  Her brother came round to her side of the bed and touched his scalp. “Excuse me, Mr. Quinn, for taking such liberties.”

  Jonah sat still as the man began to probe his scalp.

  Finally the man stood back, his brow furrowed. “A little bad news, I’m afraid. Lice.”

  Jonah’s hand immediately went up to his scalp and rubbed it. As usual it itched.

  “It’s not unusual to become infested, most probably while you were at Newgate. The thing is, it’s catching, and we don’t want it to spread.”