He gazed keenly at Jonah. “No matter how human beings were to treat me, I could be sure God did not look at the exterior man, this man of flesh with its glaring imperfection, but He looked deep into the interior of me, and saw the real man I was, whole and sound.”
Jonah shifted uncomfortably as he remembered the scorn he’d endured when he’d been shackled like a murderer and heard the clank of the iron-barred door closing behind him. He wasn’t one of those criminals, he’d wanted to rail at the turnkey, but all he’d seen was ridicule and derision on the grimy face.
“When I lost my leg, I learned the truth of the Scripture verse which says ‘my strength is made perfect in weakness.’ It might have taken me many more years to understand and submit to that teaching if it hadn’t been for the accident. I probably wouldn’t have achieved all that I did for a mere clockmaker’s son—gone to Oxford, been ordained as a clergyman, and now at the age of six-and-twenty gotten a curacy in the greatest city in the world.” He sat up and smiled. “I would probably be a simple watchmaker, working alongside my father in his small shop and content with that.”
Jonah cleared his throat. “Would that have been so bad? You had a roof over your head, a fair income, I’ll wager, and your family around you.” So many had far less.
Hathaway looked at him with understanding. “No, I’m sure I would have been content…but would the Lord have been?”
Chapter Six
Was it just four days ago, I was still simply a man and not a confounded gentleman? Jonah tried to hide his grimace, but every time he moved it seemed something pinched or dug into him.
His neck felt as if it was encased in swathing an inch thick and a foot high. He could hardly bend his chin down enough to see his food. His new “pantaloons,” as they were called, chafed him they were so fitted. His coat and waistcoat, similarly close-tailored, made him feel he had to ask the sleeves their leave before he could maneuver his arms. He didn’t think he could lift them much above his shoulders.
What wouldn’t he give now to be back taking his meals in the kitchen with the Nicholses, dressed in Albert’s comfortable work clothes? Apart from a couple of hours each morning with Hathaway in his study, Jonah had spent most of his days helping Albert with any chores that needed doing.
He was momentarily distracted from the discomfort of his new clothes by the sight of the serving dishes set on the table by the young girl, Betsy, the Nicholses’ daughter, the one who always reminded him of his Judy when she’d been that age, before illness and poverty had worn her down to a shadow of herself.
Jonah winked at the girl as she moved away, and she blushed and began to giggle, but stifled it quickly at Miss Hathaway’s frown.
Mr. Hathaway bowed his head. A quick glance showed his sister following suit. Jonah did the same, having become accustomed that each meal began with a blessing.
The curate’s soft tones broke the silence. “Dear Heavenly Father, we thank You for the food before us. We ask You to bless it for our bodies’ use. In Your Son’s name, Amen.”
Good. Short, sweet and to the point.
Soon a heaped plate was passed to him and he gave a sigh of satisfaction, breathing in the savory scents wafting from it. Each day brought a new variety of food. He wondered if he’d ever get used to having such a tasty array set before him. Today’s plate held a joint of chicken leg and thigh, some boiled potatoes covered in a creamy sauce, some mashed turnips—good, filling food. He picked up the thick folded napkin at the side of his plate and unfolded it as he saw Miss Hathaway do. Then he tucked it into his cravat, though there was precious little space in which to do so.
Jonah leaned forward and picked up the chicken leg and brought it to his mouth. It was as succulent as it smelled. He took another healthy bite.
The sound of Miss Hathaway clearing her throat made him look up.
Both Mr. and Miss Hathaway sat looking at him as he held the chicken leg a few inches from his lips. Mr. Hathaway quickly focused back on his own plate. His silverware clinked on the surface of the china as he cut into his chicken.
Miss Hathaway rested her knife and fork at an angle against the edges of her plate, her lips pursed as she continued studying Jonah without saying a word.
He slowly stopped chewing, the remaining bit of chicken feeling like a wad of wool when it finally went down his throat.
“In this household, Mr. Kendall, we do not eat our meats with our hands.” She fixed her gaze on the chicken leg still held between his fingers as if it were a rat the cat had carried in. “We use the two implements at either side of your plate. They are set there for a purpose.” In illustration, she lifted her knife and fork upright, suspending them between her thumbs and forefingers above the snowy-white tablecloth.
Jonah’s glance flickered to Mr. Hathaway’s, but he found no succor in that quarter. The curate didn’t even look up from his food but continued to eat as if unaware of the silent battle being fought between his sister and Jonah.
Jonah took an instant decision. So far, he’d behaved with amazing patience and forbearance—allowing himself to be shaved bald like a plucked chicken, then standing half-naked while a foppish tailor wrapped him in a tape measure, all the while under Miss Hathaway’s ever-critical eye.
He brought the chicken leg back to his mouth. And though it no longer tasted as it had a moment before, he took a good healthy bite and began to chew, loudly.
Only when he’d swallowed did he put down the offending leg. He looked at his fingertips. They were shiny with chicken grease. He proceeded to lick them off one by one, reminding himself with each appendage, that this was what he’d always done in his own cottage.
The sound of his mouth against his fingers was the only one in that large dining room with its heavy dark furniture and spotless tablecloth covered with crystal vases and shining silver bowls. So much silver could have paid his rent for a few years.
Lastly, he took his hand and swiped the back of it against his mouth to remove any lingering chicken juices. All the while he returned Miss Hathaway’s icy stare with a steady one of his own.
“You realize, Mr. Kendall, do you not, that where you spend your future, your very life, depends upon your manners.” She cleared her throat. “A gentleman—” she placed only a slight stress on the word “—holds his silverware thus.” She replaced her knife and fork on the table and picked them up again, poising them over her plate as if in preparation to cutting her own chicken.
“And if they be as ignorant as I am?” he asked blandly, ignoring the throb of a pulse at his temple.
He heard a choked sound from Mr. Hathaway, but when he turned to look at him, he found him once again with his head studiously bent over his plate, his napkin held to his mouth.
“They shan’t be.”
“What makes you so sure o’ the fact?”
“They’ll have been trained, unlike you, to the office of gentleman since the time they were in short pants. Eating properly will have become second nature to them by the time they are out of the nursery.” She paused. “How old did you say you were, Mr. Kendall?”
Before answering her question, he lifted the crystal goblet beside his plate and took a long swallow. He smacked his lips before setting it down. “I didn’t say.”
“And how old, precisely, are you, Mr. Kendall?”
“Four-and-thirty November last.” He drummed his fingers on the tablecloth. “Let’s see…sitting in an overcrowded cell, awaiting trial, as I recall. With no money to buy extra victuals, I was enjoying the standard fare of hard biscuits and watery soup.”
He had the satisfaction of seeing Miss Hathaway look back down at her plate.
“Thirty-four is a fine age for a man.” Mr. Hathaway broke the awkward silence. He sat back in his chair at the head of the table and toyed with the stem of his glass. “You’re over the folly of youth yet haven’t yet entered into the infirmity of old age. Our Lord was in his early thirties when He began His minis
try on this earth.”
“Is that so?” Jonah asked, his mind still on his silent battle with Miss Hathaway. She had taken her first bite of food—a small, dainty bite, he noticed—and now chewed, her prim mouth firmly closed, making no sound.
He looked back down at his own plate, which no longer looked as appetizing as when it had been served him.
“Your first real test,” Mr. Hathaway said in a gentle tone, “will be when you sit at table in company.” He glanced down the length of the table at his sister. “We have frequent guests here at the parish. Florence has her ladies’ group, and we often have dinner guests. The rector dines with us most Sundays, or we go to St. Marylebone and dine at the vicarage. He will probably be the first one to meet Mr. Kendall, don’t you think, Flo?”
She nodded, her face returning to him, her look measuring. Jonah studied the delicate movements of her throat as she swallowed. Only then did she speak. “That is likely.”
Mr. Hathaway turned back to Jonah. “The rector is a personal friend as well and frequently stops to call. If he doesn’t question your presence in our household, others will accept you. He is the only one of our parish even aware of my sister’s abduction that day at Newgate.”
“It is thankful the craze over Lord Byron has eclipsed your escape from the public’s memory,” Miss Hathaway added drily.
Jonah looked from her to her brother. “And if I don’t pass the good rector’s inspection in spite of all Miss Hathaway’s instruction?” It was his neck at most risk, after all.
Hathaway fingered his napkin holder. “I’m afraid then the safest course would be for you to remain indoors, in hiding. You’d only be trading one prison for another, and I don’t believe that would be acceptable to you.”
Jonah took another swallow from his goblet and set it down with a thump. “I’d prefer a hanging to that.”
“Just so.” The curate sat back. “That is why it is so crucial that you follow Miss Hathaway’s instructions.”
Jonah glanced to the other end of the table, expecting to see smug triumph on her thin face. Instead, her gray eyes were…assessing. With a heartfelt sigh of capitulation, he picked up his knife and fork and proceeded to cut into the piece of now-cold chicken.
He was stopped by Miss Hathaway’s soft but implacable voice. “The knife and fork is held in this manner.”
He looked up and, without a word, copied her example. It felt awkward to hold them as she indicated. He watched her cut a morsel hardly big enough to tuck behind a molar, spear it neatly with the tines of her fork and hold it aloft. “A gentleman never takes a piece larger than the size of a large marble.” So, saying, she popped it into her mouth and chewed. A few seconds later, she spoke again.
“You must endeavor to make as little sound as possible with your mouth while you chew. Mouth closed, of course. No smacking of your lips, no matter how tasty you find the food. And absolutely no picking at your teeth in public. You have been furnished with a toothbrush and powder in your room and you are to use those after a meal if you are at home, and before you retire at night, and in the morning before you appear in company.”
“Yes, madam.”
“Miss.”
“Yes, miss.” He sawed into his drumstick, hitting the bone. The leg slid across his plate. He pierced a piece of meat once more with his fork, holding it in place while he attempted to cut if off from the bone again. His tongue was between his teeth and he could feel a slight sweat break out on his forehead. But it would probably not be permissible to wipe his forehead with his napkin.
Finally, he got the blasted chunk of meat on the fork. It looked larger than a large marble. He glared at Miss Hathaway, but her head was bowed as she cut a piece of her own food. He brought the chunk to his mouth and began chewing. With his mouth closed.
By the time his drumstick was absent of most of its meat, it almost seemed more trouble than it had been worth to satisfy his hunger. He looked at the strands of meat still clinging to the bone. If he’d been back at his home, he’d have taken it up in hands and cleaned every last fiber off. In recent years it had been a rare occasion when they’d had any chicken.
He sighed and sat back. Well, he was living a new life now.
He’d have to adapt to it.
Even if it killed him.
Florence pushed open the kitchen door later in the afternoon to see if the chicken soup she had asked Elizabeth to prepare and properly pack in jars was ready to take to the prison.
She stopped short at the sound of Betsy’s laughter. Quinn sat at the table, his legs stretched out in front of him. Although he still wore his new outfit, he’d removed the jacket, which lay in a careless heap on a chair beside him. His cravat hung on either side of his neck, his shirt collar open at the neck.
The sight of him in such a relaxed pose filled her with both annoyance and understanding. He looked so at home in the Nicholses’ surroundings. Couldn’t Damien understand that it would take more than a change of clothes to transform this field farmer into a gentleman?
A pile of walnuts lay in front of him on the table. He held one between his two large palms.
“You don’t believe me, lass?” he asked Betsy.
Betsy leaned over his side. “I can’t see how you can shell that nut without a cracker.”
Albert, seated across from Quinn, chuckled. “You’d best not challenge him, lass.” Two tankards stood between the men.
Without another word, Quinn pressed the base of his palms together. His face grew red with the exertion. Or, with the ale he’d drunk, Florence thought.
A few seconds later, Quinn held his hands out to Betsy, the walnut shell in a few pieces.
“Oh, my! I’d never have believed it possible if I hadn’t a seen it with me own eyes.”
Quinn carefully extracted some of the nut meat with his fingers and held it out to her. “Here, have a morsel, lass. It’ll put some color in your cheeks, though I can’t say you need any. Must be Mrs. Nichols’s good cooking what does it.” He glanced at the older lady with a wink.
“Thank you, sir,” Betsy said, her fingers touching his as she took the nut meat from him.
Florence let the door shut behind her with a bang, bringing all eyes her way as she entered the room. “Good afternoon,” she said, sparing Quinn only a glance before heading toward Elizabeth. “I came to see about the soup.”
“Yes, Miss Hathaway. I have everything set out here.” She led the way to the other end of the kitchen to a table along one wall.
Betsy’s shrill laugh rang out. Florence’s glance veered abruptly to the center of the room. “You must remind Betsy not to be so free around gentlemen,” she said in a low tone.
Elizabeth glanced with concern at her daughter. “Oh, Miss Hathaway, I thought with Mr. Kendall residing under your roof, he was…well…” She peered into Florence’s eyes and her voice lowered to a whisper. “He is all right, isn’t he?”
“Yes, of course, he’s all right. Mr. Hathaway wouldn’t have invited him otherwise…” Her voice slowed, hoping what she said was the absolute truth. If anything happened to those in their care, she’d never forgive herself. “But it is unseemly for Betsy to be so free in her ways. A gentleman who doesn’t know her might misinterpret her behavior.”
“Oh, I’m sure Betsy doesn’t mean anything by her manner. You know she’s always been a lively girl.”
“Yes…” Florence had known Betsy since she’d been a little girl of five and Florence a young lady of fifteen. At eighteen, Betsy had turned into a well-endowed girl. Her gown, though modest, with her white chemise buttoned properly up to her neck, did not hide her generous proportions. Betsy’s plump arms were encased in long sleeves that strained against the fabric. Dark curls peeped around her ruffled white mobcap. She was poking Quinn in the arm at something he was saying to her.
The girl’s lively ways, as her mother called them, had never bothered Florence before. She didn’t know why the sound of her an
imated chatter should irritate her so now.
“Besides, Mr. Kendall is a much older man,” Elizabeth added. “I shouldn’t think he’d take our Betsy’s behavior amiss.”
Florence pressed her lips together. “I’ve seen too much unacceptable behavior from men to trust them with any young woman of virtue.”
“Yes, miss, I appreciate your looking out for Betsy. She is young. I’ll speak to her.”
After packing up the jars of chicken soup in a lined basket, Florence turned to leave the room. At another burst of laughter from Betsy, she stopped midway to the door. She stepped toward the table and cleared her throat. “Mr. Kendall, you will be joining us for evening prayers after supper, I trust.” She made it a statement not a question. Since he was dressed in his new clothes, she decided it was time for him to begin participating as a full member of their household.
He looked at her in surprise, and she had to suppress the spurt of annoyance that flared up in her at his complete disregard of her presence in the kitchen. “What’s that you say, madam?”
How old did she appear to him for him to address her as “madam”? She repeated what she had said.
“Evening prayers? I never attended such a thing. It’s not in church?”
“No, right upstairs in the drawing room. Mr. Hathaway usually reads from the Scriptures and discusses the passage.”
His deep green eyes seemed to be laughing at her. “In that case, I guess I’ll be present.” He ended with a wink at Betsy, whose giggle erupted from her rosy lips. “You’ll have to stick your elbow in my ribs if I nod off.”
Betsy’s eyes rounded. “Oh, Mr. Kendall, no one falls asleep when Mr. Hathaway preaches.”
He raised his dark eyebrows. “Is that so? Well, I must hear him for myself.”
He was behaving like a schoolboy. “You shall, this Sunday,” Florence informed him.
He eyed her again, and she felt his look travel the length of her from the top of her cap down to her flat chest. She swiveled away from him, impatient with herself that she should care what this…this…fugitive thought of her endowments.
The Making of a Gentleman Page 8
