The Making of a Gentleman

by Ruth Axtell Morren

  “Until this evening at eight o’clock then.”

  Quinn’s ringing laughter—no doubt at another of Betsy’s saucy witticisms—followed her from the kitchen.

  Later that afternoon, bearing her provisions, Florence descended the hackney cab at the Old Bailey Lane in front of Newgate.

  “Good day t’ ye,” the keeper greeted her as she stepped through the large stone archway. She tipped one of the prison guards to take her bags.

  She followed the turnkey down a dark stone corridor. Shrieks and shouts echoed off its high vaulted ceiling, making her feel, as usual, that she was passing from London into another world. The closer they got to the women’s block, the louder grew the shrieks.

  “I don’t know how you dare come back here after your abduction,” the turnkey said, as they entered the southernmost quadrangle of the building. He shuffled in front of her, the ring of keys jangling at his side, and shook his head. “They haven’t yet caught that fellow.”

  She eyed him sidelong, keeping her face expressionless as she’d schooled herself to do. “They have no new information?”

  “Nary a one, s’far as I’ve heard.” He scratched his thinning circle of gray hair. “It’s as if the man disappeared off the face o’ the Earth.” He chuckled. “’Course that’s impossible. ’E has to be hiding himself somewhere. I say ’e’s gone over the Channel. Probably fightin’ for Boney now, curse ’is soul.”

  She didn’t answer, deciding the less said the better. The large key grated against the lock and the heavy oaken door was opened for her.

  The prison’s fetid smells assaulted her as she approached the women’s cellblock.

  “Careful, they’re restless today. A transport is scheduled for this week.”

  “Yes, I see, thank you.”

  “What ye come to bring us, Miss Florence?” Dirty arms reached for her through the bars. “What’s in your satchel? Did you bring me some bedding?”

  “Mistress Hathaway, come to save our souls?” A straggly-haired woman, her arms hanging through the iron bars, called out to her as she passed.

  “Jesus is the way, the truth and the light, you know that very well, Estelle,” she replied with a glance in her direction. “I’ll come visit you directly.”

  “Miss Hathaway, can you give me a few pence for a meat pasty? No one’s come to visit me, and I’ve ’ad nothing to eat.”

  “I’ve brought some victuals if you come around to me.”

  She greeted those she was familiar with, but there were many new faces. Women awaiting trial. Those who’d been there longer were the ones already sentenced and languishing in their cell until their ship left for Botany Bay.

  The turnkey let her into the first cell and took his place at a chair in the corridor to await her return.

  She pushed her way through the women who crowded around her.

  “You must let me through. How is Millie?” she asked of an inmate who had been sick on her previous visit. They allowed her passage until she reached a row of bedding three tiers high along one wall. On the ground were smelly pallets, above were two rows of hammocks.

  She knelt over a woman lying on the cold ground and felt her forehead. She was still feverish. “There now, Millie, I’ve come back with some fresh straw for your bed,” Florence told her, keeping her tone cheerful.

  She opened the large sack she’d carried in one hand. Another woman began to help her clear away the damp and smelly straw under the woman’s blanket. “Thank you, Sally, you’re a dear. Would you take that to the doorway? I’ll have the turnkey remove it for me when I leave.”

  “He’ll charge a farthing for that.”

  “Yes, no doubt. Come, Millie, you’re going to have to sit up a moment. I’ve brought you a clean nightgown.” They helped the woman dress. After they’d changed her bedding, Florence propped her up against the wall. “Now, let me help you swallow down some of this soup just off the fire.”

  The woman looked at her and smiled wanly. “You’re too good, Miss Florence,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “You needn’t bother. I’m not long for this world.”

  “Not if you don’t have some of this good soup. Now, let’s have a spoonful.” Florence poured out a cupful from the jar in her other satchel. “It should still be warm.”

  After the woman had taken a few spoonfuls, she said, “I remember what you told me last time you was here.”

  “Do you now?” she murmured, spooning in another quantity of soup. “About Jesus?”

  “Yes. The story about Him and the children.” She gave a faraway smile. “I used to have children. Don’t know where they’ve all gone now.”

  “Jesus knows.”

  The woman’s bloodshot eyes looked at her with a glimmer of hope. “D’ye think so?”

  “I know so. He says He knows every hair of our heads. He knows where they are. Even if they’ve passed from this world, He’ll have charge over them.”

  “Will He bless them the way He did those in the story?”

  Florence dabbed at the woman’s chin with a handkerchief. “Yes. There’s another story I shall tell you today, but first let me have you lie back down so you won’t tire yourself. Here, one more spoonful and you’ll finish the bowl.”

  The woman swallowed the spoonful then rested her head against the stone wall as if exhausted with the effort.

  Florence laid aside the cup and spoon and gently guided Millie’s form back down onto the fresh ticking.

  She glanced at the women standing and kneeling beside her. “Here, I’ve brought a bag of scones, freshly baked by Mrs. Nichols. Pass it around so everyone may have one, and sit around us so you may hear the story.”

  There began a silent scuffle as several women reached for the bag held out by Florence. She waited until they quieted and then handed it to a woman who was meeker than the rest. “There you go, Livvie. Why don’t you take one and pass it around to the others? You are in charge of the bag.” She gave her a smile.

  The women grew silent and made room for one another around Florence and Millie. There were many more women in the room, and some came around to sit on the outskirts of their circle. Others continued their card games and drinking. Others leaned out through the bars to yell at the turnkey.

  Florence folded her hands on her lap and began to speak. “There once lived a very rich man. He wore only velvets and fine linen. His clothes were rich purple…”

  She was forced to stop every few minutes as the women interrupted her with questions and comments, relating the details of the story with their own lives on the streets. By the time she arrived at the place where the rich man was burning in the flames, the women had fallen silent, their eyes riveted on her, their mouths agape with wonder and horror.

  “The rich man could look across and see Lazarus at Abraham’s bosom. He probably saw how well-off the beggar was now. Who knows if he ever acknowledged Lazarus when he used to see him outside his gates, but in the Bible, it was clear he knew the beggar’s name, for he called out to Abraham and asked for him by name. It says he asked Abraham to send Lazarus to him to dip his finger in water in order to cool his tongue.”

  Florence took advantage of the absolute quiet in the circle around her to say, “Can you imagine being so thirsty that even a drop of water from someone’s fingertip would help you? Do you remember that Lazarus only hoped for a crumb from the rich man’s table, and now here was the rich man, hoping for only a drop of water from Lazarus’s fingertip.”

  A collective ooh sounded around her.

  “Abraham told him he could not send Lazarus to him because there was a great gulf fixed between them, and no one could pass from the one side to the other.”

  “Served the rich man right!” a woman said, her arms crossed tightly in front of her.

  “He got ’is comeuppance!”

  “Would he never have water to drink?” a woman asked fearfully. “Would he always be burning up?”

  Florence loo
ked at her. “He could have saved himself. Now, all he could think of were his five brothers, still alive on Earth. He wanted Abraham to send Lazarus to them to warn them of their fate if they didn’t change their ways.

  “But Abraham said they had Moses and the prophets. He was talking of the Scriptures. If they didn’t heed what was written in the Holy Scriptures, why would they listen to Lazarus?

  “And then, the rich man thought of something marvelous. Wouldn’t his brothers listen if someone came up from the dead and warned them?”

  A murmur arose from them.

  “But Abraham told him that even if someone arose from the dead, they still wouldn’t believe him.” She looked into each face staring back at her. “One has arisen from the dead not only to warn us, but to promise us all the blessings enjoyed by Lazarus. All we have to do is accept and believe His word. Jesus said, ‘I am the resurrection and the life. He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.’

  “Do you want to accept that promise today? Do you?” She smiled at each woman, praying in her heart for each one.

  “I do,” came a whisper from the ground at her side. She started, and turned down to look at Millie, whose flushed face was now radiant. “May I?”

  Florence took her warm hand in hers. “Of course you may. You need only believe that Jesus was sent from God the Father, and that He came to die in our place for our sins. He came to give us His life, so that you might have eternal life. Do you believe that, Millie?”

  The woman nodded her head.

  “Then you need only ask for forgiveness and receive Jesus as your Lord and Savior. Do you want to pray along with me?”

  “Yes…”

  Florence squeezed her hand and bowed her head and began to pray.

  “Lord, I come to you a sinner…”

  By the time the two had finished praying, other women were crouched around Florence asking her to pray with them, too.

  Florence offered up prayers of thanksgiving on the ride home. This was what she lived for. No matter the filth and degradation she must submit to. The beauty of one soul saved was worth any sacrifice, any price.

  Tonight not one, but six—six!—women had received Jesus Christ as their Lord and Savior.

  When she entered the parsonage, she felt exhausted but elated. Five of the women were scheduled to be transported that week. Florence was deeply thankful to the Lord for the work He’d wrought in each heart.

  She knew they faced a long and brutal voyage. Rarely did anyone hear of the fate that befell those who were shipped to New South Wales. Florence had promised to bring them some provisions before they departed for the ship.

  She removed her cloak and hung it up on the hook. Tomorrow she would begin making up the packets. Over the years she had devised a list of necessities for the women to take on the long sea voyage: a pair of petticoats and chemises, half a dozen handkerchiefs and caps, several pairs of stockings, a sewing kit, and large squares of muslin, some bed linens and a blanket. She worked with a group of ladies from the church. In a few days they could have several kits made up.

  She made her way to the kitchen, looking forward to a strong cup of tea before she shed her clothes and put them to soak. The kitchen would be quiet, since the Nicholses had gone to a Bible study.

  Florence pushed open the door to the kitchen and stopped short when she saw Quinn.

  He sat in his shirtsleeves on the bench in front of the fire. Beside him stood a bottle of gin and a glass, which he brought up to his lips.

  Chapter Seven

  At the sound of the door, he swiveled around. “Oh, it’s you.” He didn’t sound particularly glad to see her. “Good evening.” He lifted his glass in a salute and took another sip.

  A pulse began to beat in Florence’s temple. So, this soused heathen was what her brother was sacrificing his ministry, his reputation, his very life for! She let her breath out slowly, trying to calm the fury that rose swift and hot in her at the sight of Quinn taking his ease at her brother’s expense.

  He lowered the glass and plunked it on the bench beside him. His lips glistened in the firelight from the foul drink.

  How dare he!

  She marched over to him and yanked the tumbler from his unresisting fingers. “We do not indulge in spirits in this house. Do you understand?” She turned to the fire and flung the remains of the drink over it. A flame flared up for an instant, reaching high up the chimney and causing them both to draw back.

  The initial shock in Quinn’s eyes slowly disappeared as he turned his attention back to her. His eyes narrowed and his square jaw hardened, the dark stubble covering it telling her once again he’d neglected to shave.

  Like a slumbering animal awakened, he rose to his feet. Keeping his eyes on her, he lifted the bottle from the bench and brought it to his mouth. She watched his throat work as he took a good, long swallow.

  He withdrew the bottle from his lips and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “What’s put you in such a cheerful mood? A church meeting?”

  She felt herself tremble inside but would not show it. “As a matter of fact, I’ve been to your old quarters.”

  At the lifting of a heavy black eyebrow, she uttered the single word, “Newgate.”

  He gave a short bark of laughter. Not the fearful response she’d aimed for. “What’ve you been doing there, saving more souls?”

  She thrust her chin up. “Six women gave their hearts and souls into the Lord’s keeping this afternoon.”

  He snorted. “What, by telling them some pretty stories so they’ll be satisfied with their sorry lot here on Earth?”

  “They are not ‘pretty stories.’” She grabbed the bottle from him and marched to the soapstone sink. “They are truth.”

  “What are you doing?” For the first time she heard a note of alarm in his voice.

  “Ridding this house of an evil.” She raised her arm and began tipping the bottle sideways.

  She didn’t think such brawn could move so quickly, but before more than a thin trickle had begun to pour out of the bottle’s mouth, his large hand clamped about her wrist, causing her to think how easily he could snap it.

  The two stared at each other, the air between them crackling with anger.

  Then, he took the bottle from her. “You can tell me how to hold me spoon and you can shave me head to rid it of vermin, but you ain’t going to tell me what I can drink.”

  She folded her arms against her chest and faced him. “I most certainly have the right and will exert it as long as you are under this roof. Is that clear?”

  His green eyes glittered. “Is that the tone you use with those hapless men and women in Newgate? Were those conversions tonight freely won? Mayhap they’d agree to anything if only to rid themselves of your sharp tongue.”

  His words stung but she only lifted her chin. “What would you know of anything? Have you ever listened to the truth of the gospel? If you had, you’d probably not have found yourself at the mercy of that man who so ill-used you. You’d probably not have found yourself with a noose around your thick neck.”

  He took another swig of the bottle. “Truth? The truth is they’re sitting in their own filth. Anything is better than what they have. They’ll listen to you for a few minutes or an hour if you’ll give them a few raisin buns and a pint of ale.”

  “You ungrateful brute.” She reached for the bottle, but he lifted it out of her reach. “Give me that! We will not have a drunken lout living under this roof. Drink will not solve your problems.”

  “What do you know of my problems? You’ve never had any demons chasing at your heels. Your brother provides for all your needs so you can lord it over the unfortunates at Newgate. I’ll drink when I’ve a mind to and not have some old maid telling me what I can and can’t do.”

  Old maid! Florence gasped, no longer knowing what angered her more, his drinking or his cruel taunts. As he brought the bottle to his lips again, she wrapped both
her hands around its base.

  “What the—” Gin spilled over his chin and down the front of his shirt as she gave it a fierce tug. “Give me that, you sorry excuse for a woman—”

  He tightened his grip on the neck of the bottle, but it was too late. Florence hung on like a starving cur with a bit of bone. Gin splashed them both.

  “Let go of it, you wench!” He yanked hard, and though she resisted, the bottle slipped from her hands and back into his possession. Gin soaked the front of his shirt, plastering parts of it to his chest.

  Quinn stared at the near empty bottle, then at her, his face growing red. “Why, you—” A long string of oaths followed.

  She nearly slipped on the puddle of gin on the floor between them, so quickly did she thrust her finger at him. “You listen to me, you ignorant lout. There will be no spirits in this house but the simple ale or cider you have at mealtimes. Furthermore, there will be no such language as has just erupted from your foul mouth. If I ever hear such vile words again, I’ll—I’ll—I’ll wash that mouth of yours out with soap,” she finished, latching on to the first thing she could think of.

  Quinn stepped back from her, his expression dark. At least she had his full attention. She wasn’t finished with him.

  “You’d better get one thing clear this evening. You are here under my brother’s good graces. He’s risking all for you—his good name, his home, his livelihood. And you did naught to deserve it but show you were in need. Is that understood? All it will take is one word, and you’ll find yourself back in Newgate so fast you won’t have time to utter a blasphemy. You are one swing away from the rope, do you hear me?”

  She jabbed her finger at him, missing his stubbled chin by a hairbreadth. “If you find yourself back on the gallows, I will feel no pity this time, but I can tell you with certainty you will burn for all eternity, and you will have deserved it for your blasphemous words!”

  Quinn stared at her a long moment. Then, without a word, he grabbed up his coat from the bench and headed for the door, the near empty bottle still clutched in one hand.