The Making of a Gentleman

by Ruth Axtell Morren

  “Where are you going?” Sudden fear filled her. What if he risked showing himself in his condition and appearance?

  He gave a harsh laugh. “To perdition, if you have anything to say about it!” He flung open the door and slammed it shut behind him so hard the walls shook.

  She stood in its echo as the reality of what had happened sank in. Then she ran to the door and watched his long stride quickly take him out of sight.

  She turned back to the kitchen, unsure what to do.

  Oh, Lord, guard him. Don’t let him be seen. Don’t let him be caught. What foolishness would his anger lead him to commit?

  She raced up to her room to see if she could catch sight of him from her upstairs window, but by the time she arrived there, he was nowhere to be seen. Her anger at Quinn evaporated as quickly as it had arisen, and she was left with horror at her own conduct.

  Where had he gone? Would he be back? Had she driven him away? She remembered her words. She’d all but condemned him to eternal damnation.

  Where was the Christian charity in her? She’d behaved like a coldhearted shrew. How could she have lost control like that? She’d never behaved in such a way, not even with the worst inmate at Newgate.

  She tossed and turned that night, remembering the words of Jesus that what came out of one’s mouth was worse than what one put in it.

  She remembered her disgust not only with Quinn’s drinking, but with other, minor, details like his unshaven cheeks, the way he wiped his mouth with his hand. She, who hated when people saw only her brother’s disability, was judging a man by his external appearance and habits. Where was the Lord’s love and forbearance in her when it came to Quinn?

  His words came back to her, making it sound as if she did her charitable deeds only so she could feel good about herself. No. It wasn’t like that! The Lord knew her heart.

  But the accusations persisted until she finally fell into a restless sleep. Several times she woke with a start and strained her ear, listening for the sound of someone coming in, but the house remained as still as a tomb. Where had Quinn gone? The night was cold. What if he’d had a relapse of his fever? If anything happened to him, it would be on her conscience.

  What would Damien say? This last thought was worse than all the others. Her brother exhibited a patience and good humor with their houseguest no matter what the man did or said. Why did Christ’s love come so easily to Damien? Was it because his handicap had made him more sensitive and tolerant to the failings of others?

  But while she might not be handicapped, Florence knew what it was to lack. She was painfully aware of her failings as a woman, possessing not beauty, charm or a pleasing manner. She knew what it was to be judged inferior because of what a person saw, before taking the trouble to discover what lay beneath the surface.

  Quinn’s angry accusations swirled once more through her mind. Old maid…sorry excuse for a woman… He’d seen right through to her deepest flaws and flung them at her, proving how worthless she was in all aspects that mattered. She covered her face with her hands, reliving her humiliation.

  Jonah didn’t look back. He kept walking, his breath puffing out of his nostrils. Every curse he knew erupted out of his lips. He’d rot in…before staying another minute in that…house where his every…move was watched and measured. Judged and condemned. He’d never felt so unworthy. Even in prison, he’d felt himself better than the others around him.

  Here, he was made to feel like something wiped off someone’s shoe.

  “Whoa there, young man, where are you off to as if the hounds of heaven are pursuin’ ye?”

  Albert’s voice brought him up short. The older man stepped in front of him just as Jonah reached the orchard behind the parsonage.

  “I’m leaving, that’s what I’m doing.”

  Albert’s eyes held a glint of humor. “For the evening or for good?”

  Jonah resisted the urge to swear some more. “For good. You can tell Miss Too-Good-for-this-Earth Hathaway that I don’t need her Christian charity. Who does she think she is, treating a man like he’s dirt?”

  Albert chuckled. “What d’ya do to rile her?”

  Jonah kicked at the flagstone at his feet and his glance fell on the bottle still in his hand. When he looked back at Albert, he noticed the man’s attention on it as well.

  “You mustn’t mind her manner,” said the older man. “She can be a bit strict, but it’s for yer own good.”

  “Well, I’ve had enough of her tongue-lashings. I’ll be finding myself a place where a man can be himself.” He moved past Albert.

  “Why don’t you come over first and have a glass of ale with me and tell me what she said that was so awful.”

  The kindness in the other man’s tones halted him. “I thank ye kindly, but I feel too angered inside to be good company at the moment, so I won’t upset your household with my unruly tongue.”

  “Why don’t you walk your anger off for a spell? Then come to my kitchen for that glass. I’ll be here and the invitation still stands.”

  Jonah nodded. Not as acceptance of the invitation but to placate Albert. He’d be long gone from this place ere his anger was spent. “Thanks. Well, I’m off.” He took a deep breath and forced himself to leave.

  The night was cold, but he ignored the chill that soon invaded his body after the warmth of the kitchen. He headed north, away from the houses, not sure where he was going, knowing only that he wanted to get away. After about a mile, hardly noticing anything around him, his pace slowed. He saw only empty fields not yet tilled.

  He continued walking, his shoulders hunched over with the deepening cold. The sky grew darker and he wondered where he would spend the night.

  Miss Hathaway was the most unreasonable woman he’d ever come across. His Judy had never objected to his taking a bit o’ the gin, she’d even joined him in a glass or two. It was the only thing to dull the hunger and make one forget the dismal prospects of the city. Miss Ramrod-Spined Hathaway in her warm cozy house could never possibly understand that.

  He’d never drunk anything but ale back in his village. But in London, gin was cheap and plentiful and the only thing to enable a man to live without hope.

  He kicked at the dirt in his path, cursing Miss Hathaway anew. What did she know of his life? He’d drown in gin if it helped block out the wails of his babes for food when he’d been unable to provide for them. What did she know of the cries he heard in his head? Cries only the drink could silence?

  For a moment, he’d wanted to tell her that, of the grief that ate at him, but doubtless all she’d care about was the fact he drank. Her type were all the same—devoid of any true humanity aside from the good deeds they felt would save their own souls on the judgment day.

  His breathing grew more ragged as the images rose. He realized he still carried the bottle in his hand. He went to take a swig and swore. There was little left to do any good.

  He drained the last drop and flung the bottle away with an oath. The sip he’d taken burned in his throat, hardly enough to warm him against the frigid night air.

  When he began to approach Maida Vale, he hesitated. He faced the prospect of sleeping under a hedgerow or being seen and questioned in the next village. He didn’t relish either one. For a long time he stared at the lights of the few houses, weighing his choices.

  His anger was spent. Left only was cold, loneliness and hunger. He stood huddled against the icy wind that whistled through his thin coat. He’d left in such a hurry, he’d forgotten his greatcoat and hat. His shorn hair offered little shield against the gusts.

  He remembered Albert’s invitation. Slowly he turned and viewed the road back.

  He’d visit the old man. He wouldn’t stay longer than that. Then he’d decide his next course.

  The soft glow of firelight was visible through the window of Albert’s small cottage next to the parsonage. Jonah hesitated a few more seconds, but another biting gust assaulted his naked sca
lp and numb ears. Following the path that led to the door, he approached the caretaker’s house and knocked against the windowpane.

  Several moments passed and no one came. Blast it. He’d waited too long. He had turned around, bracing himself for a night in the cold, when he heard footsteps inside.

  The door opened, and Albert welcomed him with a smile. “Come in, William.”

  “I know it’s late,” he began. The inside warmth tingled against his frozen cheeks.

  Albert stood aside and gestured. “Don’t stand there and get the kitchen cold, come in. I was about to retire but I’m glad you’ve come.” After shutting the door behind him, Albert stared hard at him a moment under his iron-gray eyebrows. “I think a cup o’ hot tea’ll suit you better now than that tankard o’ ale.”

  Jonah merely nodded, rubbing his hands against his arms to warm them.

  Albert gestured him to a place by the fire and went about fixing the tea. He turned to offer him the mug. “There, that’ll warm your insides.”

  Jonah cupped the thick, warm mug between his hands. A fire had never felt better in his life.

  His host sat quietly, sipping his tea, as if giving Jonah time. Jonah breathed in the steam rising from the cup. Gradually he was warm again and calm enough to speak. “Miss Hathaway found me drinking some gin in her kitchen.”

  Albert chuckled. “I guess that didn’t set too well with her.”

  “She got angry enough to pour most of it down the sink.”

  “She’s probably seen enough of the dangers of gin not to want it in her household.”

  “Yes.” He understood that part of it. He’d certainly seen the dangers of it on the streets of London.

  “Don’t take it to heart. She’s just lookin’ out for you.”

  Jonah snorted.

  Albert chuckled again and took another sip. After a moment he asked, “Think you’ll go back?”

  “Not as if I had anyplace else to go.” He sat staring at the tea, unsure when he’d made the decision to return.

  “You could stay here the night.”

  His mug froze halfway to his lips. “You’d let me stay here?” Of course, Albert didn’t know that Jonah was really an escaped convict.

  “’Course, why ever not? Ye’ll see, by tomorrow morn, things’ll look different. You and Miss Hathaway will see eye-to-eye again.”

  Jonah said nothing. After his exchange with Miss Hathaway, he didn’t think it too likely.

  They finished their tea and Albert stood. “It’s best we turn in. I can make you up a pallet here in front o’ the fire if you’d like.”

  Jonah cleared his throat and looked down, feeling unworthy of this man’s kindness. “I’d…uh…be grateful.”

  When he was left alone, Jonah stretched out in front of the embers. The floor felt hard, despite the blankets under him. His body had grown soft in the past weeks of sleeping on a feather mattress. He’d best not get used to such luxuries. There was no telling when such comforts would be snatched away from him and he’d be on the run again. He’d almost lost them tonight.

  He rested his head on his arm and stared up at the shadows flickering on the ceiling.

  Would Miss Hathaway admit him back? She’d made it clear it was the curate who’d taken him in in the first place, not she. Would she tell Hathaway about Jonah’s drinking?

  Would Jonah have to go crawling back to Miss Hathaway and promise never to touch another drop again? His throat stuck at the thought of having to beg her pardon. She’d like that. He imagined himself kneeling in front of her, his hands clasped before him, while her merciless gray eyes stared at him in utter scorn, her lips pressed downward in an uncompromising line, and her arms crossed over her bony chest.

  He remembered her stinging words and sighed. She’d been right. All it would take would be one word from either her or the curate, and he’d be facing the hangman’s noose again.

  When would they realize they’d taken on too much and want to be rid of him? His presence in their household was a daily risk, not to mention an embarrassment—leastways for Miss Hathaway.

  He rubbed his heavy beard stubble, remembering the look of disgust on Miss Hathaway’s face as she’d eyed him. As if she was such a sight for the eyes. It was true she was always neat and clean, even after several hours at Newgate.

  But she was as cold as the stone walls of the prison. Those gray eyes of hers could chill a man’s bones. Funny thing was, the occasional moments he’d caught her smiling with her brother, they’d actually been pretty, softening her face. He shook away the thought.

  Any softness she seemed to possess was made hard by the judgmental heart within. A man would never find comfort in the arms of such a woman.

  He stopped short at the direction of his thoughts and shuddered. Where had such a notion come from?

  Damien, Damien! He’s gone. What have I done? Florence could barely see Damien through her tears. She fell on her knees, fists clenched. The poor man was probably in the constable’s cart, heading back to Newgate.

  Quinn’s dirty face, haggard and worn, assaulted her mind. His head had fallen to one side, eyes closed. The thick rope around his neck had drained his life—

  Florence awoke with a gasp, the only sound in her bedroom the thudding of her heart. It took her a few more seconds to realize the nightmare vision had only been a dream. Then she glanced at her clock. Half past eight! How late she’d slept! It was because she’d been awake half the night worrying about that no-good, ungrateful—

  Shoving away the covers, she sat up quickly. She had to get downstairs before Damien sat down to breakfast. What would she say when he asked about Quinn’s empty place at the table?

  Mrs. Nichols and Betsy were already in the kitchen when she entered some moments later, hastily washed and dressed.

  “Good morning, Miss Hathaway. How are you this fine day?”

  “I—I’m well. I’m sorry I’m late.”

  “Oh, that’s quite all right. Betsy and I have everything under control, don’t we, Betsy?”

  “Yes, Mum,” her daughter said as she brought out a tray of buns from the oven.

  Florence grabbed the basket lined with a linen napkin. “Here, let me remove those.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  “Where is Albert?” she asked over her shoulder.

  “Oh, he already breakfasted. I ’spect he’s in the yard. That man can’t wait till spring.” The older woman glanced out the window. “With the sunshine today, it do feel like it. He’ll probably begin some plowing.”

  “Has my brother breakfasted already?”

  “No. He’s been in his study until a moment ago.”

  She wanted to ask if they’d seen Quinn at all, but bit down on her tongue. If he had left, so be it. If he came back, he’d have to show himself to her or her brother.

  But there was no sign of Quinn in the kitchen or at the dining table when Florence sat down with Damien.

  Mrs. Nichols hadn’t even set him a place, and Florence wondered how word had traveled so quickly of his departure.

  “Good morning, Flo,” Damien said, unfolding his napkin and smiling at her down the length of the table. “How are you this morning?”

  “I have felt better—”

  “Oh, I am sorry to hear that. What’s the matter?” He frowned, his glance straying to Quinn’s place. “Where is Mr. Kendall, by the way? And why isn’t his place set? Did he breakfast with Albert earlier?”

  “No, I don’t believe so.” She took a deep breath.

  “I’m sorry I interrupted you before. You said you weren’t feeling well.”

  “No, I didn’t mean I was ill. I just…didn’t sleep very well last night.”

  Damien’s glance went from her to the empty place. “This doesn’t have anything to do with Mr. Kendall’s absence, does it?” he asked softly.

  He always seemed to be able to discern when something was troubling her. She met his eyes. “I’m
afraid it does.”

  Just then the door opened and Florence dropped her napkin. Quinn stood in the doorway. Florence swallowed at the sight of him, in one of his new suits, a fine dark blue jacket and yellow waistcoat. His jaw was clean shaven and he had the scrubbed look of someone who’d just had an invigorating wash.

  With a quick glance at her, he focused his attention on Damien. “Good morning, sir. I hope I’m not too late.”

  She bent down from her chair to pick up her fallen napkin and mumbled, “Good morning” as she did so.

  Damien smiled. “Good morning, Kendall. You’re not late at all. We’ve only just sat down ourselves. Come and join us. Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t know why your place is not set this morning.”

  Florence stood at once and headed for the sideboard. “Let me get some cutlery,” she said hurriedly, not looking in Quinn’s direction. She felt unaccountably flustered and rushed about getting fork, knife and napkin together.

  Quinn coughed. “I believe it’s because I had something to eat earlier. Mrs. Nichols probably thought I wouldn’t have any more.” He gave a nervous laugh. “She don’t…doesn’t…know my appetite.”

  Florence brought the utensils to his place. She could smell the soap on him as she set the things down. He remained standing by his chair until she finished. She felt his focus on her all the while.

  “Thank you,” he murmured.

  She glanced at him, her own voice lost somewhere in her windpipe, as she tried to read his expression. Was he repentant of his behavior yesterday? Or was he still enraged? She could read no anger in his green eyes. Was there cocky amusement in them? She didn’t think so. Was it the same uncertainty she felt herself?

  Before she could decide, she bowed her head and whispered, “You’re welcome,” and hurried back to her own place.

  Thankfully, her brother kept Quinn occupied with conversation for several minutes as they served themselves. Since theirs was a small household, they didn’t keep the breakfast food on the sideboard, but on the table in front of them.

  Knowing his preferences by now, Florence poured Quinn a cup of coffee from the urn at her side. As she reached to pass it to him, he anticipated her and stretched out his arm to take the cup and saucer from her.