The Making of a Gentleman

by Ruth Axtell Morren

  The man chewed thoughtfully. “And just how did you lose your land?”

  Before Jonah could reply, Miss Hathaway said, “Through an unfortunate series of events.” With a slight frown at Jonah, she set down her fork and knife and folded her hands. “Mr. Kendall is staying with us until the Lord opens a new door for him. He is thinking of setting up in business.”

  “Indeed?” The man’s gaze flickered back to Jonah. “What business is that?”

  Miss Hathaway gave Jonah no chance to reply. She smiled at the rector. “As you know, Damien needs someone to take over the clock business. He will be training Mr. Kendall to see if it suits him.” She sighed. “It was Papa’s dear wish for Damien to follow in his footsteps, but clearly that is not to be.” She looked down the length of the table to her brother. “He makes a fine curate, don’t you think so?”

  Jonah stared at Miss Hathaway, amazed at the way she was making everything sound as natural as could be. It almost made him believe in the future she described for him.

  “Yes, indeed I do. Apropos of that, Damien, I meant to mention today’s sermon to you.” The rector frowned, taking up his glass of claret.

  “Yes, I wanted to ask your opinion,” Damien said, his voice eager.

  Jonah breathed a sigh of relief that the focus was off him.

  “You must use caution in the topics you select. You might set a dangerous precedent in telling people it is all right to break the rules. The next thing you know, you’ll have chaos on your hands as each one goes out and does whatever he wants.”

  Jonah clutched his silverware more tightly in his fists. Who did the old windbag think he was? He’d thought Hathaway’s preaching fine.

  Damien widened his eyes. “I certainly hope they didn’t take the sermon in that light. I think I was pretty clear that religion is not about a legalistic set of codes, but it is about following the Lord Jesus, emulating His mercy and compassion to our fellow man.”

  “Nevertheless, you are preaching to many an ignorant person who needs little encouragement to flaunt the rules of the church.” The rector dabbed at his mouth with his napkin and set it down. “Now, may I suggest you do a series on something like the seven deadly sins. Or, you may read the series I did on the Beatitudes. Come to my library and borrow a copy.”

  “Yes, sir, I recall the series you preached.”

  “You have done remarkably well in your first few years at St. George’s. I commend you, my boy. You must be thinking of a helpmate one of these days.”

  “A helpmate? You mean a deacon?”

  The rector chuckled. “No, dear boy. A wife.”

  Damien’s cheeks reddened.

  It was as plain as day to Jonah that the fellow didn’t want to discuss the subject of a wife.

  Doyle continued, as if unaware of Damien’s discomfort. “Someone like the late Mrs. Doyle was to me. She was an exemplary woman, meek and docile, a perfect clergyman’s wife, a most worthy woman.”

  “Yes, your wife was a lovely lady,” Damien said in a heartfelt voice. “She was always very kind to me—” he looked at his sister “—and to Miss Hathaway.”

  “A clergyman’s wife must be modest in appearance, quiet spoken, chaste, above reproach…” The rector’s glance strayed to Miss Hathaway. “Miss Hathaway embodies all I mean, a credit to her gender. It will be hard to find her equal.”

  Jonah looked at Miss Hathaway. Her normally pale cheeks had reddened and she fiddled with the brooch at her neck. “Reverend Doyle, you pay me too much honor.”

  Her shy smile made Jonah’s gut tighten, and not from the food on his plate. So it was like that, was it? Wasn’t the rector too old for her? His glance swung from the rector to Miss Hathaway and back again. The man could easily be her father.

  “Nonsense, my dear lady. Someday you will wish to set up your own household and I’m sure you desire to see your brother nicely settled with the right wife.”

  “Yes—yes, of course, but there is no haste. I’m here for as long as Damien needs me.”

  The rector turned back to Damien. “Still, your parishioners expect a minister to have a wife.”

  “Yes, Reverend Doyle.” For the first time, the twinkle of humor had faded from Hathaway’s eyes. The young man looked down at his plate, although he did not proceed to eat.

  Jonah cleared his throat. “I expect people don’t much care one way or n’ther about whether the parson has a mate or not, as long as he’s available to them when they need something.”

  All eyes turned to look at him again. What had he said now? He’d only tried to get the attention off the poor boy. Whether Hathaway wed or not was no one’s business but his own.

  “On the contrary, Mr. Kendall,” the rector said in the kind of tone that made Jonah feel as inferior as if the man knew exactly his humble origins, “the members of a congregation expect the shepherd of the flock to be ‘husband to one wife, vigilant, sober, of good behavior…’ to quote First Timothy. Of course, here Paul is talking about the office of bishop, but he says much the same of the office of deacon. I believe we can safely say that a curate falls somewhere between the two.” He chuckled at his own humor and the Hathaways immediately joined with him.

  “Yes, sir,” Damien said. “Well, I shall certainly take your words under advisement.”

  “Do so. You may be sure Mrs. Doyle—” the rector looked at his mother fondly “—and I shall be glad to offer any advice and counsel once you have your eye on a particular young lady.”

  “Yes, dear boy.” Mrs. Doyle smiled at him. “You know we move about in society quite a bit. We’d be happy to introduce you to a young lady out for her season.”

  “Thank you,” the young curate murmured, his attention fixed once more on the plate in front of him.

  The rector began questioning Damien on the affairs of the church, and finally Jonah began to relax enough to remember his appetite. After all, he’d only had a piece of toast and cup of tea early this morning.

  He listened with only half an ear as the conversation went on around him. Miss Hathaway was just as informed as her brother on everything that went on in the parish. Having taken the edge off his hunger, Jonah eased back in his chair. The rector paid no more attention to him as he and Damien entered into a theological discussion.

  Jonah found himself wanting to stretch his legs and wondered how much longer they’d be sitting at table.

  His glance kept returning to Miss Hathaway. She was quite pretty today in her church getup, a light-colored gown sprinkled with violets. She also wore her hair differently, with matching violet ribbons threaded through it. He found himself remembering how she had tied his cravat.

  Her ever-nimble fingers had deftly folded the cloth. He’d stood studying her face, wondering about her. How old was she? Her skin was quite smooth. Her attention had been fixed on his cravat, as if completely unaware of the human body that stood in front of her.

  He’d noted the pink tip of her tongue just visible between her lips as she’d concentrated on the knot. His glance had strayed lower, taking in the high lace collar she wore. She’d had to remove her lacy gloves in order to tie his neckcloth.

  Her glance crossed his now as she spoke to the rector. She averted her eyes, not pausing in her speech.

  Jonah twirled the stem of his glass in his hand and eased his legs out in front of him. For a moment, he wished he were still taking his meals in the kitchen with the Nicholses. If this long, drawn-out affair was what was expected of a gentleman, then he had second thoughts about being included in the Hathaways’ circle. He stifled a yawn behind his hand, finding himself growing sleepy after the strain of the morning. He hadn’t gotten much sleep the previous evening, too worried about today’s appearance. He found himself tempted to smile as his focus drifted to the rector, realizing how easy it had been to fool people. And all because of a well-cut suit of clothes. What would the toff do if he knew he sat eating with a condemned man? The man had probably never c
ome within a mile of Newgate. Unlike Miss Hathaway…

  His attention reverted to her and he looked at her with new admiration. She, at least, practiced what she preached. Jonah thought of her history as related by Albert. If she’d always been burdened by the care of her brother, had she ever had the chance to be a woman in her own right?

  Had her young suitor broken her heart for good?

  “My dear Miss Hathaway, you are too observant,” Doyle said with another one of the low chuckles that were beginning to grate on Jonah’s nerves.

  She smiled, casting her eyes downward. “You flatter me.”

  So, the old goat saw some tender green shoots to devour. Jonah clamped his mouth shut before he said something he might regret.

  Just because he’d fooled the old clergyman today didn’t mean he could go about pretending his life was anything but that of a fugitive hiding from the law.

  Jonah Quinn had outdone himself. Not only had Reverend Doyle accepted Quinn’s presence in their household, but Quinn had actually appeared and behaved himself as quite a gentleman.

  Florence hummed to herself as she made her way to the kitchen that evening, carrying a bundle of clothes in her arms. Although it was late, she needed to put the garments she’d worn to the prison to soak.

  A small smile played around the corners of her mouth. She hadn’t been able to erase it since the rector and his mother had bidden them farewell this afternoon.

  Florence crossed the threshold and stepped into the quiet kitchen.

  “Oh!” She hadn’t expected to find anyone still up. Quinn sat hunched before the fire just as the last time she’d come upon him. Her hands tightened on the bundle of clothes as she wondered if he’d been drinking again.

  “What are you doing sitting in the dark?” she asked, her voice sounding sharper than she’d intended.

  He craned his neck around. “Just thinking. Isn’t it allowed?”

  “Of course. I—you just startled me. I didn’t expect to see anyone here at this time of night.”

  “Don’t worry, I don’t have a bottle of gin at me side.”

  “I see that.” She took a step toward him to assure herself of the fact. But there was nothing visible anywhere. “The thought hadn’t occurred to me.”

  “Tell me another good story.”

  “After all you’ve gone through today, it would be…understandable…if you…”

  “Downed a few pints?” He gave a short laugh. “Why, thankee kindly, miss,” he said with what sounded like mock humility.

  She drew herself up, wondering why he was in such a morose mood. “You needn’t take offense. It was a nerve-racking day for everyone.”

  He swung around on the bench to face her fully. “What are you doing creeping into the kitchen after everyone’s retired for the night?” His regard traveled down the length of her.

  She remembered her outfit and clutched the collar of her dressing gown together with her free hand. Even though she’d seen Quinn in his nightshirt for most of the first fortnight he’d stayed with them, she’d never appeared in anything but her daytime wear before him.

  “I just came down to…uh…put my things to soak.” She indicated the bundle in her hands. “I didn’t have a chance to yesterday when I returned from Newgate.”

  “Don’t want to catch any vermin.”

  She peered at his face, but the dark shadows cast by the flickering firelight behind him prevented her from seeing if he was making sport of her. “The place is filled with the worst filth imaginable.”

  “I know.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  He sat in his shirtsleeves. Even though he was alone, a gentleman never sat in his shirtsleeves. He’d removed his cravat to boot. She must speak to him about that.

  “Do I pass inspection?” Now, the mockery was clearly unmistakable.

  “What have you done with your neckcloth?”

  He dug into the pocket of his knee breeches and held it up. “I haven’t lost it, if that’s what you’re afraid of.” He looked at it. “Though I’m afraid I’ve wrinkled it up quite a bit.”

  She remembered tying it for him in the morning…the feel of his eyes on her…the breadth of his neck…

  She took a step back and cleared her throat. “Well, at least it lasted you through the day.”

  “Think I passed your rector friend’s inspection?”

  She didn’t like his tone of voice in saying “rector friend.” “Reverend Doyle seemed to accept you as a houseguest of ours. You…did very well.”

  He seemed to hesitate a second, then narrowed his eyes. “You certainly were quick with your answers to him about me.”

  She felt her face grow warm. She still wasn’t comfortable with the fact that she’d so readily spoken such half-truths so glibly to anyone, much less to a man she greatly admired and respected. “The rector is a very astute man. If we’d shown the least hesitation where you were concerned, he would have detected it at once.”

  “The rector seems plenty interested in what goes on with you and your brother.”

  “Reverend Doyle has done a lot to promote my brother within his profession. It is only right that he should show an interest in our lives.”

  “One thing is interest, another is poking his nose where it don’t belong.”

  “Doesn’t belong,” she corrected automatically. “I…I meant to thank you for coming to Damien’s aid during dinner. He…wasn’t prepared for the rector’s suggestions about finding a wife.” She plucked at her collar, uncomfortable with the topic. “Especially after his remarks on his sermon topic.” Even though Quinn had risked calling attention to himself with his remark, his willingness to intervene on Damien’s behalf had earned her admiration and gratitude.

  “The way I see it, your brother’s life is his own. Whether he chooses to take a wife or not is his business.”

  “You are correct. However, the rector only takes an interest because he cares about Damien.” She moved away from Quinn, uncomfortable with the scrutiny under his thick, dark brows. “In any case, while I appreciate your defense of my brother, it was unnecessary. It only served to draw attention to yourself. Your presence here is already unusual enough without adding to it.”

  “I thought you said your brother never turned anyone away from his door.”

  “He doesn’t. I was referring to vagrants and others who come to the back and beg a piece of bread. But we’ve never had—” she looked down at the bundle in her hands, suddenly awkward with the words she sought to say “—more than an overnight guest or someone who might seek shelter for the night in the barn when the weather is inclement and be on his way the next morning.”

  The mockery in Quinn’s eyes faded and he looked away. “Aye. You needn’t remind me of the risks you’re taking. Don’t think I’m not aware o’ them.”

  She kept her eyes fixed on her bundle of clothes. “All I meant was you need to be discreet in everything you do or say. You owe my brother a great deal.”

  “And you’ll exact a price for your charity, no doubt.”

  Her backbone stiffened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. Don’t mind me. I guess I just need a shot of gin and don’t have it available.”

  Was he sitting there feeling sorry for himself? After all she and Damien were doing for him? She had no time for such antics. She made a move toward the scullery. “It’s late. I’d better get these in water.”

  She stepped into the stone-floored room. She’d set the clothes in water and wash them out tomorrow.

  Just as she reached for the tin tub on the wall, Quinn appeared behind her and stretched his arm past her. She caught her breath, her heart pounding. How had he sneaked up behind her so silently? His arm was only inches from her temple. The awareness of his muscular frame so close left her dizzy.

  He took the tub off its hook on the wall and stepped back. “Where do you want it?” His voice was low and gruff. />
  “I—” What was happening to her? She had to exercise some control over herself. “Here on the floor. I’ll fetch some water from the cistern.” She scurried on ahead of him.

  He did as she bade. Before she could collect the water, he took the pitcher from her hand and began to fill it.

  It left her nothing to do but crouch beside the tub and put in her garments, aware of her petticoat, shift and chemise, stark white against the gray of her gown. He stood over her and poured the water over them. “Th-thank you.”

  “Aye.”

  She dipped her hands into the water, pushing the garments down so they’d saturate, vibrantly aware that Quinn remained where he was. Why didn’t he move?

  She stood, tightening the sash on her dressing gown. If it weren’t so late—and if she were alone—she’d fix herself a cup of tea.

  “Care for a cup o’ tea?”

  She jumped. “What? Oh—” Again, he seemed to have read her mind. It was uncanny at times. She moistened her lips. “All right. A cup of tea would be lovely.” Why had she said that? It was late. She should go on up to her room. But she remained standing there until he moved first.

  She followed him back into the kitchen.

  “Have a seat,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.”

  She perched obediently on the bench and watched him. He checked the kettle and, assuring himself there was hot water, proceeded to open the tin of tea. He spooned the tea leaves into the pot and poured the steaming water over them. His white shirt was open at the collar and his waistcoat hung unbuttoned, but still there was something elegant in his appearance.

  The clink of the top onto the teapot startled her from her furtive observation. To hide her discomposure, she fetched a tea cozy and placed it over the pot.

  Quinn seemed untroubled by their silence. It irked her that he seemed at peace when she felt so jumpy inside. What was wrong with her lately? She was used to being in the company of men, both the foul-mouthed drunkards in the prison and the gently spoken types in the drawing room. What was it about Jonah Quinn, that he fit neither camp? No longer was he the image of the rough convict or laborer. Yet, in spite of the tailored clothes and schooling in etiquette he’d received, he was by no means the refined gentleman. Rough one moment, yet when quiet, watching her with discerning eyes, too familiar by far for a gentleman.