The Making of a Gentleman

by Ruth Axtell Morren

  “I wasn’t able to prune the orchard last spring,” Albert said from below. “I’d taken a fall and my back wasn’t right. And this spring, with the womenfolk telling me to have a care with this and have a care with that, I can hardly take a step that one o’ them’s not after me.”

  Jonah chuckled. “We used to have to trim the fruit trees on the lord’s estate. Never got to enjoy any of it, though.”

  “You’ll get to enjoy these. The best Cox Pippins in all London. My Elizabeth makes a tart that’ll make your mouth water.”

  It was on the tip of Jonah’s tongue to say he might not be around come autumn. He didn’t know how much Albert knew or suspected of his identity, but since the Hathaways hadn’t given him leave to confide in Albert or his wife, he thought it best to keep his mouth shut.

  The limb fell to the ground with a thud. As Albert collected it, Jonah shimmied back to the center trunk. “What about this one?” he asked, pointing with his saw to another branch.

  “You’ve got the eye,” Albert said with a nod, beginning to cut the fallen branch into smaller pieces.

  Jonah proceeded to the branch in question, but not before noticing the streak of dirt he’d gotten on his light-colored breeches with his last maneuver.

  He ignored the stain as he set to work. “How does it look now?” he asked the older man when he’d lopped off a few more branches.

  “Like you did when you had your head shorn.”

  Jonah chuckled, removing his hat and wiping his handkerchief over his forehead. He ran a hand over his scalp. His hair now covered it in a thick layer, though it was hardly half an inch thick. “I felt like a new-laid egg.”

  “You sure looked like one,” Albert said, chortling.

  Jonah joined him in laughter and waved his saw. “If I hadn’t been so sick, no one would have been able to get that close to me with a razor.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. But it did the trick. You look like a proper gentleman these days.”

  Jonah made his way back down the tree. His stockings snagged on the thin branches sticking out from the main limbs and the lichen stuck to the knees of his breeches. He brushed himself off when he reached the wet ground. He’d have to change before presenting himself to Miss Hathaway; otherwise, she’d give him one of those looks that was enough to make him turn tail like a dog.

  Thankfully, she was probably out on one of her parish visits. He accompanied Albert to the next tree and surveyed it a moment before he grabbed the V-shaped lower branches and heaved himself up to begin the next pruning job.

  An hour later, the sun sat lower in the sky, its rays casting long shadows across the orchard. Jonah had only progressed through a few more trees. Large piles of branches lay under each one. He lifted his arm to wipe his forehead but stopped himself in time and used his large handkerchief instead. His throat was parched and he could just taste the pint of ale when this job was done.

  Glancing toward the house, he spotted Miss Hathaway making her way across the yard. “Your mistress is coming this way,” he told Albert, as he noted her purposeful stride.

  Albert followed his gaze. “So she is.”

  Jonah turned his attention back to his work. When he’d finished sawing through the thick branch and it gave a final crack before giving way, he noticed Miss Hathaway standing beneath the tree. He paused to wipe his forehead with his handkerchief.

  She frowned up at him through the bare branches before turning to address Albert. Irritation creased Jonah’s forehead at her ability to ignore him when it pleased her. What had he done now?

  “Be so good as to tell Mr. Kendall to change into his old clothes if he decides to climb trees.”

  “I’m sorry, miss,” Albert began, his ruddy face showing a deeper red. “It’s my fault. I should be up there meself—”

  She put a hand on his arm, her tone softening. “No, indeed, Albert. It’s too much for you. We shall have to see about hiring an assistant for you. You did right in asking Mr. Kendall’s help in the meantime. But Mr. Kendall knows he must take care of the things others provide for him,” she said, with another pointed look upward.

  Jonah could feel his temper heat. If Miss Hathaway thought he was an ungrateful wretch, he’d tell her a thing or two. He scaled down the tree limb and swung from the nearest branch. Just as his feet hit the ground he felt his sleeve pull away from the body of his jacket with a ripping sound.

  By the time he turned to her, Miss Hathaway was already heading back to the house.

  “I guess she’s a bit put-out,” Albert remarked.

  “When isn’t she?”

  Albert chuckled. “She may seem harsh at times, but her heart’s in the right place.”

  Jonah snorted as he bent to pick up the saw he’d dropped. He felt the gap in his shoulder immediately. He pulled himself straight, wondering how much damage he’d done to his jacket. He wriggled his shoulder in a circle but couldn’t determine anything except that something had come loose.

  Albert didn’t seem to notice anything. “Why don’t we call it a day? I’m thinking a mug of cider will taste good.”

  Jonah nodded, though the thought of quaffing down a pint no longer held the appeal it had a few moments ago.

  After washing up in the scullery, Jonah and Albert entered the kitchen. Mrs. Nichols turned from the stove. “You two look chilled. How about some mulled cider? I have it heating here.”

  “Just what I was telling William we needed,” Albert said to his wife.

  Betsy stood at the table, kneading a large lump of dough. Jonah ambled over and poked his finger into it. “Are we to have fresh rolls for our supper?”

  She swatted his hand away. “Don’t be daft. This be for tomorrow’s bread.”

  “So, what’ll we have with our cider?” he demanded in mock outrage. The girl never failed to remind him of former, easier times with his Judy. She was the youngest of the Nicholses’ many children, the only one still at home, so she was the spoiled baby of the family.

  “It’s nothing you’ll be havin’ if ye don’t watch your tongue. You know I feed you good,” Mrs. Nichols called over her shoulder from her place by the stove.

  “That I do,” he said. The two men sat down at the other end of the table from Betsy. Mrs. Nichols soon had a mug of steaming cider in front of each.

  “Now, there, what do you say to that, eh?” she asked, setting a plate of gingerbread in front of them.

  “More like it, is what I say,” Jonah said, taking a square of the warm cake. The coziness of the Nicholses’ kitchen and their simple acceptance of him helped him forget the uncertainty of his life for a few minutes and pretend he was still the man he used to be back in his village.

  Mrs. Nichols swatted him across the back. “You’d better teach him to mind his manners,” she told her husband.

  Albert chuckled. “Don’t be too hard on him. He’s already managed to earn Miss Hathaway’s disapproval once today.”

  Mention of her name reminded Jonah of his torn jacket. He brought the tankard of cider slowly down from his lips. He’d removed the jacket as soon as he’d entered the house, and now it sat rolled up beside him on the bench.

  The two women laughed as Albert recounted Miss Hathaway’s words upon seeing Jonah up in the apple tree in his good clothes.

  He pondered what he was going to do about the big gap between the sleeve and body of the jacket as he continued sipping his cider and eating the cake in front of him.

  “Poor Miss Hathaway trying to make William into a gentleman and he thwarting her at every turn,” Albert said with a laugh.

  Even though the elderly couple never asked him anything about his past, they knew from the state of him the night he’d arrived that he was no gentleman, and they’d seen how the Hathaways were busy reforming him.

  He swallowed the last of his cider and rose from the table. Betsy was busy shaping the dough into rounds. Her hands and half her forearms were covered in flour. />
  “I bet you’re just as able with the needle as you are with shaping bread,” he said with a smile.

  The girl’s cheeks turned redder and she looked down with a smile. “Me mum scolds me for not being able to sew a straight seam. She says I’ll never have anything ready before my wedding day comes.”

  He drew back, his eyebrows raised in mock surprise. “And when is that great day to be?”

  She giggled and shook her head, refusing to meet his eyes. “I haven’t e’en a beau yet!”

  “That’s a situation that’ll soon be remedied. ’Fore you know it, they’ll come swarming round yer mum’s kitchen here, and they won’t be in search of sweet buns.”

  Her dark curls danced around her mobcap as her laughter increased.

  “Careful now, or you’ll ruin those nice breads you’ve shaped so nicely.”

  Her hands stopped immediately and she looked up, worried. He had an inclination to pinch her round red cheeks as if she’d been a little girl she so reminded him of his Judy when he’d first noticed her. “Now, are ye sure you don’t know how to stitch a little?”

  “What’ve ye need of stitchin’, Mr. Kendall?” Mrs. Nichols came round to inspect the bread loaves.

  “Oh, just a little thing.”

  “Our Betsy can scrub a floor to shine and make bread to melt in your mouth, but she can’t even sew up a decent pocket handkerchief.”

  “You sure those plump fingers, so deft with the bread dough, can’t sew up a stitch?” Jonah asked with exaggerated disbelief.

  Her mother smiled. “If you don’t mind a crooked stitch.”

  Betsy giggled.

  Jonah heard the sound of a throat clearing. His laughter died at the sight of Miss Hathaway standing in the doorway. She was looking so disapproving, he wondered if she’d come to scold him some more over his clothes.

  The sudden silence at her appearance annoyed Jonah. Why should their moment of fun be dampened by someone just because she was a lady? He turned his back on her and marched back to his tankard, forgetting that he’d already emptied it.

  Miss Hathaway walked straight to Mrs. Nichols. “Could you please come with me to the stillroom? I want to see how much spirit of lavender we have left. There’s a woman who is recovering from a fever at the prison. And also, I want to check our supply of arrowroot jelly.”

  Mrs. Nichols wiped her hands on a cloth. “Yes, miss. I think there’s plenty o’ both and also some extract of chamomile.”

  As the two women left the kitchen, Albert cleared his throat. Betsy giggled. Jonah drained the last drop from his tankard then carried it over to the scullery, wondering why Miss Hathaway had succeeded in breaking up the mood of the group. Blister her!

  “I hear Bill the Bull is boxing this Saturday in the field behind the reservoir,” Albert said in a jovial voice.

  Jonah turned to him, his irritation forgotten. “Who’s he fighting?”

  “I heard he’s challenging anyone who dares fight him. There’s a twenty-guinea purse for anyone who beats him.”

  Jonah stared at him. Twenty guineas represented a fortune to him. “Twenty guineas, you say?”

  Mrs. Nichols and Miss Hathaway reentered the kitchen. “What’s this about twenty guineas?” the older woman asked.

  “I was just telling William of a boxing match,” her husband answered.

  Mrs. Nichols set down some jars on the table. “Is that the fight you mentioned to me?”

  “The very one. Bill the Bull against anyone who cares to challenge him.”

  Miss Hathaway frowned. “If it’s a fight you’re talking about, there’ll be betting and drinking. It’s something to steer clear of.”

  Jonah couldn’t let that one pass. “A boxing match is a contest of strength between two men. It takes a good deal more than brawn to beat an opponent.”

  The others looked at him with respect. All but Miss Hathaway.

  “You’ve fought in the ring, haven’t ye?” Albert’s voice held awe.

  Jonah shrugged, pleased despite himself. “A time or two.”

  “Did you ever fight Molyneux?”

  “No, I never got the chance, but I would’ve liked to, I can tell you,” he said.

  Albert nodded at Miss Hathaway. “You know, boxing is a gentleman’s sport as well.”

  “Perhaps as a sport. But any fight in the open air is bound to be a fixed fight. There’ll be brawling and all sorts of gambling going on,” she said.

  Albert said nothing more.

  “What are you dawdling for?” Mrs. Nichols asked her daughter. “Get those loaves in their tins.”

  Betsy jumped. “Yes, Mum.”

  Miss Hathaway placed the bottles and jars in a basket. “Thank you,” she told Mrs. Nichols. “I shall take them with me on tomorrow’s visit.” She left the kitchen without giving Jonah so much as a glance. For some reason, that annoyed him even more.

  After she’d left the kitchen, Mrs. Nichols went back to the stove. Suddenly, she turned to Jonah. “You know, if you need something mended, Miss Hathaway is the one for the job. She sews a very fine stitch.”

  Jonah shifted in his seat. “Uh, that’s all right, Mrs. Nichols. It was nothing I needed right away.”

  “Well, she’s always at her mending in the evenings. She wouldn’t mind.”

  Albert chuckled.

  “What are you laughing about?” she asked her husband sharply.

  “Oh, nothing, nothing at all.”

  At supper later that evening, Florence noted Quinn had changed into another coat. She frowned. Had he soiled the plum one so badly in the orchard that he could no longer wear it?

  After saying grace, Damien unfolded his napkin and turned to Quinn with a smile. “How was your afternoon?”

  “Fine,” he said, then stopped, his gaze crossing Miss Florence’s. “I—that is, Albert and me begun—”

  “Albert and I began,” Florence corrected him.

  He glanced at her again, then away. “That’s right. Albert and I began to prune the orchard.”

  “Oh, wonderful. I know Albert is getting a little old to be up in the trees.” Damien turned to his sister. “We really need to see about hiring him an assistant. It would be a shame to let the orchard go.”

  Before she could answer, Quinn replied, “That’s all right, I can help him. I’m used to pruning.”

  “You are?” Damien nodded in relief. He smiled at Florence. “You see what a blessing having Mr. Kendall here has become to us?”

  She looked pointedly at her brother. “He missed Reverend Doyle’s visit this afternoon.”

  Damien had the grace to look abashed. “Oh, I see.” He gave Quinn an embarrassed smile. “Well, I did as well.”

  Florence didn’t give Quinn a chance to reply. “That is neither here nor there. The rector knows you are at the orphanage on Tuesday afternoons.”

  Quinn set down his utensils with a loud clatter and gave her a defiant look. “The way I see it, the less I rub shoulders with that fancy cleric, the less danger I’ll put us all in.”

  She laid down her own cutlery without a sound. “Although I appreciate your consideration, Mr. Kendall, what would have happened if the rector or Mrs. Doyle had chanced to see you in the orchard? After all, in your plum-colored coat, among the bare branches, you were not hard to spot. Must I remind you that you are to confine your menial activities to the hours before noon? Any visitors will generally pay their calls in the afternoon. Only tradespeople come in the mornings.”

  She saw the flush creeping into his face and felt only somewhat mollified. But it didn’t do away with her ill humor completely. As they continued their meal in silence, it brought her no joy to have had to reprimand Quinn before Damien. Her brother never seemed to find fault with anything Quinn did or didn’t do, leaving the burden of correcting him to fall fully on her shoulders.

  As she toyed with the food on her plate, she pictured Quinn in the kitchen that afternoon, sta
nding so close to Betsy. Flirting! Why, he was almost old enough to be her father.

  “I been thinking o’ what you told me at our last lesson,” Quinn said to Damien.

  Her brother looked up from his plate with a smile. “Oh, what was that?”

  “When God sent Hagar away. Seemed kind o’ hard.”

  Damien set down his utensils. “It illustrates a point. Only the child born to his wife, Sarah, was to be the child of promise.”

  As Quinn asked another question, Damien pushed his plate aside and began a detailed explanation. Florence turned to watch Quinn’s face as he puzzled things out. She was half-envious of his interest and at other times would have easily entered the discussion, but this evening she felt out of sorts.

  When she saw Quinn take up his fish cake in his hand, she said without thinking, “Mr. Kendall, you must use your fork and knife so, to eat this with.” She demonstrated with her own.

  He looked at her a few seconds, during which time she could feel the skin of her cheeks grow warm. Without a word, he put the fish cake down and picked up his fork and knife and imitated her method of holding them. She proceeded to cut a small piece of the breaded cake and bring it to her mouth.

  Damien cleared his throat. “God provided for this other child of Abraham’s, quite generously, in fact, but he made it clear his inheritance would only pass through the line of Isaac.”

  Quinn nodded and picked up his cup. He took a healthy swallow of ale. Then he belched.

  Florence stared, hardly believing what she’d heard. She turned to Damien. He, too, was staring at Quinn, but he quickly recovered and glanced away. Quinn, however, had caught both their looks.

  He lifted the napkin from around his neck and brought it to his mouth and wiped with an exaggerated motion. “Pardon me. Where I come from a good belch shows one’s compliments to the cook.”

  Florence put down her fork and knife. “A belch may be customary at Newgate but not in this dining room.”

  The color seemed to drain from his face and she could hardly believe the words that had come out of her mouth.