The porridge Jonah had just swallowed suddenly felt like a lump in his throat. “Where did you see these posters?”
“Oh, a ways from here. Down by Piccadilly.”
Jonah studied the man before him. How much did Albert suspect?
“They were glued over the old ones, like they’d just been put there. I figured they’d given up on ever finding him. But now…who knows.” Albert shrugged and continued with his porridge.
Was Albert trying to warn him?
After breakfast Jonah pushed the disturbing news from his mind and headed over to the parsonage. He had enough of a challenge for one morning. Besides, Piccadilly was far from this edge of London. He’d just lie low for a while. That is, if Miss Hathaway permitted him to stay on at the parsonage.
He had waited until he knew she had finished her breakfast and closeted herself in the sitting room to do her accounts before he sneaked up the back stairs to his room. He didn’t want to face her without looking as presentable as possible.
He stared at the array in his wardrobe. The fine coats and waistcoats mocked him. Did he propose to cover his sin with a gentleman’s attire?
All these days Jonah had done nothing but chastise himself. Although the Bible talked about forgiveness, he knew it was too late for him. The damage was done. He’d proved himself as low an individual as Miss Hathaway had always viewed him. If he’d felt himself deep in the mire while he was sitting at Newgate, the night after the fight he’d sunk about as low as a man could. Forcing himself on a woman. During his time in Newgate, he’d been able to rail at fate, how unjust life had been against him, wrongly accused of a crime he hadn’t committed.
After what he’d done to Miss Hathaway—he couldn’t even whitewash his attack with the word kiss—there was no one to blame but himself. He’d abused the trust and goodwill of two individuals who’d taken him in off the streets, fed and clothed him, and offered him his only chance at a new life.
Despite his words to Miss Hathaway, and his own sincere intention of leaving forthwith with his bag of prize money, Jonah realized that he didn’t want to leave this household.
There was goodness in this place, the first real goodness he’d found in London.
He thought of his own home back in the country. It had been rough and base in comparison, he now saw. They were like two animals in many ways, he and Judy. They had taken no thought beyond each day. But now that his eyes were opened to another mode of living, he saw how hard it would be to go back.
When he finished dressing, he gave himself a final inspection in the long glass. He wore the dark green coat, gold waistcoat and buff breeches. His cravat looked presentable, his short hair had been brushed till it shone, his stockings were straight, his black shoes polished.
He marched resolutely down the stairs to the sitting room, but stopped at the sound of voices through the door. He hadn’t expected visitors this early. Well, it was too late to back out now. Heaving a deep breath, he turned the knob and pushed it open.
As he stood framed in the doorway, two pairs of eyes turned his way, including those of Reverend Doyle.
Jonah fought the urge to turn tail and run. His eyes sought Miss Hathaway’s. It seemed he couldn’t manage anything right these days, including an apology. “I…I’m sorry, I didn’t know you had visitors.”
Florence—Miss Hathaway—sat straight and dignified in a dark blue gown. But as soon as he looked at her, she bowed her head, not meeting his eyes.
The rector rose. “Ah, Mr. Kendall, good afternoon.”
Jonah took a tentative step into the room. “Good afternoon, Reverend.”
Doyle peered at his face. “You look as if you’ve been in a fight.”
Knowing it was best to bluff it out, Jonah gave him a disarming smile even as his knees trembled, Albert’s words about the wanted poster coming back to him. “You have the right of it. A boxing match.”
The rector arched a dark eyebrow. “Indeed?”
Jonah rocked back on his heels. “Yes. Excellent sport, boxing, don’t you agree?”
The rector rubbed his chin with a slim hand, his gold signet ring glinting on his pinky. “I believe it has achieved some merit as a sport with the opening of Gentleman Jackson’s school.”
“I don’t know too much about that. All I know is that it pits two men against each other in a contest of strength and wits.” He stared at the rector’s bony chest, wondering how quickly it would take to dispatch the man—half a round?
The rector raised his chin a fraction. “Wits?”
Jonah folded his arms over his chest and nodded. “That’s right. You have to be quicker than your opponent and you have to anticipate his punch before he strikes, in time to block it.”
All the while, he was conscious of Miss Hathaway. How would she receive him? Would she even speak to him? Instead he was forced to brazen it out in front of this popinjay.
When the rector resumed his seat, Jonah dared turn to her. “I don’t mean to…uh…intrude on your company.”
Her navy gown was edged with a white ruffled collar that reached all the way up to her chin. Long sleeves in tight gathered puffs covered her arms from her shoulders to midway down her hands. As usual, a white, lacy cap covered most of her hair.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Kendall,” she said in a low voice, her eyes not quite meeting his. “Please…have a seat. The rector was paying us a call.”
“I take it you bested your opponent, Mr. Kendall,” Doyle said from his seat.
Jonah nodded. “Speed and nimble feet are more valuable than size, I’ll tell you that.”
“Mr. Kendall proved that the other day.”
Jonah looked with surprise at Miss Hathaway, but her attention was now directed at the rector. “His opponent was both taller and had a greater girth than Mr. Kendall.”
“You witnessed the match?” Doyle’s tone registered amazement and disapproval.
She fiddled with the ruffle at her neck. “I…only came at the very end…to accompany my brother. He was concerned about Mr. Kendall’s welfare.”
“Yes, quite. Well.” Doyle turned back to Jonah. “I can see you are no worse for wear. A bit bruised but no serious injuries, eh?”
“No.” Jonah fingered his jaw, glad the swelling was down and that the color around his eye had faded to a light green and yellow. “The referee made sure we abided by the rules. No hitting below the waist or wrestling an opponent once he was down.”
“Yes, ahem,” Doyle said. “I’m sure Miss Hathaway needn’t hear the particulars.” He turned to her with a gentle smile.
“No, indeed, sir.” She smiled and looked downward, smoothing down her skirt. Jonah felt a punch in his gut. He’d never know that kind of gentle smile from her now. “Please have a seat, Mr. Kendall,” she repeated, and he jumped to realize she’d noticed he still stood.
Betsy entered at that moment with the tea cart. Instead of finding a seat, Jonah walked over to the girl and took the handles from her. “Oh, thank you, sir,” she said, her mouth curving in a grateful smile.
“Nothing gives me greater pleasure than helping a pretty maiden,” he replied automatically, glad to have something to do with his hands. He pushed the cart in front of Miss Hathaway. “Here you are.”
Instead of looking pleased, she immediately busied herself with the tea service without even a thank-you. His heart sank. Could he ever do anything right around this lady? What had happened to him? Ever since they’d met, he seemed to be nothing but a brute. And now that he’d gone too far she’d be right in never speaking to him again.
Before he could decide what to do, she held out a cup and saucer to him. “Would you please take this to Reverend Doyle?”
Wordlessly, Jonah took them from her, noting she only raised her face to the height of the cup and saucer. She removed her hand from the cup and saucer and he retreated.
The rector indicated the small table beside him with a slight wave of his elong
ated hand. “Thank you,” he murmured as Jonah set it down.
Too restless to take a seat himself, Jonah walked toward the window embrasure.
“Would you care for a cup of tea, Mr. Kendall?”
He swiveled around, startled to hear her address him so politely…so normally. He stared at her a second. Her gaze, still averted, was focused somewhere slightly below his face, around his neckcloth. Was something wrong with it? He’d practiced all morning. Now he realized why no gentlemen could do without a valet.
“Uh, yes…that would be lovely,” he replied. Lovely? That would be lovely? Those words had just come out of his mouth? He was starting to sound like the good rector.
Jonah glanced his way. The man was calmly sipping from the delicate-looking china cup, the saucer held in one hand, the cup in the other with just three of his fingers barely holding on to the small, slim handle.
Why hadn’t Damien asked Jonah to leave the house since that evening? Could it be Miss Hathaway had said nothing to her brother? Was she too ashamed? He studied her as she poured his tea. She looked particularly fetching this afternoon in the dark blue. But also unapproachable. A suit of armor couldn’t have covered her more thoroughly than her gown. It only underscored how grievous his conduct had been.
He narrowed his eyes at her. Was she terrified of him? He wouldn’t be able to stand it if that were the case. He knew her courage. Did she now fear him more than the worst criminal in Newgate? He wasn’t that kind of man, he wanted to tell her.
But all he could do was stand like a dumb ox and watch Miss Hathaway’s movements and try to figure out what thoughts were going through her head. He noticed her slim fingers around the teapot handle and curled his own thick fingers into his palm. She added nothing to his tea, knowing how he took it. They’d never had sugar in the house for him to learn to take his tea sweet. They’d rarely been able to afford tea, for that matter.
Then she held the cup and saucer out to him.
Jonah stepped forward hastily and took it from her. The tentative smile on his lips died as he noticed she still didn’t direct her gaze upward to his. This time it was fixed on the flower-patterned cup and saucer between them. The cup rattled slightly as it exchanged hands. “Th…thank you,” he said, his voice sounding shaky to his ears.
When she made no reply, he finally turned and stepped away from the tea cart. His glance darted about, wondering where to go now. He didn’t like the rector—he wasn’t sure why—and the last thing he wanted was to sit here between the two of them, listening to the cleric fawn over Miss Hathaway in his overpolite speech.
He finally made his way across the room to an alcove by the window as the other two resumed their conversation. He rested the cup and saucer against one of his knees, knowing when he took a sip he’d have to remember not to slurp.
“Returning to our discussion, Miss Hathaway,” Jonah heard the rector say, “I fear that it would be impossible to use any of the church’s funds for your endeavor. The parishioners wouldn’t understand your good intentions. They have their charities in the local workhouse and orphanage. There is the upkeep of the sanctuary and grounds, as well as the parsonage, you know.”
“Yes, I realize that. I just thought perhaps to purchase a few books and writing utensils…” Miss Hathaway’s voice dwindled off.
Jonah had missed their previous conversation but gathered now that it had something to do with helping the women at Newgate. “I imagine the church treasury is quite fat,” he said.
Both Miss Hathaway and the rector turned to him and stared. No doubt he’d done it again, but at least he finally had her full attention.
Miss Hathaway snapped her mouth shut and looked away again immediately. Her long slim hands smoothed down her skirt and he remembered them tending to the cuts on his face. “It may appear that way to an outsider,” she said quietly, “but Reverend Doyle is quite right. There are many expenses we don’t see.”
The rector set down his cup in its saucer with scarcely a sound. “The good citizens of London are at the mercy of the criminal element. The streets are worse every year. Cutpurses threaten pedestrians at every corner. Loose women hang about the squares, so brazen as to even inhabit the better neighborhoods now. Children come to beg and end up picking an honest citizen’s pocket.” He shook his head sadly. “No, my good man, the citizens would find it hard to sympathize with Miss Hathaway’s good intentions of spending their tithes upon those in our prisons. Good money after bad, they would say, and in many cases, they would right. Let the riffraff be transported to Botany Bay.”
Jonah opened his mouth to argue, but a quick shake of Miss Hathaway’s head stopped him. What was she afraid of?
The rector knew precious little about those sitting in Newgate. There he sat in his black coat and bejeweled shoes and he had the nerve to condemn those who had had the misfortune to be caught on the wrong side of the law only because they could find no honest work. Of course, there were bad elements in Newgate, but many had been made bad through their circumstances, caught, like himself, in the wrong place at the wrong time with no one to defend them.
In spite of his righteous anger, he held his tongue. For Miss Hathaway.
He owed her more than he could ever repay.
Although it took two cups of tea and a tedious while doing nothing but sitting and looking gentlemanly, Jonah remained in the drawing room until the rector finally got up and said his farewells. At times, it seemed as if the rector was waiting for Jonah to get up and leave the room first. That only strengthened Jonah’s resolve to stay put till the old windbag left. Even if he was dreading the moment of truth alone with Miss Hathaway.
When the door finally shut behind the rector, Jonah panicked. How was he going to broach the subject uppermost on his mind with Miss Hathaway? He wasn’t a man to mince words. He knew she’d probably reject any words of apology he offered, but he must make amends somehow.
As soon as Miss Hathaway turned from closing the door of the sitting room behind her, Jonah cleared his throat.
Miss Hathaway looked at him then quickly away. The color of her gown made her smooth skin look paler. He was sure it made her eyes look bluer, if he could ever catch a glimpse of them. It made him realize he’d wanted to do so ever since that night. He’d wanted to get a good look into those gray eyes to see what he’d read there. Icy disdain? Hatred? Rage? Offended modesty?
As the seconds ticked by, he realized he could delay no longer. He pulled his coat straight. “About the other evening—”
That got her attention. She held up a hand as if to fend him off. He took an immediate step back, distressed to think she believed he might attack her again.
She turned away. “Pray do not speak of it. Consider it forgotten.”
He clamped his mouth shut, not expecting that. Cold resentment or angry accusations, but not this…this dismissal of his unspeakable behavior. Was she so terrified she wanted to forget it completely? If only he could.
He tried again. “What I did was—”
“You were undoubtedly intoxicated…too much celebrating your victory. I am disposed to forget it and…and suggest you do the same.” She spoke so low he had to strain to hear the words. But her back was rigidly straight and there was no mistaking the fact that she did not want to discuss the topic.
She thought he was intoxicated? He’d had nothing to drink. He’d just gotten up from a few hours’ sleep.
“I didn’t hurt you—”
“No!” She finally turned to face him, her hands clasped in front of her. “Nothing to signify,” she said more calmly before clearing her throat. “As I said, I do not wish to speak of this…unfortunate…incident ever again.” There was a ring of finality to her words.
Jonah could only stare at her, his mind struggling to adjust to the notion that his brutal kiss had been relegated by Miss Hathaway to an “unfortunate incident.” He tensed, sure there would be more. Undoubtedly, her next move would be to ask him t
o leave her home.
She took a deep breath. “What we need to do now, Mr. Kendall…”
He braced himself.
“…is concentrate on continuing to transform you into a gentleman.” Her tone was brisk, businesslike as usual.
Had he heard her correctly?
She walked over to the sofa and stood behind it, supporting her hands on its back. “What I propose—that is, if you agree—is that we continue with my instructing you in the manners of a…a gentleman. You may recall, we have received an invitation to dine at the Duke of Winchester’s.”
He could only nod dumbly, hardly believing she wasn’t asking him to leave. Instead, she was talking of a duke’s dinner party.
“You took a grave risk in appearing before such a crowd at the boxing match. Apart from the obvious physical dangers, when you dressed the part of a fighter, you resembled too closely the old Jonah Quinn who stood before Newgate.”
He looked down at his feet, thinking of the new wanted poster. It was a foolish thing he’d done, entering that contest for a sum of money. What had he been trying to prove?
She sighed. “However, I trust that, as Damien says, no one will have recognized you in the ring. In future, you must endeavor to continue this…masquerade. I needn’t tell you that your very future depends upon it.”
Slowly, he raised his eyes and finally was able to meet hers. It was straight and uncompromising, the way it had always been. It also proved his earlier supposition. Her irises looked more blue than gray this morning against the dark blue gown.
Was it possible she truly cared about his welfare? “I understand. No one knows it better than me—myself.”
She cleared her throat, her fingers rubbing at the satin upholstery of the couch. “You did…very well at tea today with the Reverend Doyle. I can see you have made progress. You replied to his queries in a self-assured yet civil way. You knew enough to remain silent the majority of the time, so there was little he could find fault with. Despite your bruises…you looked the part of a gentleman.”
The Making of a Gentleman Page 20
