The Making of a Gentleman

by Ruth Axtell Morren

  He continued walking the length of the room. Florence bit her lip, realizing how much she loved watching his strong, fluid movements. His jacket stretched taut across his broad shoulders and tapered down to his slim waist. His strong hands were folded at the small of his back and she remembered their unyielding power when he had grabbed her that night—

  She started when she heard her brother speak once again.

  “What I would suggest we do is put in place a plan in case it ever becomes…necessary for William to leave here quickly.”

  Quinn stopped at once. “You mean escape?”

  Damien nodded. “We don’t know what can happen. We’ve probably grown a bit lax, assuming you are perfectly safe here. Perhaps this is merely a warning to alert us. I suggest we have a satchel packed with a few necessary items, a change of clothes, some biscuits—nonperishable food—or food that we replenish daily.” He glanced at Florence, and she quickly nodded her head in understanding. “Some money…”

  “We can leave it by the back door,” she suggested. “That way, if it ever became necessary for Kendall to leave in a hurry—” as she said the words, it suddenly occurred to her how difficult such an event might be for her, personally “—he can go out the back and take the satchel. We’ll keep his greatcoat there, as well, at all times.”

  Quinn nodded slowly as if taking it all in.

  “If anything should happen,” Damien said, directing himself once more to him, “I’d suggest you try to take a ship to Canada. We’ll furnish you with enough money to cover your fare and see you a ways…”

  Quinn cleared his throat, looking away from her brother. “I can use my twenty guineas. And if it’s not enough, I’m willing to do anything to earn the rest.”

  Damien put his hand on Quinn’s arm. “You’ve done more than enough with all the help you’ve given Albert. I just pray we’ll find a way for you to continue here with us.”

  Florence’s eyes met Quinn’s and she realized she’d be willing to do anything to help him escape the hangman’s noose.

  Without a word, he strode to the window and stood looking out, his back to them, his hands clasped behind him.

  Florence felt a bleakness in her spirit at the thought that Quinn might have to leave them. She’d always known the arrangement to hide him was only a temporary one. When had this man’s survival ceased being a burden to her and become more precious than her very life?

  Chapter Fifteen

  A few afternoons after the duke’s dinner, Reverend Doyle invited Florence and her brother to take tea at his house.

  Florence had found it odd that the invitation had not included Quinn, but when she mentioned it to her brother, he merely said, “The rector is not accustomed to sharing us. Don’t fret, he’ll soon come to accept Kendall as part of our family.”

  Florence caught her breath. Part of our family. The words came to Damien so naturally. Little did he know the impact they had on her.

  Florence was further surprised when, once at the rector’s, Doyle invited her outside for a stroll after they’d taken tea.

  When she hesitated, he turned to Damien. “You don’t mind keeping Mother company a few moments, do you? I wish to show your sister the early blossoms in the garden.”

  “Of course not.” Damien sat back and turned to the elderly Mrs. Doyle and began asking about her latest arthritic complaint.

  The rector offered Florence his arm when the two emerged onto the back terrace. The vicarage overlooked the fields of Marylebone Park. Beds of daffodils edged the lawn, bordering the line of elm trees, which separated the grounds from the park.

  Florence breathed deeply of the spring air. It had rained that morning, and the scent of damp earth calmed her. Although they’d made all the preparations for Quinn’s hasty departure should it become necessary, she had not reconciled herself to the idea, and the fear was never far from her thoughts. “It’s a beautiful day.”

  “Yes, that is why I wanted to bring you out here. You spend so much of your time with your good works at the prison, workhouse and orphanage. You need to take some time and enjoy the fine spring weather we’ve been having.”

  Florence looked at him gratefully. Her ever-present worry over Quinn eased. How she wished sometimes that she and Damien could confide their secret to the rector. She was sure it would ease their burden to share it with such a dear, trusted friend and mentor. “You are right.”

  The rector swung his gold-headed walking stick in front of him. “The duke is most impressed with your work. He has told me so himself. Your brother could do worse than attract the patronage of such a man. You know he has his own chapel at Portman Square. Do not be surprised if he invites Damien to preach there some Sunday.”

  Florence stopped in the path and looked at him. “That would be wonderful!”

  He smiled in understanding. “You care very much for Damien.”

  “Of course.”

  He patted her hand, which lay in the crook of his arm. “If his future is secure, you would be free to look after your own.”

  She drew her eyebrows together. “My future is tied to his.”

  “Only so long as he needs you, my dear. But you have many fine qualities yourself. It would be a pity if…” His words trailed off as he continued gazing at her.

  She wondered at the words left unsaid. They sounded almost like a warning. “What do you mean?”

  He sighed as if pained to have to go on. “I mean I would hate to see all your talents wasted.”

  Her eyes widened and she couldn’t help an incredulous laugh. “Wasted?”

  He didn’t share her humor. “Yes, wasted.”

  She sobered. “How do you mean?”

  “I mean wasted if you are never able to be the mistress of your own home.”

  She was more puzzled than ever. “But I am. I mean Damien gives me free rein…”

  “But you are only his sister keeping house for him,” he explained in a patient tone as if she were too simple to understand. “I am talking of having a husband of your own and setting up your own household.”

  She looked down, away from his close observation, unsure why she felt uncomfortable with the turn in the conversation. Was it because it paralleled too closely her own yearnings of late? “I feel perfectly at home with my brother.”

  He patted her hand once again. “Of course you do, my dear.” They continued on some minutes without speaking. A squirrel scurried across their path and hurried up an oak tree. Florence was beginning to feel relief that the topic was at an end.

  “The ground is not too wet for you?” the rector asked.

  He was always so solicitous. “No, the path is perfectly dry.”

  “I have been wanting to talk to you for some months now about your own future,” he said.

  She heart sank when he took up the topic again. What could he possibly be referring to? There had never been any discussion about a future for her, only for Damien.

  “You would make an excellent clergyman’s wife.”

  Her mouth fell open. The image was so contrary to her own thoughts of…Quinn. No! She wouldn’t give voice to them. She stumbled.

  The rector tightened his hold on her arm. “Miss Hathaway, are you all right?”

  She shook her head with a nervous laugh. “I’m fine. It’s just…I…I’d never considered…such a position. I sometimes feel like a clergyman’s wife already, with the work I do at the parish.”

  “That is natural. You have had all the training to take up the reins. All you lack is a…husband.”

  He was looking at her so strangely that Florence took an inadvertent step back only to discover he still held her quite securely by the arm. “I don’t think that is…is likely to change anytime soon.”

  “My dear, I have watched you since you were a young girl. Your mother taught you well. And since you’ve taken over the running of the parsonage, you have performed far above what most young ladies of so tender an
age as you were when you lost your parents could have done. You have gained the respect of the congregation. You have taken on all the additional chores of caring for the poor. You have proved courageous in venturing into the darkness of the prison. My dear, I cannot praise you enough.”

  She felt herself blushing under such high accolades from the man whose good opinion she most valued.

  He continued down the path, his walking stick tapping the gravel before them. “You know I lost my dear Phoebe over a year ago.”

  “She was a precious woman,” Florence murmured. “I remember her dearly. If anyone taught me to be a good mistress of my brother’s parsonage, it was she.” Briefly, she thought of the soft-spoken woman who’d always been kind to her as an awkward young girl.

  “She was a good wife and helpmate. You know a man in my position has many responsibilities.”

  “Yes. Your life seems very busy.”

  “You know only the half of it,” he said with a sigh.

  They had reached the end of the parkland, and he motioned to a stone bench beneath the bare trees. She took a seat.

  “It is not too chilly for you? April weather can be deceiving.”

  “No, it is fine here. I have a warm cloak.” She hugged it to herself.

  He took a seat beside her and rested the cane between his legs. “I have need of a helpmate.” The words were quietly and simply spoken.

  Florence caught her breath. Understanding flooded in. The true reason for the rector’s invitation this afternoon hit home. But if he wanted to consult with someone, why hadn’t he asked Damien? Maybe he needed a woman’s perspective. Compassion filled her.

  As she studied the rector’s aristocratic profile, she began to realize he spoke the truth. His life demanded the help of a steady partner.

  He turned his face to her. “I have for some time now been thinking you might fill the empty place left by my dear wife’s departure.”

  The seconds seemed to slow as Florence stared at him, the meaning of his words only gradually penetrating. Her cheeks grew warm. She’d never…oh, no, goodness, he was old enough to be her father—well, if not exactly, then in her mind he’d always been a father figure—

  As if reading her thoughts, his thin lips turned upward in a gentle smile. “I know this may come as a shock. You’ve known me most of your life, and perhaps seen me as an older man, a mentor, and not as a…husband.”

  She swallowed, speechless. She must say something, express some kind of gratitude, but she felt too stunned.

  “Say I haven’t displeased you with my words. I hope you don’t view me now with distaste.”

  She shook her head, still mute. “No, never that.” But in truth, she could not see him as a husband, no matter how much she respected him as a gentleman and minister.

  He took her two hands in his. She resisted the impulse to pull away, letting them rest passively in his, although every fiber of her being longed to be free of his touch.

  “I greatly admire you, my dear Florence.” His eyes probed hers beneath his dark brows. “May I call you ‘Florence’?”

  She nodded, though reluctantly.

  He squeezed her hands. “I know your brother would approve our union. As Mrs. Doyle, you would have much respect in the parish. You could do a great deal more to advance your brother’s career, which already shows much promise.”

  “He has come a long way on his own talents and merits,” she began, her lips feeling stiff.

  “Think how much further he’d go with the backing of influential people in his life. You know our society is run by power and influence. Look at the Duke of Winchester. He has already taken a liking to you. You could use your influence to the good.”

  She looked down at the grass at their feet. All that he said was true. Why then did she feel only a sense of…aversion? “You know I can’t leave Damien. He needs me.”

  “I understand your care and concern for your dear brother. I have watched him grow from an unsure youth into a young man who wields God’s Word with authority and confidence. He is a man destined for greatness, and I feel privileged that I have been able to help him along the road.”

  “Oh, yes, Reverend Doyle. Without you, I don’t know where we would be today. We owe you so much. You’ve nurtured Damien, and made it possible for him to go to university.”

  “Please, my dear, won’t you call me Alistair?” He was looking into her eyes so kindly. She could feel her face growing warmer.

  “I’m sorry,” she faltered. “It would not be seemly.”

  “I understand, my dear. You are all that is proper and upright in a woman. I admire you for that.” He let her hands go. “You look chilled. Shall we return to the house?”

  She got up at once. “Yes.”

  Once again he offered her his arm and the two resumed their walk, although Florence now only looked forward to bidding Mrs. Doyle farewell and putting some distance between the rector and herself.

  The rector continued speaking, as if unaware of the turmoil he had caused her. “As to Damien, I admire you for sticking by his side all these years. I know it has not been easy…with his infirmity. I feel the same about my own dear mother.”

  Florence felt taken aback that he should compare her young, very active brother to old Mrs. Doyle.

  “I feel that with a competent housekeeper, Damien will do well enough now that he has achieved respect in his parish.”

  “I don’t like to think of him alone…” she began.

  “What I meant was that a good housekeeper would do until he marries. Of course, he would always be welcome at our house,” the rector hastened to add. “He can take his meals with us, and if that doesn’t satisfy you, he can live with us until he is wed.” He pursed his lips. “I’ve been meaning to speak more to you upon that subject. It is time to begin looking out for a suitable young lady for him. With the duke’s connections, I’m sure in no time at all, we’ll have a few candidates lined up for Damien.”

  “I don’t know….” It sounded so efficient…like a firing squad shooting down one impediment after another. Was a proposal of marriage supposed to feel this way? She turned troubled eyes on the rector. “Can we find a young lady who will love Damien for his fine mind and zeal for the Lord, and overlook his…impediment?” Now it was her turn to hate herself for having to point out the only defect in her brother.

  “My dear, there are plenty of younger sisters, whose mothers would love nothing better than a clergyman for their daughters, a man of upright character and steady in his ways like our Damien, and one who has such a good living at such a young age. Never fear, we will find a woman to satisfy even your high standards.”

  His words, though warmly spoken, made Florence feel she was the stumbling block in Damien’s way, when it wasn’t that way at all. All she wanted was the assurance that it was the right woman for Damien—God’s perfect choice for him—a woman who would look past not only the cripple, but also past the handsome face, and see the beautiful soul within him.

  “Think about my proposal, my dear. You can take all the time you need. I know this must be a surprise to you. But know that I esteem you greatly.”

  She felt herself blushing again. “I…thank you,” she whispered. “Have—have you said anything yet to Damien?”

  “No, I haven’t. I thought I’d wait and speak my heart to you first.”

  “You did right, thank you,” she managed.

  “Think nothing of it. Your sensibilities are all that concern me. Just know I await the least encouragement with anticipation. Indeed, you make me feel like an eager young swain.” Again, he squeezed her hand. “I don’t expect your immediate reply. Just know how much I esteem and admire you.”

  Instead of flattering her, his words filled her with more dismay. She couldn’t bear to hurt this man who had always been such a good friend. He had helped Damien to become who he was.

  “Thank you,” she whispered and quickened her step at the s
ight of the house ahead.

  On the carriage ride home Florence was quiet.

  “Are you tired, Flo?” Damien asked when they were only a few blocks from the rector’s house.

  “What? Oh, no, nothing to speak of.” She turned from the window and focused on her brother with an effort. “Did you have a nice visit with Mrs. Doyle?”

  “Pleasant enough. How about you? What did the rector want to speak to you about? Nothing more than show you his latest bulbs?”

  She laughed, the sound nervous. “Yes. His daffodils. Some new variety from the Lowlands.”

  Damien looked past her and out the window. “Oh, there’s the workhouse. I wanted to stop and see a gentleman who is doing quite poorly. Do you mind if I get off here?”

  She shook her head, relieved to have some time to herself. “Not at all.”

  He tapped on the roof.

  As soon as he’d left her, Florence went over the rector’s words. She could still scarcely believe he had proposed to her. Had she misinterpreted his meaning?

  But, no, he’d made it very clear that he had chosen her to be the next Mrs. Doyle.

  She rested her chin on her fist, wondering why his proposal filled her with dismay when it should bring her gratitude.

  After Damien, the rector was the man she most admired in the world. She’d listened to his preaching from the pulpit since she was a girl and loved the way his rich voice read the Scriptures.

  But she’d always equated him with his wife. The Reverend and Mrs. Doyle were one in her eyes. How could she have dreamed he would look at her as a possible replacement to his dear wife?

  It was too high an honor for her. She could never fill Mrs. Doyle’s shoes. The reverend was too lofty a gentleman for her. How could he even look her way? Florence didn’t consider herself anywhere near his equal.

  Another thought keep niggling at her as she listed all the reasons she should be honored by the rector’s proposal. He had said he “esteemed and admired” her. But he’d never used the word love. Was it a foolish fancy of hers to desire a man’s love?

  Her thoughts were no nearer a solution when she arrived home. She pulled open the door to the quiet entry hall.