The Making of a Gentleman

by Ruth Axtell Morren

  She stopped short at the sight of Quinn.

  “You’re back,” he said, not moving.

  “Yes.” The door closed on a gust of wind and she jumped. She leaned against the solid wood, feeling her heartbeat increase to a loud thud. “Are you going out?”

  “No.” He shifted his feet, as if awkward with her question. “Where’s your brother?” Had he been on the lookout for her?

  “He had another stop.” She took a step forward and reached to untie her cloak, chiding herself for feeling so edgy. Her movement seemed to awaken Quinn. He took a step toward her and before she could stop herself, she took one back. He stopped immediately.

  “May I help you with your cloak?”

  “Oh—yes, thank you.” She was being silly. He hadn’t touched her since…that night. She fumbled with the tie and finally managed to loosen it. She felt his large hands on her shoulders removing it. “Thank you,” she said, breathless.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” he asked.

  She turned to find him standing too close to her. There didn’t seem to be enough air in the room. “No, thank you. That is, I’ve just come from having tea…with Reverend Doyle. And his mother,” she quickly added, feeling her face flush.

  “How’s the old windbag?”

  She blinked. “What did you call him?”

  “Just what he appears to me.” Quinn hung up her cloak then turned back to her with a smile. Florence drew in her breath. His white teeth shone in the dim hallway against his swarthy complexion, his beard already shadowing his jawline.

  Her hand came up as if to fend him off, when she realized with a sudden clarity that he wasn’t the threat. It was her own overwhelming attraction for him. The thought brought her up short. It wasn’t fear of him that consumed her every time he approached her since the night he’d kissed her. It was fear of how much she was drawn to him.

  The discovery left her short of breath. “The rector is a fine gentleman,” she managed to say. “I’ve known him all my life and he is well mannered.” The contrast between Quinn and the rector was so stark to be almost laughable. The one so dignified and refined, and Quinn, whose presence exuded a raw energy that made the very air between them crackle. How could she honor and respect the one so highly while being drawn so powerfully to the other?

  “Around you, perhaps.” Quinn stood before her now, his stance belligerent with feet planted apart, thumbs hooked in his waistcoat pockets, his shrewd eyes fixed on her…seeing too much.

  Her hand went to her cheek. “What is that supposed to mean?” Did he know? How could he have guessed?

  “That he wants to impress you.” He gave a derisive laugh. “A man knows when another man is at pains to impress a woman.”

  “That’s nonsense.” He’d said “woman” and not “lady.” Did that mean he saw her as a flesh-and-blood woman? She untied her bonnet and, before she could hang it on the peg on top of her cloak, Quinn took it from her and did the task for her.

  Another defense of the rector came to her lips, but she let it die. Her propensity to fight with Quinn was just another symptom of her attraction to him, she now understood. The heat of anger had simply been a defense to keep him at arm’s length.

  When he turned back to her, his expression seemed to soften. “What’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Sure I can’t fix you that cup o’ tea?”

  Why was he being so attentive? It had been easier when he was behaving outrageously. She dropped her hand to her side. “I’m fine. I was just thinking of finishing a few letters before going to the prison.”

  “You’re not going there alone at this hour, are you?”

  “The days are growing longer. I will not be there after dark.”

  “I’ll take you there.”

  “No. You mustn’t be seen there. I’ll hail a hackney on Oxford Street.” Why was he being so solicitous?

  “Then I’ll bring you home.”

  “It’s too risky. Albert comes for me when it gets late.” Why this insistence on his part?

  Before she could puzzle it out, he asked her with a grin that flustered her anew. “May I show you something?”

  Feeling strangely weak in the knees at his smile, she said, “Yes, certainly.”

  She followed him to Damien’s workroom. Quinn walked over to the worktable that was strewn with several clocks in various states of dismantlement. He pointed to an ormolu clock. “My first repair.”

  She listened to the steady ticking. “That’s wonderful.”

  “It wasn’t running steadily. Your brother showed me how to take it apart and clean all the pieces. I had to replace a spring, then put it back together.” He shoved his hands in his breeches pockets and stepped back with a shrug. “At least it’s a trade that might earn me a few shillings if I need to leave all of a sudden-like. I don’t know enough to set up a shop, but it might buy me a meal or two on the road.”

  If he had to leave all of a sudden. Would it come to that? She didn’t want to think about it. “Have…you thought much about where you’d…go…if you had to leave?”

  He fiddled with a small spring on the table. “Like your brother said, I’d best head for Canada or America. I’ve heard a person has a good chance there to earn some gold, get a piece o’ land to call his own.”

  She bit her lip. “I’ve heard it’s a dangerous, wild place.” Her heart felt suddenly bleak at the thought of him so far away.

  “A man on the run has little choice. It’s the land o’ the free I’ve been told,” he added, his own lips twisted in an attempt at a smile.

  “Whom the Lord sets free is free indeed,” she replied, the Scripture coming to her lips automatically.

  “Well, it seems He hasn’t set me free yet. I’m still living with the threat of the noose around me neck.”

  She shivered. It couldn’t come to that. She wouldn’t let it.

  About an hour later, Jonah heard the front door open. He pushed away from the brick wall he’d been leaning against and waiting for the past quarter of an hour, hoping he wouldn’t miss Miss Hathaway’s departure, not liking the thought of her alone on the streets of London.

  “Are you ready to leave?” he asked her as she was stepping down the front steps, her hands holding two heavy-looking satchels.

  She looked at him in surprise and nodded, stopping.

  He reached for the bags, looking away from her direct, inquiring gaze. “I’ll walk you to Oxford Street like I said.” Why shouldn’t he? A lady shouldn’t be abroad alone at this late hour of the day.

  She didn’t relinquish the bags to him. “I told you, it’s not necessary.”

  He began to tug harder at the handles then suddenly stepped back with a shrug when he realized it was futile to fight with such a stubborn woman. “I need a breath o’ fresh air, anyway,” he said, walking ahead of her to open the gate.

  Thankfully, she argued no more and followed him. When he closed the gate behind them, he was glad to see she waited for him. He again offered to take the bags, and this time she offered no resistance. He scanned her face, but she wasn’t looking at him. He hoped she didn’t still fear him. Since the night he’d…kissed her…he’d done everything possible to show her he could behave like a gentleman. So many times he’d regretted his action. If only he could show her how he’d like to kiss her—but, no, he stopped the direction of his thoughts every time they went that way.

  Together, they headed down Edgware Road to the busier corner of Uxbridge and Oxford.

  A man lounging against a thick elm at Hyde Park nodded and touched his hand to the edge of his cap as they passed.

  “You mustn’t be seen out of doors,” she whispered as they walked farther on.

  He glanced over his shoulder at the man and noticed he’d turned to look at him. Jonah’s gut clenched.

  When he’d made sure Miss Hathaway was safely in a hackney cab, he returned to the parish, his eyes on the lookout for the same ma
n, but he didn’t see him anywhere. No doubt just a vagrant. The city was full of them.

  Hours later, long after Florence had returned from her visit to Newgate, she paced the confines of her small bedroom, clasping and unclasping her hands. She didn’t know what to do. The Reverend Doyle’s unexpected proposal kept ringing in her ears, side by side with the revelation of her feelings for Jonah Quinn.

  How could she be feeling what she felt for a convict on the run, a tenant farmer, a man from the lowest strata of the London streets? What had happened to her in the space of a few months? She, who’d worked with the dregs of society in the prison and workhouse, had never experienced what she was feeling now for this man living under their roof. Was she so shallow that she’d be attracted to a man merely because he was now cleaned up and wore a gentleman’s clothes?

  When she was in his presence why did she feel more alive than she’d ever felt? Why did the tone of his voice ignite every nerve ending? And the keen look in his green eyes feel like a caress against her skin?

  Her feelings were hopeless, that much she knew. Quinn had no future in England, for one thing. What was to become of him? No answers were forthcoming.

  She mustn’t forget her primary obligation was to her brother and his well-being, the way she’d told the rector.

  Her thoughts turned with reluctance to the proposal of marriage. As the rector had pointed out to her, a union with him would help her brother immeasurably. Why did the notion fill her with a sense of duty rather than joy?

  She sank to her knees and buried her head in her hands. Dear God, show me what I must do. Grant me Thy grace to do what is right. If You want me to accept Reverend Doyle, who has been such a friend to this family over the years, and who would do all in his power to help Damien, grant me Thy grace to accept his proposal and be the wife I should be to him. Help me to assuage his loneliness and be the helpmate and companion he deserves.

  By the time she ended her prayer, her cheeks were damp. She wiped away the tears with the back of her hand.

  An overwhelming sadness enveloped her. She remembered her youth, a time when the young gentleman, Eugene Littleton, had begun calling and paying a marked attention to her. But then her parents had fallen ill, and she’d had to nurse them. She hadn’t thought of Eugene in years and could scarcely have remembered what he looked like a few moments ago, but now a sudden image of him appeared before her. She had a clear impression of his ruddy cheeks, his brown eyes and dark blond hair, already thinning a little at the temples.

  When she had asked Mr. Littleton to wait, he’d been sorry, but he’d told her he couldn’t wait. He needed a wife then.

  He’d soon begun courting another girl in the congregation. A few months later, Florence had attended their wedding, smiling and offering her congratulations as if nothing were the matter. Mr. Littleton and she had never been betrothed. No one had really known they were forming an understanding, so few, outside of her parents and brother, had realized how serious their friendship had been.

  No one had been the wiser. And because she’d carried it off so well, she doubted even Damien had suspected how deeply she’d been hurt to see her dreams die an irrevocable death as Eugene and his new wife exchanged their vows at the altar, Reverend Doyle blessing their union.

  Thankfully, they’d moved out of the parish, and she hadn’t had to continue the friendship much longer after the wedding. By the time they’d left, she’d almost managed to convince even herself that her heart was mended. She wasn’t made for marriage. Her duty lay with her brother and the Lord’s work with the poor and destitute of the city.

  And such tasks had filled her up to now.

  Now she found herself weeping for that naive young woman, her past, her womanhood, her youth…Were they all irrevocably gone?

  It was clear even a lowborn creature like Quinn didn’t find her attractive. He’d kissed her out of pure rage. The more she thought on it, the more convinced she was that the memory of their kiss repulsed him now. That’s why he was at pains to act like a gentleman, so that she wouldn’t read anything into the kiss but his disdain.

  She rose and swiped angrily at her eyes. What did she care if a crude, coarse man like Quinn, who until a short while ago stank like pig, didn’t find her attractive? She’d long ago accepted she was not going to marry, not going to have that special partner in life. Neither she nor Damien. Their calling was another. She reminded herself of the Apostle Paul’s words, “…to the unmarried and widows, it is good for them if they abide even as I.” Celibate. She should be honored and satisfied with her calling.

  Why then did the memory of Quinn’s lips pressed against hers refuse to go away?

  She shook it off. She would accept the Reverend Doyle’s proposal. It was the only solution. She would put away childish dreams and realize the Lord was bestowing on her an incredible opportunity. It was clear there was no great passion on his side, either. He merely wanted—needed—a wife and helpmate. He was a kindly man, and he would be kind to her.

  That’s all she required.

  Never mind these stirrings in her heart. She would bury them once again.

  Betsy crossed the street in front of the parsonage and headed toward Oxford Street. She needed to reach the shops with the list of commissions or her mother would scold her for tarrying.

  How she loved to escape the drudgery of the kitchen and wander the street, looking in the shop windows, and pretend she was a great lady who could afford a new bonnet or piece of ribbon to dress an old one, or admire a bolt of cloth she knew would look perfect against her complexion. She stopped in front of the first window she came to and admired her reflection. She knew she had a good complexion, peaches and cream both in texture and coloring. At least she’d never be an old maid like poor Miss Hathaway. She felt sorry for her mistress, even though she was a little scared of her most of the time. She was so exacting.

  She turned to continue on. How she loved the neighborhood of Mayfair. From the edges of London, which seemed more like living in the country, to its great squares, with their carriages drawn up at the curb and liveried footmen looking so dignified, was to be transported to another world. If she was lucky, she’d catch sight of a grand lady riding within. The streets and squares were swept clean, the gardens tidy. Oxford Street by contrast was always busy with traffic.

  Slowing her steps, she glanced into each shop window she passed.

  “That would look pretty on you,” a male voice beside her said. She glanced up, not thinking the person was addressing her. But the man was smiling down at her.

  La, but he was a handsome gent. Twinkling, light-colored eyes and dark hair beneath a tall beaver hat. She glanced down at his clothing. Not quite a gentleman’s, though certainly respectable enough. Maybe he was a shopkeeper. But her mother wouldn’t want her speaking to strange men, so she kept silent.

  “What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?”

  She turned back to the window with a sniff, though in truth she wasn’t offended in the least. On the contrary, she felt a twinge of excitement.

  “Now, if I had a sweetheart or wife, I’d buy her a square of cloth exactly that color,” he continued, pointing to a bolt of creamy muslin.

  Betsy gazed longingly at the fabric, which was striped in cerise, with a tiny flower print of the same color running between the stripes. He certainly had good taste. But he was still a stranger. “Well, if you don’t have neither a wife nor sweetheart,” she replied, turning around abruptly and continuing her walk, “then you are out o’ luck, aren’t you?”

  He caught up in a few strides. “I most certainly am.” He continued strolling beside her. “What’s your name?” he asked after a bit.

  “Gentlemen don’t ask such questions.”

  “Maybe I ain’t a gent, just an honest tradesman.”

  She glanced up at him beneath the rim of her bonnet. She’d been right, proud of her ability to size up a person. Thankfully, she’d worn her new c
hip bonnet with the yellow ribbon. She knew it looked fetching against her dark curls.

  “My name is Bartholomew Smith,” he said when she didn’t answer him. “At your service.” He nodded to her basket. “I could carry that for you if you wish.”

  She laughed. “Why, if it’s empty?” She showed it to him.

  “Perhaps when it gets heavy,” he replied with a wink, unfazed by her attitude.

  “Perhaps,” she said, tossing her curls and continuing to the shop her mother had sent her to. How nice it might be to at last have a beau. She could share the news with her friends, who all bragged about their sweethearts.

  Mr. Smith stayed with her during her shopping expedition, standing quietly by her side as she made her purchases and, indeed, carrying her basket when it began to feel heavy on her arm.

  He was most gentlemanly, making polite conversation about the shops they entered and the fine spring weather. Small talk, Miss Hathaway would call it—the kind of things the visitors to her nice parlor indulged in, never making the least direction toward “flirting” as her friends said of their gentlemen friends.

  “Here, I’ve got that for you,” he said, taking the parcel from her, after she’d stopped at the cheese-monger’s for the pound of Wiltshire her mother had told her to pick up.

  He placed it among the other products in her basket, careful not to have them crushed against the heavier objects.

  “You live in Mayfair?”

  She laughed. “Oh, no, I live in Marylebone, just beyond really, at the parsonage of St. George’s Chapel. It’s nothing like Mayfair,” she said, with a wistful glance at the busy thoroughfare they were leaving.

  “Ah, toward Paddington. It’s a village out yonder,” he said.

  “You know it?” she asked, brightening. Maybe he lived nearby.

  “I have an aunt who lives out that way.” He gave her a sidelong look. “It brings me round frequently. Maybe I’ll run into you again on your way to market.”

  “Maybe,” she said, giving him an encouraging smile.

  “Your parson, he’s a young gent, isn’t he?”