The Making of a Gentleman

by Ruth Axtell Morren

  Her eyes grew wide. He really did frequent the area. “Yes, Reverend Hathaway. Do you know him?”

  “I’ve heard of him. Heard he’s a fine preacher.”

  She nodded. “Yes, that’s him.”

  “So, you live in his household?” He shifted the basket from one hand to the other.

  “Yes, with me mum and dad. They work for the Hathaways. We have our own little cottage right near the parsonage, though, on the church grounds.”

  “Just the three o’ you?” He was looking ahead of him, focused on an approaching horse and chaise.

  “Yes, that is until Mr. Kendall came to stay with us—with the Hathaways, that is. He helps my da around the parsonage.”

  “Mr. Kendall, eh?” He gave her a sidelong look. “He wouldn’t happen to be a handsome young gent?”

  “No!” She laughed. Was he now beginning to flirt with her? “He’s older. Not so old as my da, but older than Mr. Hathaway.”

  “I bet he finds you a pretty companion.”

  She turned away from him, deciding to play along. “Maybe he does. I wouldn’t know.”

  “I bet it hasn’t taken him long to discover what a charming young lady you are. How long has he been with you at the parsonage?”

  “Oh, not so long…let’s see…” She began counting on her fingers. “He came to us in February, during an awful icy rainstorm. He was sick about a fortnight. Then another week or so recuperating. We had to nurse him through an awful fever. Oh, it was so funny. Miss Hathaway had to shave his skull because o’ the vermin in his hair and beard. He came to us looking ever so awful, black hair and long beard. He would’ve scared me if I’d seen him, but I was asleep. I only heard me mum and da talking about it that night when they came in. The next time I saw him, he was as cleanly shaven as a newborn babe—and sleeping like one, too.” She brought her hand up to her mouth to hide her giggle. “I don’t think he was too happy with Miss Hathaway, my mistress, then. But he looks awfully proper now, a real gentleman, he does. Ever so nice, too.”

  “You’re making me jealous.”

  She gave him a saucy look. “Why should you be jealous? You don’t know me.”

  “But I do know you are a pretty young lady any man would be proud to be seen walking beside.”

  A lady. She could feel herself blushing. Wait until she told her mum about meeting Mr. Smith. Maybe she’d do better not to say anything to her. Her mum could be so strict about young gentlemen. She suddenly felt uncomfortable. Perhaps her mum would scold her about talking so much. She was always cautioning her against gossip. But it hadn’t been gossip about Mr. Kendall.

  Her steps slowed. She really didn’t want to get home so quickly. What if she didn’t see Mr. Smith again?

  When they reached the gate of the parsonage, Mr. Smith smiled and handed her the basket. “I won’t walk you all the way to your door, since I haven’t been properly introduced, but perhaps I’ll see you at the shops the next time, eh?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “What days do you usually frequent the shops?”

  She shrugged, looking over one shoulder, as if indifferent, though in truth, her heart was beating a hurried pattern against her chest. “I go whenever my ma sends me. P’raps even as soon as tomorrow or the next day.”

  “Well, I shall have to keep a lookout then, shan’t I?” With another wink, he tipped his hat and turned back toward town.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Her brother stared at Florence after she’d told him about the rector’s proposal. “You’re joking.”

  She sat back with a frown. After debating it with herself for several days, she had decided to confide in Damien. Of course, she’d expected his surprise, but she’d not thought he’d treat it as a jest. “Does it seem so comical to you that he’d want me as a wife?”

  His smile faded. “No, of course not. I wouldn’t be surprised if the duke himself would want you as his wife. What surprises me is that you’d be considering his proposal seriously.”

  “Why should that surprise you?” Didn’t he see the honor being bestowed on her?

  Damien touched her lightly on her hand, his eyes looking deeply into hers. “Do you love him, Flo?”

  The question took her by surprise and she found she couldn’t quite meet his gaze. She studied the pattern of violets running the length of her muslin gown. She and Damien had never talked about “love” in that sense, but she couldn’t pretend not to know what he meant. “Not in the way you imply, perhaps, but I know I would make him a good wife.”

  “Of that I am certain.” He squeezed her hand. “But would that be enough for you, Florrie?”

  She gave him a sad smile. “How can it not be? I doubt if any other proposal is going to come along and I don’t mind that, truly,” she hastened to add.

  “Are you sure there is no one to elicit that kind of love from you?”

  His eyes were filled with such understanding that for a few seconds she feared he saw right through to the traitorous emotions of her heart. No, he could know nothing of those! “I’m not a young girl given to infatuation.” She sighed and straightened as if bringing the topic to its conclusion. “Besides, I am perfectly content living here with you, and I’ve told the rector as much…although he has said you would be welcome to live with us.”

  He gave a rueful smile. “I appreciate the offer, but you know I couldn’t do that. I, too, am content living here, even if I’d miss your company.”

  She returned his smile. “I thought as much. Which is why, if I refused him, that would be the main reason.”

  Damien frowned. “I don’t want you to refuse him on my account. You know what an independent fellow I am. I hardly know who is around me once I shut myself off in my study or workroom.”

  “I know. I wouldn’t even consider the rector’s offer unless I knew we’d continue to see each other frequently and you’d promise to take your meals with us. And of course, we would continue our parish work together.”

  “Of course. I’m very happy for you, Florence.” Again, his blue eyes searched hers. “As long as you are sure.”

  She nodded, but looked away from him first. There really wasn’t any choice to consider. It was for the best of everyone.

  Jonah sat on the milking stool, his fingers working a steady rhythm on the cow’s udder, the only sound the quiet squirt of milk into the bucket at his feet.

  This was one of his favorite times of day, before breakfast, when he could allow his thoughts free rein. What might keep him up nights took on a more benign appearance in the light of dawn. The smells of hay, leather and animal were reassuring and familiar, bringing back his old life, when each day had a comforting sameness.

  He’d had a lot on his mind lately. He couldn’t shake the sense of disquiet since he’d noticed that man looking at him on the road. Jonah had kept pretty much to the house and fields since then, but still, he was always checking over his shoulder.

  More than that worry, though, were his thoughts of Miss Hathaway. He knew it wasn’t proper to be thinking so much of a lady. He’d lie awake at night remembering something she’d said to him in the course of the day…or trying to figure out what a certain look in her gray eyes meant, when he’d caught her observing him. She’d always look away, and he’d be left feeling abandoned. Worse than anything was how much he found himself looking at her lips and remembering…

  But of course, a lady like Miss Hathaway wouldn’t be having the same kinds of thoughts as he was. No, sir.

  He got up from his stool and put it aside. “I’m looking forward to a warm bowl of Mrs. Nichols’s porridge now with some fresh cream,” he told Albert as the two left the barn.

  “Aye. Nothing more filling,” the other man replied.

  “What d’you have planned for this fine morning?” he asked Albert. The older man didn’t answer him. When Jonah turned to him, thinking he hadn’t heard, he noticed Albert looking beyond him to the road.

 
; Suddenly the older man gripped Jonah’s arm. “Look.”

  Jonah followed his gaze past the hedgerows. Half-a-dozen redcoats rode along Edgware Road at a slow pace.

  “They’re slowing down, as if they mean to turn in here,” Albert whispered. “Wonder what they’d want here.”

  “I don’t know.” Jonah quickened his pace, thinking it better to be out of sight. “But I don’t aim to find out.”

  Albert followed right behind him as the two entered the back door into the kitchen.

  Miss Hathaway stood next to Mrs. Nichols at the table. They both looked up as the men entered the kitchen.

  “Some redcoats are headed up the road,” Albert said.

  Miss Hathaway dropped the kitchen towel she’d been holding, her eyes going immediately to Jonah’s. “Are…are they coming this way?”

  “They’re slowing down,” Albert answered. “They seem to be looking all around them pretty carefully.”

  She left what she was doing and came up to Jonah. “We mustn’t take any chances.” Her eyes scanned his, worry uppermost in their gray depths.

  Albert turned to Jonah. “Do you think they know who you are?”

  Jonah stared at him. “You know who I am?”

  Albert nodded toward his wife. “Aye. Elizabeth and I both. We’ve known for a time. Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with us—”

  The clatter of horses’ hooves sounded on the drive.

  Miss Hathaway clutched his arm. “You must go. Quickly, before they come to the back.”

  Jonah’s glance went immediately to the satchel he had hanging on a hook. He’d never really thought this day would arrive.

  Albert threw Jonah’s greatcoat over his shoulders while Mrs. Nichols thrust some freshly baked scones into his satchel. Just then, Betsy entered from the larder, a crock of butter in her hands. “What’s going on?”

  Loud banging on the front door echoed all the way to the kitchen. “Open the door in the name of the king!” a sharp voice called out.

  Albert shoved at Jonah when he still didn’t move. “Go! I’ll help Mr. Hathaway hold them off to give you time.”

  The next round of bangs on the door sparked Jonah to action. He turned to the door and grabbed the knob.

  Suddenly, Miss Hathaway stood before him. The two stared at each other while the banging on the door reverberated through the kitchen.

  Jonah realized he would never see her again—unless it was at the foot of the gallows.

  “Goodbye,” he began before his throat tightened up. If not for this woman, he wouldn’t be alive now. How did one thank someone for one’s life?

  Her bottom lip trembled. That soft, sweet lip he’d hurt. “You’d better go,” she said, her voice a hoarse whisper.

  Still, he hesitated. “If…if they should catch me…and hang me—”

  “Yes?” Her voice sounded breathless.

  “Will you…be there?”

  She swallowed. “If…if you should want me there.”

  “Aye. Promise me.”

  She nodded. “I promise.”

  Florence’s glance fell from Jonah’s eyes to his lips. How she wished that he would kiss her goodbye. To feel his mouth against hers once again, this time with tenderness and not in scorn, what wouldn’t she give? She would never know. She would never see him again, never even know if he had gotten away safely. The realization tore at her heart.

  Like a distant echo, she heard Albert’s footsteps down the hall and Betsy’s questions to her mother.

  She swallowed, needing to be able to get the words out. “Will…if…you can ever…get us…word that you arrived somewhere safely…wherever you end up…will you let us know…” Her voice broke then and she couldn’t finish.

  Quinn took one of her hands and she felt the rough texture of the pads of his fingertips against the top of her hand as he rubbed it. “I will.” They looked at each other one long second more, and Florence thought she read there everything she wanted to see: care, respect, admiration, gratitude…

  And then he squeezed her hand and let it go. The next moment the kitchen door closed quietly behind her. She peered through the gauze curtains, as Jonah headed for the wall at the end of the garden. A second later, he disappeared over the top.

  She knew he’d probably escape through the orchard and across Edgware Road until he could disappear down an alley, from where he could lose himself in the streets of London.

  But where would he go from there?

  Would he stow aboard a brig bound across the Atlantic? Would he head for the coast and pay a smuggler to take him across the Channel into France?

  Her mind went over the supplies they’d put in his satchel. Thankfully, it had sufficient gold to get him a long ways away.

  A few moments later, she heard soldiers enter the kitchen behind her.

  “We have orders to search this parsonage.”

  Florence turned and stared at the three soldiers standing in her kitchen. They looked little older than boys. “Orders by whom?” she asked, her voice cold as granite.

  The tallest one looked away, his ruddy cheeks reddening even more. “Orders from the warden of Newgate. There’s been a report that the escaped prisoner, Jonah Quinn, was last seen here.”

  Florence drew herself up straighter. “That’s ridiculous. What would he be doing at a parsonage?”

  The soldier shrugged again. “Nevertheless, them’s our orders. You haven’t seen the prisoner Jonah Quinn?” he asked, unrolling a wanted poster.

  Florence stared at the crude drawing of the man who had stood at the gallows those months ago, black haired and black bearded, eyes fierce and defiant. She pretended to examine the picture. “No, I have not,” she answered, even as her conscience smote her for lying. But she knew she would do everything in her power to save Jonah’s life.

  The redcoat turned to Mrs. Nichols. “Have you seen this escaped prisoner?”

  Mrs. Nichols shook her head. Betsy clutched her mother’s arm and shook her head, looking terrified.

  The soldier rolled up the poster then hoisted his musket farther on his shoulder. “All right, men, search the premises.” Florence remained standing, motionless as they moved through the kitchen and into the buttery and scullery.

  Finally, she heard the back door slam as they went into the garden. She turned then and looked out the door. The soldiers, joined by more from the street, swarmed over the yard like invading ants. They trampled the kitchen garden that Quinn had helped plant only a few weeks ago, leaving their boot prints in the soft mud. They entered the barn and other outbuildings and spread out into the orchard, now in full bloom.

  Only when it was clear they had found no trace of Quinn did Florence unclench her fists and bring a hand to her cheek. Only then did she notice how wet it was.

  When the soldiers finally departed, Florence turned to Mrs. Nichols, who was comforting her weeping daughter. “Mama, what did they mean about Jonah Quinn?”

  “Nothing, dear. You were right to say you’d never seen him.”

  The normally tidy kitchen looked as if a storm had been unleashed in it. Chairs were knocked over and cutlery upset.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Nichols, about this,” Florence began. “I didn’t mean for you to be drawn into this…to…” She wanted to say “lie” but hesitated to speak too openly in front of Betsy. The girl knew nothing.

  “That’s quite all right, Miss Hathaway. Now, why don’t you go in search of the reverend, make sure he’s all right, and I’ll begin clearing up here. I think what we all need is a bracing cup of tea.”

  Before she could take Mrs. Nichols’s advice, Damien entered the kitchen, followed by Albert.

  Florence went immediately to her brother’s side. “Are you all right? What did they ask you?”

  He nodded. “I’m fine. They only demanded to know if we were housing Jonah Quinn. When I said no, they showed me an order to search the premises.” He looked at the others i
n the kitchen. “I think I owe you all an explanation. Please, have a seat.” He nodded to Betsy as well. “All of you.”

  They busied themselves righting the chairs and bringing them to the table. Mrs. Nichols poured hot water into the teapot and told Betsy to bring them all cups.

  When they finally sat down, they looked toward Damien. He pulled out a chair for Florence, but she gave a small shake of her head, feeling too nervous to sit still.

  He folded his hands on the tabletop. “There is something Miss Hathaway and I should have told you when Mr. Kendall first arrived here.” He paused. “Kendall is not really the man’s name. It is Jonah Quinn.”

  Betsy’s hands flew to her mouth. “So, it’s true what the man said.”

  Damien nodded. “Yes, it’s true what the soldier said.”

  The girl’s pink cheeks turned a deeper shade as she looked down at her clasped hands. “No, I mean…the other gent.”

  “Who are you talking about?” Florence asked sharply.

  Betsy bit her lip, looking down at her teacup.

  “What man’s been talking to you?” her mother prodded, her gray brows furrowing. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

  Betsy refused to look up. “He was a nice man, almost a gent.” Her thumbnail dug into the tablecloth. “He…spoke to me…the day I…went to the shops for you.”

  “You know better than to be talking to strange men.”

  “Mrs. Nichols,” Damien interrupted softly, “perhaps we’d better hear Betsy out. It could be important.” He turned to the young woman. “You said a gentleman spoke to you. Did he speak to you about Mr. Kendall?”

  “Not right away. But he asked me about who else lived here with us.” Betsy’s glance slid away from them and fixed itself at a point on the tabletop. “The other day he…he showed me one of those posters…of wanted men, like the soldier had today.” Her voice ended in a horrified whisper. “The man in it…it looked just like Mr. Kendall, the way you said he looked, Mum—” she turned to Mrs. Nichols “—when he arrived here that night.” She folded her hands together tightly.

  Florence took a step toward Betsy. “What did you tell the man?”