He had the blunt but dared not spend it. He rubbed his hand over his chin, feeling its smoothness. He’d been shaving every night in the same river water, with the bar of soap Miss Hathaway had so thoughtfully packed for him, so he was hopeful he still didn’t resemble that frightful figure on the wanted posters.
He scratched his still short hair. It was beginning to curl now, making him look more like the face on the wanted posters, but he wouldn’t be able to cut it as it grew out. Not unless he was far from England.
America. Once again he thought of that distant land, of which he knew almost nothing. Tobacco and savages were the only images that came to mind. And if war broke out, the way Damien had warned, would it even be possible to head there?
He’d have to select a ship soon and attempt to stow away. He’d been watching the docks and had his eye on a brig, the Sea Queen, a vessel preparing to head across the Atlantic. It was filling with cargo and would soon push out to sea with the tide. The quay was also lined with East Indiamen, merchantmen armed to the teeth, so he had to tread very carefully.
He felt a tug on his line and pulled it in. A small fish struggled on his hook. Jonah hauled it in easily and smothered a sigh of disgust. A baby chub, hardly worth building up a fire for, more bones than flesh.
But it would still the gnawing in his gut for a while at any rate, at least until he could get to sleep. The orchards around him were only just budding and the fields just planted, so there was no food to be had there. Instead, he’d managed to filch a few things from the wharves lining the south side of the Thames.
Again, he shook his head over the fact that his purse was full yet he dared not show his face to any shopkeeper to purchase food for himself.
He scrabbled over the muddy embankment to reach the land above the river. He skirted the open, freshly tilled fields until he arrived at his hideaway, a broken-down, abandoned barn.
After a bit, he managed to light a small fire, and he sat back, the small fish on a green twig. As he held it aloft, he assessed his situation.
It had only been four days since he’d left the Hathaways, yet it felt like four years. He glanced down at the torn knee of one trouser. That had occurred two days ago when he’d slipped down the last several feet climbing out of a warehouse at St. Katharine’s Docks across the Thames.
That had been a close one, when a watchman had heard him and came his way with a lantern. His knee still hurt from the impact on the slippery stone, and all his foray had yielded was a sack of rice, which he had no idea how to cook. He’d tried to chew it but it was harder than the biscuits given him at Newgate. He’d tried boiling it in a cup of water, but it hadn’t softened much and scorched on the bottom.
The smell of burning startled him out of his thoughts, and he stifled the curse at the blackened fish. Probably still raw inside. Well, no matter, he was hungry and would have it now before it charred away to nothing.
Bringing it gingerly to his lips, he began to bite into it and cursed again when it burned the tip of his tongue. He set it down on a broken barrel stave and began to smother the fire with the ashes from a previous fire. He’d rather brave the cool nights than risk someone coming to investigate.
He snuffed the last tiny coals with the toe of his boot—not his good boots, thank goodness, then stopped in midthought. What did it matter now, preserving his good clothes and shoes for those occasions when he must appear the gentleman among folks?
He folded his arms on his drawn-up knees and bowed his head on them, weariness engulfing him.
…Whither wilt thou go?
It was a fragment of a Scripture Damien had read to him recently. He heard the words as if Damien were sitting there reading to him once again in his study, the fire glowing on the hearth.
Did he really think to run away and start a new life somewhere? His shoulders slumped with the weight of despair. Who was he and what did he matter in this universe, its inky black expanse above him each night showing him his insignificance.
Whence camest thou? The Angel of the Lord had asked the woman, Hagar. And whither wilt thou go?
Jonah raised his head slowly. Where did he come from and where was he going? He didn’t know. He felt like Cain, a tiller of the ground. He remembered other Bible readings of Damien’s. And the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground…
That’s exactly what he felt like now, dust of the ground. He contemplated his fingers, soot from the recent fire blackening the skin, dirt filling each nail. Where had the fine gentleman gone? He let out a disgusted breath. So much work on Miss Hathaway’s part to make him into a fine gentleman. In vain. She had been right to chastise him for his uncouth and ungainly ways. She should have given up on him from the first. Who knew what trouble he had brought now to her and her brother.
He fretted each night as he lay on the hard ground, wondering what charges they might face. Conspiring with a criminal against the Crown? Treason?
He shuddered thinking of the possible consequences of their unselfish acts.
For what? He was nothing but dust of the ground.
And whither wilt thou go? The question kept coming back to him, giving him no peace, as if God were looking down on him, probing him to the core. He looked up at the rafters of the high roof, gaping holes revealing the sky. You know as well as I do, Lord, I’ve nowhere to go.
“Who am I, Lord?” he whispered. Am I nothing but dust?
So God created man in His own image, in the image of God He created him…
Miss Hathaway’s words came back to him. You have been made a temple of God. He remembered the way her eyes had shone that day, as she’d striven to impart something precious to him.
A temple of God. Was that what he was? “All right, Lord,” Jonah spoke into the still night. “I am Yours to do with what You will if You receive me.”
What had the Angel of the Lord told Hagar? To return and submit.
Return? If he returned now, he’d be hanged. There would be no second chance for him.
He tried to shut out the idea, but all night long it kept recurring until finally in the dawn, fog hanging heavy on the Thames, he knew what the Lord required.
In the evening Florence was darning socks in her brother’s study, waiting up for him. Damien was once again meeting with the rector. Ever since Quinn’s escape, the rector had been doing his best to protect Damien from any disciplinary action for his part in hiding Quinn. What both she and Damien both feared was that it would be at the expense of Quinn’s reputation. The rector was telling everyone that Quinn had held them hostage.
Florence cocked her ear, thinking for a second she had heard something. She was too jumpy these days. It was merely a tree branch scratching against the windowpane, she decided.
There it was again. This time there was no mistaking the insistent tapping against the glass. Her heart thudding, Florence set down her mending and hurried to the window. Her immediate thought was that it was Jonah. Of course not. He was aboard a ship by now, or on foreign soil. As these thoughts rushed through her mind, she strained to see through the dark panes.
She almost fainted when she made out his broad outline.
What was he doing coming back? Even as joy at the sight of him flooded her senses, terror immobilized her. He wouldn’t be able to escape a second time. Guards had been posted on their street since the day Quinn had escaped. He must have sneaked in through the orchards at the back.
Not wasting another second, Florence hiked up her skirts and ran to the back door. The Nicholses had already left for the evening so she had to unbolt the door.
She was almost weeping in frustration as her fingers fumbled with the bolt and then the lock. By the time she opened the door, Quinn waited on the stoop.
She reached out and pulled him inside. “There are guards everywhere!”
“I know,” he said, humor underscoring his words. “Those blind oafs wouldn’t have seen me if I’d a crossed right in front of them. They
’re too interested in the bottle they’re passing around.”
She shut and bolted the door as soon as he crossed the threshold then leaned her back against it as if she could hold off the guards single-handedly. “Are you mad?”
He said nothing, just stood there looking at her.
As the minutes drew out, she became conscious of how she looked in her old gown. Her hand stole up to one of the ties of her lace cap, which had come undone.
She bit her lip, feeling her lips begin to tremble. She’d thought never to see him again. And now, here he was, standing in the same place she’d bidden him that hurried goodbye. He looked awful. His coat and breeches were muddy, his hair disheveled, his jaw shadowed with several days’ growth of beard. Yet, instead of the distaste she used to feel, all she wanted to do now was run to him and throw herself into his arms. She clenched her hands at her sides.
“What are you doing here?” she whispered. “Don’t you know how dangerous it?”
He tunneled his fingers through his hair, leaving it in short standing tufts and smiled, a tired effort. “Aren’t you happy to see me? I came back because of you.”
Her heart started hammering in her chest so she could hardly hear him. “Me?”
“I was recollecting the story of Hagar. The Lord told her to come back and submit to her mistress.” His lips turned up at one corner. “So, here I am, submitting to my taskmaster.”
“I’m not your taskmaster!” Was that the only way he saw her? How else must he see her, she who had done nothing but badger and browbeat him into conforming to her way of behaving?
“Of course you are. Without you, I would never have turned into any kind of gentleman.” He gave a look downward at himself. “Not that I make much of one now.”
“You make a fine gentleman.”
He looked at her and, once again, the very air between them was laden with unsaid words.
“I came back—” He stopped and cleared his throat. “I came back because I couldn’t leave my friends to face things alone, now could I?”
“But they’ll—” She couldn’t say it. She covered her mouth to prevent the sob that threatened. “You must go.”
“Nay, there’s no more running for me. I’ve thrown my lot in with the Lord’s. Let Him do to me what He will.”
His words filled her with amazement. He was demonstrating more trust than she in the Lord’s goodness. Yet she couldn’t prevent the tears filling her lids. She must be strong in the face of his courage, she told herself, digging her nails into her palms to keep from running to him.
He took a step toward her and covered one of her hands. “Don’t fret for someone like me. I wouldn’t want ye to worry over my worthless hide.”
Her lips trembled. “I’m scared for you.” A tear ran down her cheek.
His forefinger came up and wiped it away. “There now, there’s nothing to be frightened about.”
“Th-they’ll kill you.”
“Don’t fret yourself for my sake, lass,” he repeated, his voice low and warm.
He’d never called her that. “I’m not a lass…not like Betsy…”
She searched his eyes. All she could read in their green depths was tenderness. “Nay, not like Betsy, but a lass nonetheless. One who’s always strong for everyone else…and never lets anyone see any fear or weakness.” His forefinger trailed down to her jaw. “Mayhap once in a while she needs someone to be strong for her.”
And then somehow she found herself wrapped in his embrace.
It was all she could have dreamed. Power held in check. Tenderness with the promise of passion. His arms enfolded her and for a moment she felt safe, hidden in a secret place where she could be the woman she had never let anyone see.
He didn’t hold her tightly, just enough for her to feel the comfort of his presence. “My Judy used to tell our wee ones when they came crying that sometimes only a hug would do.”
She heard his voice a soft burr above her head, her cheek pressed against his broad, hard chest. She breathed deeply of the scent of him—sweat, smoke and the lingering lavender of the soap she’d given him. “Your Judy sounds like a very wise woman,” she stammered, pushing her hand gently against his torso at the mention of his wife.
He let her go immediately. She moved away, blindly pulling out her handkerchief and dabbing at her eyes.
“The wisest.”
She nodded, not quite looking at him.
“She was a simple one, not complicated at all.” He continued looking at her, a curious expression in his eyes. “Not complicated at all.”
She cleared her throat and moved farther away from him, her fear returning. “We…we must tell Damien when he comes in. I’m not sure what else must be done. Are you sure about this?”
He nodded wearily. “Aye. There’s no more running for me, lass.”
She swallowed, hardly able to bear the tenderness in the endearment. Was she to hear it only once before he was taken away from her forever?
The silence between them stretched out.
Jonah shuffled his feet as if suddenly embarrassed. “I would beg one favor of you.”
“Anything.” She’d do anything for him.
He looked at her a few seconds and she could feel her face warm. Then he broke the connection and cleared his throat. “I’d like to have a bath and change of clothes, if that’s all right.” He ran a hand along his jaw. “I’d like to present myself at Newgate…as a gentleman this time.”
“Of course.” She nodded. “Of course,” she repeated, her voice firmer. “I’ll put some water to heat and fetch some towels.”
“I can take care of the water. I know where to find everything. I feel like I’ve come home, even if it’s only for a short spell.”
She nodded, her throat too constricted to say anything more. This was his home. Was it to be too late?
Jonah entered his bedroom while the water heated on the stove. He went to the chest of drawers and took out some clean linens. Everything was folded into neat stacks. He pressed a clean shirt to his nostrils, welcoming the scent of dried lavender. Then he went to the oak wardrobe and looked at the row of his coats hung there.
He pulled out the plum-colored one. He examined it now, touching the soft velvet with his hand. It appeared as clean as when Mr. Bourke had first delivered it. The rip at the shoulder was no longer visible, as if it had never been. He scrutinized it and could find no evidence of it. The dust and streak of dirt were gone. He sniffed it; it smelled like lavender and not of the dirt and sweat of the boxing ring.
He pulled it out and carried it down with the rest of his clean garments to the kitchen.
When they took him away, he would leave with the dignity of a duke.
A couple of hours later, Florence stood at the front door with Jonah, Damien and the rest of the household. They’d all been apprised of Jonah’s intention to turn himself in.
“How did you get past our guards?” Damien asked, with a nod toward the two sentries who had been stationed at the end of the front walkway since the day Jonah had been discovered.
Jonah shrugged. “Those fools couldn’t spot a fugitive if he went up and tapped them on the shoulder.”
Albert and Damien chuckled, but Florence couldn’t summon even a smile. She looked at Jonah now, trying to memorize his every feature with the thoroughness she hadn’t had the opportunity to do the day he’d had to escape so quickly.
He’d never looked so handsome. He wore the velvet plum-colored coat she’d repaired and sponged off and an ivory satin waistcoat embroidered in shades of green. His white neckcloth was perfectly tied in an Oriental. His tight-fitting black pantaloons were tucked into the calf-length tasseled Hessians she’d polished for him herself after he’d left.
Before she could reach for her cloak, Jonah turned to her and stayed her hand. “I wouldn’t have you accompany me.”
She curled her hand under his, wishing she could turn it palm up and have
it enfolded by his larger one. “Why ever not?” Even before she ended the words she knew by the expression in his somber green eyes.
His eyelids flickered downward. “I don’t want you to witness…it.”
Damien cleared his throat. “Let us go then.” They had already prayed as a group. Jonah shook each one’s hand in turn. Mrs. Nichols reached over and gave him a hug. He patted Betsy’s shoulder in an awkward gesture. “None o’ that now,” he said softly at the tears on her cheeks.
When he reached Florence, she didn’t know what to do. Every fiber of her being wanted to fling herself on him and never let go. Yet, though he’d embraced her earlier, now it no longer seemed appropriate. So she stuck out her hand, and he grasped it after a second. He held it firmly, looking into her eyes.
“It takes a real gentleman to come back the way you’ve done and face whatever he must face,” she whispered.
His square jaw worked as if he wanted to say something, but he remained silent.
“Godspeed.”
“Thank you,” he said, his own voice low, pressing her hand a final time before letting it go.
Damien clasped him on the shoulder and led him to the door. Quinn looked back once more, seeking Florence. She tried to smile.
And then he was gone. Florence peered through the lace curtain at the long window beside the door, Betsy and Mrs. Nichols on the other side.
It was worse than she’d imagined.
When the two men reached the guards and Damien began to explain to them, they turned their attention to Jonah, their expressions becoming menacing. Suddenly one of them pointed his musket at Jonah, touching his coat with the tip of his bayonet.
Florence gasped and felt Mrs. Nichols’s hand on her arm. Although Jonah remained standing, the two soldiers grabbed his two arms in a rough grip as if he were attempting to escape. Damien stepped forward, but they shoved him aside.
Florence stifled a cry as Damien stumbled backward. “I must go to them.” She stepped toward the door, but Albert held her back.
The Making of a Gentleman Page 27
