The Making of a Gentleman

by Ruth Axtell Morren

  Everyone clapped when, at the end, the prince himself entered the room. Florence stared at him, her nerves momentarily forgotten as she studied the man who in so short a time had become so unpopular with the common people. A man who lived isolated among his select circle of wealthy friends, politicians, artists and writers.

  He was a large man, both in height and build. He wore a sumptuous suit of black velvet with gold facings. His neck was swathed up to his ears in a white neckcloth with his shirt points barely peeking through at either end against his jaw. His dark hair was swept around his head in studied carelessness, brushed forward to form curls along his temples and forehead. He had prominent eyes, which he now focused on her.

  The bishop urged her forward by a slight pressure on her arm.

  She dropped into a deep curtsy before the prince.

  When she rose, he lounged in his large gilt thronelike chair, his chin resting on his fingers. “We have been told you are responsible for the escaped prisoner’s long evasion of the authorities.”

  “Yes, Your Royal Highness, my brother and I—” she made a gesture behind her to include Damien, “—felt led by the Lord to offer Mr. Jonah Quinn aid and succor in his flight from an unjust sentence laid upon him.”

  “Unjust?” He turned toward one of the individuals standing at his side. “Did you hear that, my lord chancellor, this lady says the sentence passed by the Recorder of London was unjust.” He gave her his attention once more. “Do explain.”

  Once more she began to relate the story as she’d told it to the duke, of the unfortunate circumstances that had befallen Jonah since he had come to London after losing his small holding. She tried to keep strictly to the facts as she knew them and the narrative as brief as possible, knowing it was probably only a whim that had brought her to the regent’s attention. If she went on too long, he’d likely become bored and have her dismissed.

  “So, you see, Your Royal Highness,” she ended, “how he was betrayed by his employer into carrying that forged note to the man’s competitor.”

  She could read little from the regent’s attentive expression. He seemed to offer goodwill, but she knew from all the stories what a capricious man he was. He and his father, old King George, had continually been at loggerheads, the old king railing at his son’s extravagant ways. He was continually petitioning the House for funds to pay his exorbitant debts.

  She could already see the effects of the dissipated lifestyle in the fleshy jaw and wide girth. She felt a pang of pity for the man who had been given so many talents and seemed to be squandering them on worldly pursuits.

  “While he has been under the tutelage of my brother, the Reverend Damien Hathaway, Jonah Quinn has been transformed from a man brutalized by his circumstances into a man noble and true, living his life according to the dictates of God’s Word. The proof of this is that even when he was rediscovered in our parish and managed to escape a second time, he came back of his own accord and gave himself up to the authorities, not because he admits any guilt in breaking the law, but because he felt the Lord’s leading to turn himself in and throw himself on the mercy of the courts and prove himself an upright and law-abiding citizen.”

  The prince stroked his jaw as if considering. “What say you to this, my lord chancellor?” he asked abruptly, turning away from Florence.

  “The prisoner has mocked the courts and must be made to hang. He is not only a criminal, but a revolutionary, and will cause further unrest among the populace if he is let off free. He must hang!”

  The prince turned back to Florence, his protruding eyes showing a hint of sadness. “You see, my dear lady, we must abide by the original order, or chaos would ensue. We would not follow the fate of our counterpart across the Channel.”

  “Mr. Quinn is no revolutionary, Your Royal Highness.”

  He continued looking at her for a moment more, in which time she prayed that the Lord would move him.

  Suddenly, he spoke. “No. We cannot have it. The man must hang. He has made a fool of us!”

  She felt crushed and could hardly support herself.

  This couldn’t be it. No, no, no!

  The prince rose, and all around the room Florence heard people coming to attention. She felt a wave of panic rise in her. Damien, as if sensing her despair, came to stand behind her and gripped her arm.

  Before the prince had a chance to move, Florence took a step forward, not knowing what she would do, only sure she couldn’t let him leave like this. He didn’t understand the finality of his pronouncement. “Please, Your Highness.” Without another word, she dropped to her knees before him.

  The regent’s round eyes widened in surprise.

  “Now, see here!” She heard the bishop behind her. His fingers dug into her arm as if to pull her up and away. She ignored him and fixed her eyes on the prince alone. “Your Royal Highness, please…” Her voice broke on the whispered plea. “I beg your mercy for this man.”

  She could no longer see the prince. She was looking down at the red carpet before her knees, and her eyes were blurry with tears.

  The prince took a step toward her and paused. “My dear lady, you mustn’t weep. Does this prisoner mean so much to you?” His tone was indulgent.

  She nodded, hardly able to speak.

  “You would have us pardon him?”

  “Yes, Your Highness…yes, I would,” she finally managed to whisper.

  “Tell me, why should we grant a man mercy who has not only broken the law but flaunted it?”

  Slowly she raised her head to meet his eyes, unmindful of the tears streaking down her cheeks. The prince seemed genuinely curious. In that instant, she felt her heart fill to overflowing, wanting with every particle of her being to save Jonah. It was as if a floodgate inside her had opened, and she could no longer contain it. “Because…I love him.”

  When he said nothing but continued to regard her, his face showing an animation and interest it hadn’t before, she continued. “This man has proved I still have a heart and it would be irreparably broken if I could never look upon his face in this lifetime.”

  She heard the ripple of reaction behind her as people gasped and began to murmur. She could hardly believe the words that had come out of her mouth. When had she realized she loved Jonah Quinn?

  The prince’s lips curved upward in a smile. “You have touched a kindred spirit. I, too, have known what it is to love and lose.” He rose and came toward her, offering her his hand. She rose to her feet, feeling as if she were in some sort of dream. The prince was smiling down at her, a benign look on his face.

  “This woman shall have what she has asked. Free the prisoner. Commute his sentence and set him free!” He turned to his ministers. “We grant a royal pardon.”

  The murmurs became loud exclamations of outrage as well as applause. “Hear! Hear!” drowned out the sounds of dismay.

  Florence didn’t know how she made it out of the hall. She was only vaguely aware of Damien’s arm around her, leading her down the red carpet. All around her, she heard murmurs and felt the stares of the people, some outraged, others approving.

  Once outside Carlton House and in the coach, Damien took her hands in his and smiled into her eyes. “Well done, big sister. God was on our side, eh?”

  She tried to smile but her lips felt numb. “Was the pardon real?” she managed. That’s all that mattered.

  He pressed her hands. “Yes. No doubt there’ll be a hue and cry from the Tories, but they can’t rescind the king’s prerogative. As regent, his word is as good as the king’s.”

  Florence breathed a sigh of relief and sat back against the squabs. She closed her eyes, wishing it were as easy to shut out her thoughts. What had she done? reverberated to the jostle and sway of the coach over the cobblestones beneath them.

  “Did you mean it?” Damien’s voice was quiet, but she knew exactly what he referred to.

  She didn’t open her eyes. “Pray, do not ask me that.”<
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  He said no more, for which she was grateful. She could not lie to her brother.

  Truly, she didn’t know the answer to his question. What had possessed her to kneel before her future monarch and plead—nay, beg—for a man’s life using a sentiment of the heart? Because I love him. The words resonated in her mind. What had she said? She cringed in shame. Parading her deepest secrets for all the world to see.

  All that mattered was that Jonah would soon be free, she told herself. He could go where he would, a free man.

  What would she say when she saw him? Would it be possible to keep her revelation from him? She could trust her brother, but all the world would soon know what she had confessed to the prince. Would the scandal sheets have a field day?

  She clutched a hand to her mouth, wanting to moan with the humiliation of it. She could imagine it now. Spinster on Her Knees Pleading for Life of Convict.

  When they arrived home, Damien handed her down from the carriage. Instead of going in with her, he turned back to the coach.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I promised to meet our lawyer at Newgate. We aren’t wasting any time demanding Jonah’s immediate release.”

  Her heart leaped in an instant and she made a move as if to follow him, but then stopped. How could she face Quinn now? Her glance skittered away from her brother’s. “W-will you bring him here?”

  “Of course.” He gave her shoulder a quick squeeze. Was that sympathy she read in his eyes? “He has nowhere else to go, Florence.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  She walked up the flagstone path like an aged woman. What would she say to him when she saw him?

  Mr. and Mrs. Nichols were waiting at the door as soon as she entered, with Betsy hovering behind them. Her eyes went from one eager face to the other and she couldn’t bear to diminish their joy. She nodded at each one. “Bless God, the regent granted a pardon.”

  She’d hardly finished the sentence when there was whooping and hollering and hugging all around her.

  She shared their joy. Even if her character was another sort, which couldn’t express itself with such exuberance, she felt the joy and relief equally—if not more so. It was there, deep down, reserved in a place, awaiting a moment when she would be alone to fall on her face before God and pour out her thanksgiving.

  She extricated herself from Mrs. Nichols’s embrace and began to untie the ribbons of her bonnet. “Well, the Lord has been gracious.”

  “But, Miss Hathaway, what did you do, what did you say that the prince showed you such favor?”

  Their questions came hard and fast, and Florence braced herself. “It was the Lord’s favor, is all I can say. I stated Mr. Quinn’s case as plainly and simply as I could, and…the prince regent was…moved to grant the pardon.” She hurried on. “Mr. Hathaway believes there’ll be a protest by some members of the government, but he assured me they cannot take back the regent’s decision.”

  As they made their way down the hallway, the others continued to argue the possibility of this. Suddenly, Mrs. Nichols took one look at Florence and stated, “I think you could do with a good, strong cup of tea.”

  She smiled wanly. “Yes, that would help me immeasurably. Could you please bring it to me in the study?” All she wanted now was to be alone.

  “Of course, dear. You just go in and sit yourself down. You look awfully peaked.” Mrs. Nichols patted her hand and shooed her into the study.

  Florence closed the door softly behind her. After the noise of the regent’s court and the hubbub of the streets, quiet enveloped her. She walked to the window and stood staring, but she didn’t see the peaceful springtime scene of budding flowers and tender green shoots of grass. She saw only Jonah’s face the day he’d said goodbye to her and felt his arms around her as he had held her so gently, his voice soothing her. Why had she broken away from his embrace so quickly? The reminder of his wife had spurred her, of course. The fact of his already having loved someone didn’t bother her in itself. She honored the memory of his wife, and remembered how he had told her he’d been faithful to her.

  No, the mention of Judy had served to bring her back to reality. Jonah Quinn could never love someone like herself. No man had ever loved her like that. Eugene’s affection had been tepid at best. The Reverend Doyle’s regard was only that: respect and estimation for someone he perceived would make him a good helpmate.

  Oh, how she longed to be someone’s helpmate. But just as strongly, she yearned for something more. How she longed to offer a man all the passion she’d felt building within her since the day she’d met Jonah. This was a woman she hardly knew but whom she no longer wished to deny.

  Her thoughts returned to Jonah.

  Where would he go? He had his prize money. She knew Damien would not take back any of the additional money he’d given to him.

  Would he still go to America, or Canada? He could probably do very well in a land like that. She shuddered at the dangers of crossing the Atlantic during this time of blockades.

  Finally she sank down on her knees and gave the Lord thanks for sparing Jonah’s life on this day. That was all that was important.

  Jonah heard the clank of the key in the lock on his door. He immediately stood. What could it mean? The hanging wasn’t until tomorrow morning. He wasn’t ready. Panic rose in him, threatening to cut off his breath.

  “I will fear no evil,” he murmured, his thoughts clutching the remnant of the psalm Damien had taught him.

  The heavy, studded door opened, admitting the turnkey. The man was grinning in his usual sly way. Was he here to gloat?

  “Well, I don’t know what kind o’ power you have with your betters, but I’m here to take you out.”

  “What are you talking about?” Was he to be hanged early?

  “Free as a bird you are,” the man cackled.

  “Free?” What could he be saying?

  “Prince George has pardoned ye. Come on, move along. I haven’t got all day.” He laughed again, as if that was the biggest joke of all.

  The door stood open and the turnkey gestured him out. Jonah didn’t take any chances that it would prove a mistake. He stepped through the door, not bothering to look back. He had left nothing there. He went out wearing only the suit of clothes he’d come in with.

  He was led past the large, common cells, filled with men awaiting transport or sitting there until their debts were paid. When they saw Jonah, the men hung on the bars and shouted at him.

  “He got his freedom!” “Quinn’s got the royal pardon!” They banged their cups or spoons against the iron bars, making a maddening commotion. They hooted and hollered, stretching out their hands to touch him, pat him on the back, tug at his coat. It seemed he was a hero again.

  “Don’t forget me when you get out!” came the calls.

  He walked as if in a fog, still not understanding any of it. Could it have been something the Reverend Hathaway had done for him? He had heard of something called the “benefit of the clergy,” in contesting a death sentence but knew it wouldn’t apply in his case. And it would only mean transportation to the colony. No, he’d escaped a hanging once. There would be no mercy shown him a second time.

  Down the dark stone stairs and along another corridor and finally into the daylight of the press yard. Just like the last time, the turnkey bent down and unlocked the fetters from his ankles then straightened and proceeded to do the same with those around his wrists. The chains fell with a sharp clank against the stones.

  This time instead of having his arms tied at his sides prior to being led up onto the gallows, they were left hanging free.

  “Come along with ye then.” The turnkey gestured with his chin.

  Jonah stumbled on a cobblestone. He’d never thought to see the outside, not until tomorrow morning when he’d have been led once more to the gallows. He followed the man to the lodge, where the prison warden lived. He halted in the dim passageway, making out the sil
houette of a man standing there. The bright light from the archway blinded Jonah to his face, but the wooden leg identified him immediately as Hathaway.

  “Damien! Reverend Hathaway,” he shouted, his voice hoarse, as he hurried toward the curate.

  Damien met him halfway along the stone passageway, his wooden leg thumping against the cobblestones. He clasped Jonah by the shoulders, his face beaming. “You’re free. God be praised, you are a free man!”

  Jonah could only stare at him. It was finally beginning to seem real.

  The next moment Damien embraced him, laughing. “You look as if you don’t understand a word I’m telling you. Man, you’re free! Believe it!”

  “How…?” he began, then suddenly he hugged Damien back, laughing, no longer caring if this was a dream or true. Whatever it was, he’d enjoy the moment before waking up.

  “All right, clear out o’ my prison,” the warden’s sour tones interrupted their joyful reunion.

  “I’m a stinking mess,” Jonah said, pulling away from Damien, embarrassed by the emotion he felt.

  Another man stood near them. Damien immediately introduced him as his lawyer.

  Jonah held out his hand when he saw the other man’s hand extended. “Pleased to meet you. Are…are you responsible for my…freedom?”

  The man smiled but shook his head. “I wish I could take the credit, but, no. You have the Hathaways to thank—Miss Hathaway, to be precise. I feel I’m robbing them to collect a fee.”

  Jonah looked from one man to the other. Miss Hathaway? What did the man mean? Had she engaged the lawyer for him? After all the things they’d given him to escape? How much he owed them…

  Damien broke the silence. “Come along. It’s time to go home.”

  Home.

  He followed Damien out into freedom.

  Chapter Twenty

  By the time their carriage—a very posh one by Jonah’s estimation—had wended its way only halfway down the Old Bailey Lane, crowds began to gather.

  “What’s all the commotion about?” he asked, peering through the curtain.