Читать книгу The Making Of A Gentleman - Ruth Axtell Morren - Страница 11

Florence wrung out a cloth and spread it across Quinn’s forehead, as she’d been doing over the past four days. It was now a fight for his life as fever racked his body. The man had not proved easy to nurse. His large, muscular frame thrashed about every time they tried to remove his wet nightshirt or move him the slightest to change the linens underneath him.

She regarded him now. He slept peacefully at the moment, his face at rest. Gone were any traces of the savage-looking man who’d abducted her. In his place was an individual with strong, handsome features. His jaw was square. Either she or Albert had been shaving him to ensure he remained free of vermin. She’d grown to know the feel of every plane of his face. She knew the curve of the cleft of his chin to the small dimple placed in the center of it. Her eyes traveled over his smooth skull. She’d managed to shave it while he slept. His head was nicely shaped, as well as his ears, she noted, which didn’t stick out, but lay flat against the sides of his head.

Her brother’s entry interrupted her contemplation. “How is he?” Damien asked in a low tone, approaching the opposite side of the bed.

She sighed and sat back. “More or less the same. One moment the fever breaks, then a few hours later it’s back. I don’t like the sound of his cough either.”

Damien nodded and bent over Quinn, feeling his cheek with the back of his hand. “Yes.”

“He continues delirious.”

“Yes, I’ve heard him. He seems most disquieted over several things. Probably due to his recent experience on the gallows and daring escape. It’s understandable.”

“Yes. He mentions a Judy and Mary and…a Joshua,” she said, recalling the names. “I wonder if they are his family.” She refrained from voicing the obvious—his wife and children. Strangely, she could not picture him as a husband and father, when she’d seen him only as alone and on the run.

“Likely. Why don’t you let me sit with him a while?”

Why did she feel loath to leave Quinn’s bedside? Florence glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Almost half past ten in the evening. “You need your rest. You are preaching tomorrow.”

“I won’t stay up long. It will give me an opportunity to go over my sermon.”

In truth, her neck and shoulders ached with fatigue. “If you’re sure,” she said slowly. At his nod, she rose from her chair and took up her needlework from the table.

When Damien had seated himself in her vacated chair, she lingered at the foot of the bed. “You haven’t decided yet what to do about Mr. Qui—Kendall?”

“I don’t think there is much we can decide until the fever passes.”

“And if it…shouldn’t?” It was the first time she’d allowed herself to voice the thought she’d fought to keep at bay. She couldn’t believe this man’s life was to be for naught.

Damien adjusted the blankets on that side of Quinn. “I don’t think the Lord saved this soul from the gallows to take him so quickly. We must wait and see what He would have us do.”

Her brother’s words reassured her. “Of course.”

With a murmured good-night, she departed the room. If Damien felt as she did, it must be more than her own personal desire to wish to see Quinn well and strong. All she desired was for the Lord to have His perfect way in this man’s life.

Jonah felt alternately as if he were being beaten with a rod or his body was once more huddled outside in the icy cold. At those times, he couldn’t get warm, and his body shook so his teeth rattled. The pounding between his temples wouldn’t go away.

He’d fall asleep only to find himself back in the dungeon of Newgate, lying against the dark stone walls of his cell. Or worse, feeling the rope around his neck and knowing in a few seconds it would be jerked against him with bruising strength. In those moments, he couldn’t move, no matter how much he thrashed about. His body felt trussed like a bird’s, helpless to do anything but swing in the air as he gasped for air.

He’d wake up shivering to brief moments of light. His surroundings seemed warm but he couldn’t get any of that warmth into his bones. Different faces hovered over his, pressing cold compresses against his skin, chilling him even more, or thrusting spoonfuls of warm broth or foul-tasting liquids into his mouth. He welcomed the former as the heat soothed his sore throat and struggled against swallowing the latter.

Strong arms would hold him back and a stern voice would scold him. “Come, Mr. Quinn, you must drink this if you hope to be well.”

He knew that voice. Firm, uncompromising. It belonged to that woman, the prison lady with the spare frame and pale features. Once he’d opened his eyes and stared straight into her light-colored ones—either washed-out blue or gray.

“You aren’t going to die on us now, Mr. Quinn. You haven’t put us to all this trouble to give up the ghost now.” With that she’d placed another ice-cold cloth on his forehead.

Sometimes she called him Kendall, sometimes Quinn, which confused him. He hadn’t the strength to argue with her. His body needed all its force to fight against the chills racking it.

Other times he’d awaken to see a pretty young woman hovering over him. She reminded him of his Judy. Plump, dark haired and rosy cheeked. This one, though, looked scared most of the time. Was he that frightening to look at? Once he’d been considered not a bad-looking sort, back in his youth. He could have had his pick of the lasses, but he’d chosen Judy for her saucy smile and curvy figure.

He remembered calling for Judy and little Mary and Joshua more than once. He kept hoping they’d answer, but only soft murmurs greeted his words.

Then finally came that night when he felt drenched. The linens clung to him. He didn’t think he could sweat so much.

“God be praised. The fever has broken.” The woman’s voice again.

“Hallelujah.” Her brother’s lower, gentler one responded. Jonah struggled to open his eyes as strong arms helped him sit up. “Come, sir, let me help you with this nightshirt. It’s soaking.”

It was lifted off him and another, dry, one was put over him, enveloping him in its clean warmth.

“We must remove the sheets as well.” The woman’s hand gripped him lightly by one shoulder, helping to keep him upright.

Before he could move, they had stripped the sheet from under him and were smoothing a dry one in its place. Then the covers were removed and a dry sheet placed over him, the blankets replaced and the pillows plumped up behind him.

“Here, drink this.” Miss Hathaway’s hand came up under his neck and helped prop him forward to take a sip from a glass. Cool liquid slipped down his throat, which no longer hurt to swallow, he discovered. He began to gulp down the liquid, a watery, slightly sweetened drink, bringing his hand up to the cup to lift it farther.

“There now, careful or you’ll spill it.” He could already feel it dribbling down his chin. Miss Hathaway removed the cup and brought a cloth up to wipe him. “Would you care for some more?”

He nodded, not sure if his vocal cords were going to respond properly. She raised the glass to his mouth and this time he drank more carefully.

“There. Mustn’t overdo on the first day.” She placed the glass on the table and patted his mouth once more before helping him to lie back against the pillows.

She smelled the same as the cake of soap he’d used the first night here. The lavender scent brought back the evening of his first bath and decent meal. “How—” He stopped, his voice raspy beyond recognition.

“What’s that?” She had leaned closer to him and peered at him. He had the sense those gray eyes missed little. After nursing him through this bout, she’d probably seen more of his hide than most people.

He attempted to clear his throat and instead erupted in a paroxysm of coughing.

“Easy there, Mr. Qu—” She handed him a handkerchief. “Your fever has broken, but your lungs are still quite congested.”

When his coughing had subsided, he began again. “How long’ve I been lying here?”

“Nearly a fortnight. You came to us on a Saturday eve, and it is now Wednesday, the fifth of March.”

He laid his head back and shut his eyes. February had gone by without his recollection, except for blurred images.

No sooner had his head touched the pillowcase than he sensed the difference. His fingers touched his scalp. It felt the way his chin did when he hadn’t shaved in a few days.

His eyelids opened and he stared at the woman standing over him. She’d had her way after all.

“No lice, I suppose,” he muttered.

Although she didn’t smile, he thought he detected something like humor in those gray eyes. “You are lice-free, I’m happy to report.”

He hadn’t the energy to feel angry. Lying back, looking at Miss Hathaway, he suddenly realized the great debt he owed her for nursing him through. If he’d been sick nearly a fortnight…

If he hadn’t found his way to this house, where would he be now? Long dead in some gutter, his body picked over by stray dogs.

Quinn’s condition improved rapidly after that day. His appetite grew in like measure, and Florence had to struggle to get him to satisfy himself with light custards and broths until she judged him sufficiently improved to digest more solid food.

“Is it back at Newgate I am?” he asked three days later, looking with disdain at the poached egg lying in a bowl, its only accompaniment a thin sliver of dry toast.

“Your stomach has held nothing down but teas and broths for over a week. If you don’t want to suffer severe abdominal pains, you will satisfy yourself with what Mrs. Nichols prepares for you.”

“You want to keep me weak as a kitten and at your mercy in this bed, is what I think,” he said, picking up the spoon and shoveling it into the watery egg. “First you shave my head while I’m lying out of my wits, and now you starve me.”

She folded her arms to keep from boxing his ear. Ever since he’d regained consciousness, he seemed to do nothing but complain to her. To the others, he behaved with more politeness than she’d expect from a Newgate convict. But to her he seemed to do nothing but find fault. Was he still angry that she’d shaved his head?

“On the contrary, Mr…. Kendall,” she told him now, “I’d have you strong and well so you no longer grumble. Honestly, what have the reverend and I brought upon ourselves opening our doors to you?”

For a second, she read a stunned hurt in his eyes. But it was gone immediately as he focused on wiping out the remains of the egg in his bowl with his toast. A man of his brutish strength and rude ways wouldn’t be bothered by her words. Still, her conscience smote her for her unkind remark. What would Damien say if he’d heard her?

After she’d left the room, Jonah sat on the edge of the bed and swung the covers off, his arm feeling like jelly in the process. He needed to use the chamber pot and didn’t want to ring for either the curate or Albert. Not after Miss Hathaway’s remark.

Her comment rankled. No less because it was true. What had he brought on these innocent people? If he should be discovered hiding in the parsonage, what would happen to them?

He scratched his jaw, his whiskers feeling itchy, although not nearly as bad as his face and scalp had felt for months now. Once again, he passed a hand over his head, unused to the smooth feel of it. Although it didn’t feel so smooth now. Rough stubble grazed his fingertips.

He took a deep breath and tried to stand. A wave of dizziness passed over him and he reached out for a bedpost, but he was too far away. He fell back down on the soft bed.

He twisted around as a knock sounded on the door. It couldn’t be one of the women—they never knocked as they came in with some potion to administer or to take the very sheets from beneath him and make up his bed.

“Come in.”

The Reverend Hathaway poked his head in the doorway. “Good morning, Mr. Kendall,” he said with a smile. “I hope I’m not disturbing you. My sister said you were awake.”

“No, you’re not disturbing me.” He quirked his lips. “I was just about to use the chamber pot—” His words broke off as the reverend came in followed by his sister.

Her clear gray gaze locked with his. Any softness he’d sensed in them during his fever had long since gone.

“Of course. If you’ll excuse us, Florence.” Hathaway turned to his sister. For a second she seemed to hesitate—goodness knows, she probably thought she owned him body and soul after nursing him the way she had—then with a nod, she retreated and shut the door behind her.

Hathaway helped Jonah to his feet. “I’m sure you’re feeling as weak as a kitten. It’s understandable. You’ll quickly regain your strength.” As he spoke he led Jonah to the screen in the corner of the room. “There you go. Need any more help?”

“No, I’ll manage.” He’d been helped on and off a bedpan enough already by Albert.

“Very well, I’ll leave you and return in a few minutes.”

After Jonah had finished, he managed to make it to the dressing table and splash water on his face and hands. As he took up a facecloth, he noticed a hand mirror lying facedown on the table. Gingerly he took it up and turned it over.

An unrecognizable face stared back at him. A skull covered over with a light layer of black fuzz, gaunt cheeks shadowed by a layer of bristly whiskers. He passed a hand over his jaw once again, feeling the hollow cheeks, which made his cheekbones look wider. His face had always been full, his neck corded with muscle. Now, he looked like a caricature of that man.

He fingered the cleft in his chin. At least a few recognizable markings still remained. The eyes, too, were familiar. Their dark green irises, framed by black lashes and covered by heavy black eyebrows, stared back at him.

He scowled as his gaze traveled upward to his skull. His forehead seemed way too high now with no black curls to frame it. At least the hair was growing back although it looked shorter than his beard at this point.

He looked like a wrestler or prizefighter, except he no longer had the girth required.

A knock sounded once again on the door. He quickly put down the mirror and began making his way back to the bed, calling out “Come in” as he did so.

Mr. Hathaway returned with his sister. The curate hurried forward and took Jonah by the arm. With a defiant look at Miss Hathaway, Jonah shook the other man off. “That’s all right, Reverend. I’m getting me legs back.”

“That’s good.” Hathaway helped tuck the blankets around him once Jonah was in bed, then pulled up a chair for his sister and one for himself.

Again, Jonah glanced at the woman. She perched in that ramrod straight way of hers. So prim she was, with the tongue of a harpy. Pity, the brother seemed to have gotten all the looks in the family. Whereas the curate was blue eyed with wavy, light brown hair, his sister was a pale likeness. Her cheeks, although smooth, had no color in them. Her hair, covered with a lacy cap, was also light brown, but straight and of a shade with no golden tints in it like her brother’s. Her eyes were a washed-out imitation of his, neither gray nor blue. And yet, there was something compelling in them. Something that challenged a man, the way they could stare him down.

He looked away suddenly, ashamed of his critical appraisal. This was the only person who’d opened her doors to him and who’d nursed him for the past fortnight.

Hathaway folded his hands on his lap. “I wanted to have a talk with you now that the fever has broken. I realize you still need some time to recover your strength, but I thought it a good time to discuss what we ought to do in the coming weeks.”

Hathaway’s blue eyes searched his. “You are still a wanted man. Although the commotion died down in the time you were ill, your name remains among the wanted and there have been posters with your picture placed around Newgate according to Florence.”

Jonah’s eyes went to Miss Hathaway. “You’ve been back there?”

“It’s my work.”

He frowned, imagining it wouldn’t be long before the constable came around.

As if reading his thoughts, she said, “You may rest easy, Mr. Kendall. They know nothing about my abduction except that I was held for a few hours in a place on Saffron Hill I would never be able to find again.”

The news didn’t ease his worry. Jonah went to rake a hand through his hair. His fingers met stubble and he made a fist.

“Nothing has been posted around here or in Mayfair,” the curate added in a hasty tone. “I’m sure the magistrates believe you are hiding somewhere in the East End, indeed, if you even remain in London.”

Only somewhat relieved, Jonah took a deep breath and unclenched his hand. “I don’t suppose anyone’d ever imagine me holed up in the West End.”

The reverend returned the smile. “That does make things a lot easier. You must remain in hiding for the foreseeable future. If you were discovered now, it would mean a prompt hanging with doubled security. From the newspaper accounts, the Crown has been made a fool of. The band rescuing you seems to have been led by a competing receiver of stolen goods. A question of revenge and encroachment of one another’s territory. Perhaps they thought they could use you against your former employer.”

Jonah shook his head. “And I was the ignorant gull caught in the middle.”

“It seems so. Though I doubt that will make the authorities any more sympathetic to your case.” The curate paused. “Florence and I have been discussing your choices.”

Jonah glanced from one to the other. Miss Hathaway hadn’t spoken yet and her serious face made him question whether he had any choice but the noose. “Do I have any?”

Hathaway smiled faintly. “A few. You can leave our house once you feel fully recovered, if you choose. I wouldn’t recommend that path unless you have some friends or family who are willing to help you out.”

Jonah shook his head. He had no one to run the risk of hiding him…other than this man and his sister.

Miss Hathaway leaned toward him. “Have you any family at all?” When he said nothing, she added, “You mentioned a…Judy…and Mary and…Joshua in your fever.”

He turned away from her gently probing look and picked at the threads of his coverlet. He felt his neck flush as he pictured himself ranting out the most personal details of his life in his delirium. “I…had a wife and two bairns.”

Her soft voice broke into his thoughts. “What happened to them?”

He kept his eyes fixed on the blanket beneath his hands, its pattern blurring. “Brought ’em—” He cleared his throat. “Brought ’em with me when I came to London.” After a few minutes he was able to continue. “All three died last winter from fever.”

“I’m sorry,” both of them said.

He wiped the corner of his eyes with the back of his hand, despising himself for his loss of control. When he finally looked at the Hathaways again, he read only compassion in their eyes.

“You’ve nothin’ to be sorry for. It was the fault of a city that doesn’t let a man defend himself nor earn the bread to feed his family.”

“Do you have any other family?” the curate asked.

“My kin is scattered across Bedfordshire. I lost touch with ’em once we came to London. I wouldn’t want to involve them in my misfortune. They have little eno’ as it is. They’re likely facing terrible times themselves.”

Hathaway nodded. “Another option is to flee the country. We could provide you with some money, but I know little enough of getting you aboard a ship heading to lands beyond. You’d need false papers for one thing. France, the closest, would be difficult as we’re at war. With the blockade, seas are dangerous if you should choose to venture farther.”

Jonah could not imagine leaving England. Just leaving his native village and coming to London had proved disastrous.

Miss Hathaway spoke. “There is one other possibility.”

Slowly, Jonah raised his head as she continued. “I would say ‘impossibility,’ except that my brother would remind me we serve a God of the impossible.”

Jonah waited, his body tensing.

“Commutation of your sentence.”

The words meant nothing to him. “I…don’t ken the expression.”

The curate explained. “If we appeal to the home secretary for clemency—that is to say, mercy—there is a possibility that your sentence could be commuted to life or to transportation to the colony.”

“You mean I’d either have to rot in that stinkin’ Newgate cell, or be stuffed into the hold of one of those prison hulks—”

“Most likely it would mean transport,” Miss Hathaway said.

“Which means death on the seas.”

“It is a harrowing journey, I’ll grant you, but for those who arrive, there is the chance for a fresh start.”

“Living like a slave out there for the years of me sentence.”

The young curate leaned forward. “There is also the possibility of a royal pardon.”

Pardon. The word rang in the stillness. Then Jonah remembered he wasn’t guilty in the first place. “For something I never done?”

“Something you did unwittingly,” the curate corrected gently. “If we could get the home secretary to consider the innocence of your action, there is a chance for a full pardon.”

Miss Hathaway cleared her throat. “Do not let my brother’s words get your hopes up, Mr. Kendall. There is very little likelihood of a pardon. Your best hope lies in transport to the colony. However—” her slim fingers formed pleats in her skirt as she spoke “—my brother has a scheme, and I am willing to consider it, however little chance it has of succeeding.”

“Don’t let my sister’s words frighten you.”

Jonah looked from brother to sister and back again, his worry only growing. What did they mean, “scheme”?

Miss Hathaway folded her hands in her lap. “There would be no hope for clemency unless you showed yourself a thoroughly reformed individual.”

Jonah frowned at her. “Reformed from what?”

“Reformed from the defiant individual who stood on the gallows refusing to kneel in prayer and who later flaunted all authorities when he fled the gallows.”

In contrast to the grim picture his sister painted, Mr. Hathaway’s tone was gentle. “Pardons are not as uncommon as you may think. Many a man—and woman—has been issued a full pardon when they’ve shown themselves repentant of their deed.”

His uneasiness grew. “But I’m not guilty of anything.”

“Unfortunately, the fact that you were rescued from the gallows and a riot ensued will not go over well with the home secretary,” the curate reminded him. “However, Miss Hathaway has achieved a good reputation working among the prisoners of Newgate. If she vouches for your character, that will guarantee you an audience at least.”

Jonah looked at Miss Hathaway. He knew little of her work as the prison lady.

The curate continued. “That is only the beginning, however. We must also prove to the home secretary and to the lord chancellor, and ultimately to the prince regent himself, that you are a reformed individual—a man who looks and sounds respectable, a man as far from the one who escaped the gallows as day from night.”

“The first step, therefore, Mr. Kendall, is to transform you into a gentleman,” Miss Hathaway finished for her brother.

Jonah stared at her as if she’d told him he must fly to the moon. “A what?”

“A gentleman. A man the home secretary can understand. He knows nothing of the plight of a poor farmer from East Anglia whose cattle has lost its grazing rights through the system of enclosures, but a man who is presentable, can speak his language, and is an upright member of society, exercising a trade and living an exemplary life—that man might just win the secretary’s sympathy.”

Jonah gave a bark of laughter. “A gentleman! Who would ever believe Jonah Quinn as a gentleman?”

Mr. Hathaway tapped his knee, a light of optimism in his eyes. “If you allow Miss Hathaway and myself have a go at your, er, education, you might be surprised at the results.” He turned to his sister. “Miss Hathaway can coach you in the finer points of etiquette, manners and dress, and I can help you refine your speech a bit. By the way, can you read?”

Jonah grunted. “Well enough.”

“That’s very good. Did you receive some schooling as a child?”

He shrugged. “Taught meself to read once I arrived in London. Never had no need of it back home.”

They both looked at him, eyes wide.

He stared right back at them. Didn’t they believe him?

“That’s remarkable,” Miss Hathaway said. “How did you do that?”

Did she think he was as brutish as he looked? “I found an old schoolbook in the rubbish. It must have been a child’s primer, all beat up and dirty.” He shook his head at the memory of hours spent in the dim light of evenings, bent over the torn pages. “I studied it and studied it until I figured out the pictures.” He smiled, remembering the drawings. “A is for apple, B for boy, C…cat. If I close my eyes, I can still see those pictures. The letters and their sounds began to make sense and soon I could put together the letters I saw on street signs and make out whole words. ’Course I can’t read a whole lot, but enough to get by.”

“And no one had ever taught you before?” Her tone remained dubious.

“No.” He folded his arms across his chest. “And I had no need of it neither, farming the land.” Bitterness crept into his voice. “When I still had some land to farm.”

Hathaway sat back with a satisfied air. “This is wonderful. If you’ll permit me, I can help fill in the gaps, perhaps teach you some arithmetic as well.”

“I don’t mind. I suppose I’ll have to while away my time somehow till I’m fit again. I’m as weak as a fish right now.”

“That will pass. Now, to more practical matters. You took the name William Kendall the first night you arrived. Does anyone know you by that name?”

He shook his head. “It was the first thing that popped into my head. William is me brother’s name and Kendall me mother’s family name.”

“Very clever. It will do, don’t you think?” The curate turned to Miss Hathaway.

“Yes,” she answered more slowly. “My brother and I don’t believe in telling falsehoods,” she said. “However, in this case, we see the necessity of concealing your identity. And since they are family names, they are not wholly untrue.”

“So, from today forward, we will only refer to you as Mr. Kendall.”

Jonah thought of something else. “Where are me clothes? I think I’d like to get out of this bed. Seems I’ve been here months.”

He turned to his sister. “His clothes?”

“I’m afraid they’ve been disposed of.”

“What do you mean, disposed of?” Quinn asked, feeling a sudden terror.

“Burned.”

“Burned?” He swore then stopped in midsentence at Miss Hathaway’s stern frown.

“The vermin,” she said. “We had to ensure there would be no spread of it through the household.”

He stared at her, panic growing in him. “I had some…things…” Once again, his face felt hot at having to confess these things to this lady.

“You had a lock of hair and a small square of cloth in one pocket,” she said in a softer tone. “I saved them for you, supposing they were sentimental keepsakes.” She rose and went to the bedside table. From the drawer she extracted a ragged square of dirty calico and the dark curl. She handed them to him. “Is this what you meant?”

He took them without a word, enclosing them in his fist, ashamed and comforted at the same time. These were the only keepsakes he had of his former life, the lock of Judy’s hair and the bit of cloth from one of little Mary’s frocks. He swallowed the lump in his throat. Nothing remained of his Joshua. He cleared his throat and glared at the woman standing over him.

“So, what am I supposed to walk around in? My nightshirt?”

“We’ll procure some new clothes for you.” She turned to her brother. “We can send for Mr. Bourke, my brother’s tailor,” she added, sparing Jonah a glance. She continued addressing her brother. “He can measure Mr. Kendall and have some things made up for him. Mrs. Nichols and I can begin immediately on some shirts and neckcloths.”

Again she was treating him as if he wasn’t in the room. “In the meantime what am I supposed to do?” he said to her back.

She turned to him. “In the meantime, you’ll have to satisfy yourself with a nightshirt and dressing gown of my brother’s.”

“I haven’t much choice, I suppose?” His glance went slowly from sister to brother, and he saw the understanding in their eyes. He was not just referring to the state of his wardrobe.

“I’m afraid not,” Hathaway said, an apologetic note in his tone. “Which brings me to the most important question.”

Jonah stared into the young man’s eyes.

“Are you willing to trust us to do what is best for you for however long you remain under our roof?” The curate smiled as he ended, softening the solemnity of his words.

Miss Hathaway’s expression was not so encouraging. Her gray eyes measured him. “My brother believes this is your best chance. I am willing to do whatever I can to ensure you are presentable.” She paused. “My brother has asked for your trust. But my question to you is, can we trust you? Will you do your part, Mr. Kendall? It will be no easy task to change the habits of a lifetime.”

Her steady gray eyes looked skeptical and her words left him with no doubt that he would have to earn her approval.

Was he up to it?

Did he have a choice?

The young curate held out his hand. After a moment, Jonah stretched out his own. The two clasped hands, sealing their bargain. Although he didn’t shake Miss Hathaway’s hand, somehow he knew the biggest hurdle would be to prove himself to her.