Читать книгу The Making Of A Gentleman - Ruth Axtell Morren - Страница 12

Florence sat on the striped settee in the upstairs morning room and watched Mr. Bourke wrap his tape measure about Mr. Quinn’s neck. “Sixteen and a half. A thick neck,” he mumbled, jotting on his notepad.

Quinn stood in his nightshirt, a stoic look on his face. His hair was starting to grow in, showing a black shadow all over his head. Florence frowned. The shadow continued down the front of his cheeks. The man hadn’t shaved again this morning. She gave a mental shake of her head. It would take more than her brother imagined to change this man’s personal habits and bring about any semblance of gentleman.

The tailor whipped the tape measure off. “Arms apart.” Quinn spread his arms out. “Wider, please.” The little man reached around Quinn’s torso with the tape, resembling a squirrel trying to embrace a mighty oak. To his credit, Quinn remained patient. He hadn’t said anything since greeting the tailor with, “Come to dress me at last?”

He whistled. “Forty-five and a quarter…a broad chest that,” he muttered. He proceeded to his waist. “Thirty-three and a quarter.” The tape went around his hips. “Thirty-eight.”

He clicked his tongue, looking at the numbers on his pad. “Not a classic build. The shoulders are too broad, though at least the waist is trim. He certainly won’t require a corset.”

Florence cleared her throat. “All we need, as I explained earlier, are good suits of clothes proper for a gentleman of, er, Mr. Kendall’s stature.” The tailor wrapped the tape around a bicep.

“Fourteen and a quarter. Make a fist please…sixteen and a quarter,” he noted of the expanded bicep.

Again, he tsk-tsked. “This man’s dimensions are quite disproportionate, more suitable for a prizefighter than for a gentleman.”

Quinn cocked an eyebrow at the smaller man. “I have fought in the ring a time or two.”

The tailor stepped back. “Indeed, sir? Where was that? Maybe I’ve see you fight.”

“I rather doubt it. They were local fights during country fairs, and suchlike, up in Bedfordshire.”

“Pray, let us continue with the fitting.” Florence eyed Jonah with a frown. So, they not only had a convict on their hands, but also a prizefighter.

“Yes, of course, Miss Hathaway.” Bourke glanced down at his notepad, continuing to talk to himself. This time the words no longer sounded critical, but were beginning to reflect awe. “The shoulder span wide, the waist narrow, the hips—” he nodded his head, his lips pursed “—the same. Now for the back.” He stepped behind Quinn and spread the tape across the breadth of his shoulders. “Eighteen and a half. Nice and wide…will require more cloth than usual.”

The tailor peered around at Florence, the tape measure dangling from his neck. “I see a navy-blue, double-breasted tailcoat with square tails…let us say…to the knee, not farther, a bit of gathering at the shoulder, a narrow collar with a long roll to here…” he said, waving his hand to illustrate the point. “Velvet perhaps on one? A waistcoat of the same material and one of a contrasting color? Red satin?”

She pressed her lips together in disapproval. The last thing she needed was his turning Quinn into a macaroni. Before she could contradict him, the tailor took a few steps away from Quinn and eyed him. “As for materials, a fine broadcloth, one in navy, another in black? Or perhaps bottle-green?” He turned to Florence again.

“Green,” she found herself saying and only then realized she was thinking of the color of his eyes. She glanced up at them and quickly away.

“Excellent choice, Miss Hathaway.” The tailor wrote down the color. “And the waistcoats? A half a dozen? Cashmere, lutestring, a satin for Sunday wear,” he rattled off, answering his own question. “I have a lovely embroidered silk in pink and blue…”

“Nothing to call attention,” she said at once. “Sober colors, cream or ivory and some dark to match the coat.”

He looked down his thin nose at her. “Miss Hathaway, everything Bourke & Sons of Bond Street does is in the utmost taste.” He turned his back to her and surveyed Quinn, the measuring tape stretched taut between his hands. “Now for the length. Excuse me, sir.” He bent over and held the tape down the outside of Quinn’s leg to his bare ankle. “Very good.” Then he proceeded to measure the inward length.

Florence averted her gaze but not before it crossed Quinn’s. Was that amusement she read in their black-fringed depths? Or were they merely sardonic?

She pressed her lips together and looked away from him. If he thought to discompose her, he had another think coming. She’d seen enough of the man during his fever that the sight of a tailor measuring his leg could hardly put her to the blush. Without conscious thought, she remembered the broad planes of his muscular chest and ropelike biceps when she’d bathed him.

She rocked her leg back and forth across her knee and fixed her eyes on the fireplace across the room. She must really polish the candlesticks on the mantel. The silver bases were showing signs of tarnish. Soon it would be time for the spring cleaning—

“And the thighs…” Mr. Bourke whipped the tape measure around one. “Twenty-five. No padding needed there.”

“I should hope not,” Florence said, unable to keep her gaze from flickering back to the outline of Quinn’s leg. The tailor moved the tape measure around the circumference of one calf then down to his ankle. She swallowed, noting how well proportioned his legs were.

The tailor flipped his notebook shut and began to roll up his tape measure. “I think that will do for now. I shall have a pair of trousers and a coat and waistcoat ready to be fitted in—” he pursed his lips “—shall we say, three days?”

“Three days I’m to be without clothes?”

The tailor blinked at Quinn’s tone of outrage. Florence stood at once. “What he means is that he really needs the first outfit as soon as possible. His others were, er, damaged beyond repair.”

“Oh, rest assured, we shall have a few good outfits ready in no time.”

“Very well, we shall make do with what he has for the present.” She gave Quinn a stern look so he wouldn’t commit any more slips, before turning back to Bourke. “Mr. Kendall only needs some presentable suits, nothing too fancy. Shall we expect you Thursday morning then for the first fitting?”

“Nine o’clock, Miss Hathaway, if that is not too early for you?”

“Certainly not. Nine o’clock it is then.” She escorted the tailor to the door. “Why don’t you have a cup of coffee before you go?”

“That would be lovely….”

Their voices faded down the hall. “That would be lovely,” mimicked Jonah in a simpering tone. “In the meantime I continue flitting about in a nightshirt. I’m almost as much a prisoner in these fancy surroundings as I was back at Newgate.”

“What’s that about Newgate?”

Jonah jumped, but relaxed at the curate’s smiling face in the open doorway.

“Oh…just mumbling to myself.”

“I saw Mr. Bourke leaving. I trust your fitting went well.”

“If getting every inch of meself measured means a pair of trousers and shirt, then it went splendidly.”

Hathaway chuckled. “You’ll soon be walking around like a fine gentleman.”

Jonah harrumphed and marched back into his bed. “I’d as soon have a pair of trousers and a plain shirt o’ Albert’s if it meant going about clothed today.”

“Well, why not? I’ll talk to him straightaway. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind lending you something.”

Jonah’s eyes widened at the man’s ready assent. “You will?”

“Certainly. Why wouldn’t I? You must be tired of hanging about up here all day. I apologize for ignoring you most of yesterday. Sundays are busy days for us.”

“You had guests,” he began, thinking of the fancy coach he’d seen parked in front of the house as he’d whiled away the lonely hours upstairs.

He smiled. “Yes, the rector of the parish. Reverend Doyle. He’s a most learned man.” With a lift of his brows, he indicated the chair, and Jonah quickly nodded, realizing the man was asking his permission to sit down. It was his house, after all, his room, his bl—furniture, for goodness’ sake.

“He’s your boss, is he?”

Hathaway settled down in the straight-back chair. “Yes, you could say that. But more than that he’s a mentor and advisor. He’s taught me a lot over the years.” He rubbed the cloth of his knee breeches just above the wooden leg. “He’s the one who made it possible for me to attend university.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. His high recommendation to a local lord gave me favor with the gentleman, who paid for my studies there.”

“Your own kin didn’t have the blunt?”

“No. My father was a clockmaker, you see.”

“He wasn’t a gentleman?” He looked at the fine cut of the man’s coat. “But I thought you were a—”

Hathaway quirked an eyebrow, humor lighting his blue eyes. “A gentleman? No, I’m an artisan’s son. It shows how much a man can achieve with the proper education.”

Quinn shook his head. “But you’ve got to have a head for letters.”

“Yes. But there’s a lot the average person’s head is capable of if given half the chance.”

Quinn scratched at the stubble of his jaw. “You think so?”

“I know so. My sister and I teach children at the local orphanage in Marylebone. These children come from all levels of society, and yet they are like sponges.” The curate’s long fingers moved in animation. “You should see how quickly they learn their letters and numbers and are clamoring for more.”

“But they’re young. Their minds are, like you say, sponges.”

“Yes, that is so. An older person may be more set in his thinking, but that doesn’t mean his brain is less capable of learning if he sets his mind to it.”

Jonah merely shook his head.

“You’ll see, by week’s end, you shall be dressed like a gentleman and soon my sister shall have you speaking and behaving like one, too.”

He remembered Miss Hathaway’s exactitude during the fitting. “Miss Hathaway and Mr. Bourke seemed mighty particular about the sort of clothes I’m to wear. I never realized there was so much involved in dressing like a gentleman.”

Hathaway chuckled. “Don’t let it rattle you. I let Florence take over the selection of my wardrobe long ago, realizing she had a much better eye for such things than I did. Left to my own devices I’d probably wear the wrong waistcoat with the wrong coat, or a different colored pair of stockings—”

Jonah started to laugh until he glanced down and realized the man’s error. The wooden leg seemed to grow larger between the two of them. He coughed. “How did you, uh, lose the leg?”

Hathaway touched the leather strap holding the wooden peg in place. “A wagon ran over me as a child.”

Jonah widened his eyes at the calm tone.

“I was eight. I was in charge of herding a flock of ducks back to our pond and I ran after one, heedless of the traffic on the road.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“I was fortunate not to be killed altogether. But the Lord was merciful. He spared my life for my parents’ sake. They only had Florence and myself,” he explained.

Jonah shook his head at the young man’s lack of self-pity. He himself couldn’t get over the fact the curate wasn’t even the son of a gentleman. He’d never have guessed it. He made a very fine-looking gent from his golden brown hair to his aristocratic features. “Pity about the leg, though,” he said.

A flush was the only indication that the words might have caused him any discomfort. “Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise.”

Jonah cocked an eyebrow. “How do you figure that?”

“I think my, er, impediment has made me more readily submit to God with my whole heart.” His lips curved upward. “I can identify with Jacob in the Old Testament when he wrestled with the Angel of the Lord one night. Are you familiar with the story?”

Here it came. Was Hathaway going to evangelize him the way his sister did those at Newgate? “No…I never heard much o’ the Bible.”

“Pity. Well, Jacob wrestled an entire night with a stranger.”

Jonah leaned forward. A wrestling story, that sounded interesting.

“Jacob was going to meet his brother, whom he had wronged many years before.”

“Hmm. And he got into a fight?”

He grinned. “God met with him one night.”

Jonah raised an eyebrow.

“Jacob was all alone. God appeared in the form of a man and wrestled silently with him. It wasn’t until Jacob found it impossible to best him that he realized this was more than a mere mortal.”

“It was God?”

“The Bible says it was ‘the Angel of the Lord.’ Jacob was a shrewd fellow. When he perceived it was a divine being, he wouldn’t let go until he received a blessing.”

Jonah rubbed his bare head, still expecting to find thick hair there. “Can a man fight with God and come out alive?”

“If God has a purpose with that individual and must first wrestle with him to put to death the ‘old man.’”

“The old man?”

“The man in the flesh,” Hathaway explained. “He will always contend with the man of the spirit.”

“So, how do you figure all this in your own case?”

Hathaway smiled. “Well, to break the stalemate, the Angel eventually touched the hollow of Jacob’s thigh and it immediately became dislocated. Jacob walked with a limp for the rest of his life.”

“Ah.” He was beginning to see the connection. “So, would you say God fought with you and you lived through it but lost your leg?”

Hathaway’s eyes twinkled. “I would say, rather, I came out of that accident with a realization, earlier in life than most people, of how much I must depend on God.”

Jonah rubbed an earlobe. “You weren’t railing at God for such a misfortune?”

The curate shook his head, a far-off look in his blue eyes, as if he were seeing himself again. “I was only a lad of eight. My parents had raised me to know a God of love, not one of vengeance. After the terrible physical pain of the accident was over, I was faced with a different situation.”

Jonah waited.

“Being viewed with pity by my elders or with ridicule by my peers.”

“Aye.”

“I had to get used to people staring at the absence of a leg first thing, before they even looked at my face. I needed desperately to be able to hold my head up in public.” Hathaway continued more slowly, his long, lean fingers rubbing the cloth of his pant leg above the wooden peg. “I think this need made it easier for me, in a way, to submit to God. It made me understand more quickly God’s love for me.”

He gazed keenly at Jonah. “No matter how human beings were to treat me, I could be sure God did not look at the exterior man, this man of flesh with its glaring imperfection, but He looked deep into the interior of me, and saw the real man I was, whole and sound.”

Jonah shifted uncomfortably as he remembered the scorn he’d endured when he’d been shackled like a murderer and heard the clank of the iron-barred door closing behind him. He wasn’t one of those criminals, he’d wanted to rail at the turnkey, but all he’d seen was ridicule and derision on the grimy face.

“When I lost my leg, I learned the truth of the Scripture verse which says ‘my strength is made perfect in weakness.’ It might have taken me many more years to understand and submit to that teaching if it hadn’t been for the accident. I probably wouldn’t have achieved all that I did for a mere clockmaker’s son—gone to Oxford, been ordained as a clergyman, and now at the age of six-and-twenty gotten a curacy in the greatest city in the world.” He sat up and smiled. “I would probably be a simple watchmaker, working alongside my father in his small shop and content with that.”

Jonah cleared his throat. “Would that have been so bad? You had a roof over your head, a fair income, I’ll wager, and your family around you.” So many had far less.

Hathaway looked at him with understanding. “No, I’m sure I would have been content…but would the Lord have been?”