Читать книгу The Making Of A Gentleman - Ruth Axtell Morren - Страница 9

Jonah opened his eyes. He tensed, as he’d done every morning in his solitary cell in Newgate. The fire pit in front of him brought reality back in a jumble of images.

The feel of the rough hemp about his neck. The cap over his face blocking out the sea of faces in front of him.

He was going to die, and he didn’t know if he’d disgrace himself before the crowd. How they loved a good show. Would he suffocate quickly, his short, insignificant life snuffed out, or would the rope prove uncooperative and leave him swinging there for agonizing minutes?

Before he’d been isolated in the condemned man’s cell, he’d heard richly detailed stories from other prisoners of how chancy a clean death was. Often the hangman would have to pull on a prisoner’s legs so he’d die the quicker. A rare prisoner even survived the hanging, his throat raw and bruised, only to have to face the rope the next day.

Jonah didn’t think he could go through such a proceeding twice.

Despite his bravado, he’d been terrified. He’d stared at the dank, stone ceiling of his cell as the hours ticked by, and contemplated his demise. What would the morrow bring? Where would his soul go after the rope cut off the breath from his body? Or would his life be ended for good?

He passed a hand in front of his eyes now, wiping away the last horrible memories. His shoulders ached from his position on the floor, though he was used to a hard surface from the wooden pallet in his cell. The fire had long since gone out. His feet felt numb.

Quiet breathing alerted him that he wasn’t alone. The prison lady.

She—he didn’t even know her name—still sat on the chair, but now her head rested on her arms and it was obvious she slept. She looked peaceful and harmless. He laughed inwardly, thinking how little the image reflected the reality. The woman’s words were like barbs, pointed and skillfully aimed at a man’s weaknesses.

They’ll flush you out like a partridge. Her pale eyes had taunted him, her tone as self-assured as the presiding judge’s at the Old Bailey. You would have been condemned to a fate worse than mere death if you had swung on that gallows today.

What did she know of his life? Who was she to judge? Had she ever been accused of a crime she didn’t commit? How would she have responded to a rope around her neck? Would all her preaching help her then? Not for a moment had she truly noticed the man in front of her.

He observed her in her sleep now, her back rising and falling in an even rhythm. A strange curl of something snaked through his gut. Something he hadn’t felt in so long. Then her cutting words rose again and he saw her for what she was. His prisoner.

The tables were turned. He, the prisoner, with a prisoner of his own. He wasn’t quite sure why he hadn’t let her go once he was away from Newgate. Surety against the soldiers? Perhaps. Although he doubted the value of one woman’s life to the soldiers. Especially such a scrawny one. He remembered how slight she’d felt when he’d half dragged, half carried her along the streets.

He shrugged. It no longer mattered. He’d let her go soon. She was of no use to him now. He’d have enough trouble keeping his own hide in safety. Two would be nigh on impossible.

He stood and listened but could discern no noises from the street. If the soldiers hadn’t ferreted him out here, he might actually have a fighting chance. For the first time since his escape, he began to believe in his freedom. It had happened so quickly. One moment facing his death, the next offered a chance at liberty.

He didn’t even know who had organized his rescue. From the few words he’d exchanged with the cove who’d led him here, it sounded like an underworld boss. He certainly didn’t have the kind of friends who’d risk their lives for him. If anything, circumstances had proved how quickly his acquaintances in the city would betray him.

Eventually they’ll catch you. The prison woman’s words came back to him…again. He threw an angry look at her sleeping form. How dare she invade his mind with her convictions? She was a nothing, a self-righteous little nothing.

And yet, her direct words, those clear gray eyes that cut through to a man’s soul, haunted him, worsening his restlessness. He rose to his feet and paced, ignoring the pins and needles as his feet came back to life.

He thought of the many eyes in this rookery. Even when the streets appeared deserted, there were dozens of watchers from the broken and boarded-up windows. How long before someone turned him in? What if the Crown offered a reward for his capture?

He halted. Suddenly the walls seemed to be closing in on him, and he remembered the feeling of confinement in the dungeonlike cell at Newgate. He would not go back to that. They’d not catch him, he swore. They wouldn’t! He’d die first.

The woman stirred and raised her head. Her hand went to her bonnet, half fallen off. Then she turned and her gaze met Jonah’s.

“’Bout time you woke up.”

“How long have I been asleep?” she asked, rubbing her eyes. The sight of her slim pale hands curled against her face gave her a vulnerability she’d lacked before, and Jonah felt an odd protectiveness sweep over him. What had she been thinking, exposing herself to prisoners and mobs? He remembered the other man’s lewd words when he’d left him and they sickened him. This woman had a refinement that belonged to the drawing room, not hiding out in a hovel on Saffron Hill with a fugitive.

He remembered holding the knife to her delicate neck and guilt stabbed him. She smoothed back her hair while he watched. What was he going to do with her? He shrugged to hide his dismay. “You’re the one with the watch.”

She fumbled beneath her cloak and finally managed to extract the timepiece. “It’s almost six o’clock.”

“It’ll be dark outside.”

She pushed her hair away from her forehead and looked at the cold grate.

Her longing for a fire was clear. To distract her, he said, “I haven’t heard any hoofbeats on the road above us so the search hasn’t reached this quarter.”

“Yet.”

He glared at her and turned back around. To think he’d felt a moment of pity for her.

She began to untie the ribbons of her bonnet and proceeded to remove it. She wore her light brown hair in a simple knot and her cloak was gray. Was she a Quaker? Despite her plain appearance, she had the air of a lady. It was more than her speech. It was something in her gestures and the cut of her clothes. Not that he’d ever had much contact with ladies in his life.

“You said you didn’t know you were to be set free today, but did you know any of the men who stormed the gallows?” she asked.

“I had little time to see anything once the cap was removed from me eyes.”

“Did you recognize any of them?” she persisted.

He frowned at her, wondering why the close questioning. Was she going to go to the authorities as soon as he released her? “I don’t know nothing of any of ’em! And it’s best you probably know as little as possible.”

She arched a thin eyebrow at him.

He folded his arms across his chest. Did nothing cow her? “You’re bound to be questioned once you return to your nice, cozy house.”

She nodded slowly. “My reason in asking was to wonder if these men have made any provision for your escape. Will they take you somewhere else now?”

He turned and resumed his walk in the small space, not liking to be reminded of the future. “I wouldn’t think they’d chance further involvement. It was dangerous enough what they did.”

“Yes. If any were caught, they’d be up for treason.” When he said nothing, she gave him that weighing look. “So, you are on your own now.”

He shrugged as if the idea didn’t bother him at all. “It’s not the first time.”

She chewed her lip a moment. “I have a suggestion.”

He stilled but said nothing.

“My brother might be able to help you.”

Was it possible? This sharp-tongued woman was offering him help? True, she had conceded he might be innocent, but to involve herself further, that entailed quite some risk. “Your brother?” was all he could think to say.

“Yes. He lives with me…I mean, I live with him. I…keep house for him.” For the first time, she seemed nervous. Perhaps she realized the folly of dragging someone else into this mess and making him an accessory to a crime.

“How could he help a man in my shoes?”

“I d-don’t know exactly, but he is very wise. He might know of somewhere you could go. He might be able to help you out of the country. I don’t know…He’s very levelheaded. He won’t give you away.”

“Who is he? Someone of importance?” Was she a wealthy nob and he hadn’t realized it?

“Not in earthly terms. He’s a curate.”

He turned away, angry at himself for the spurt of hope he’d allowed her words to give him. “Ach! I can see the kind of help you have in mind.”

“I was thinking in terms of material help in this case, not spiritual, although, you will need that as well. He is not rich, by any means, but I’m sure he’ll help you in any way he can.”

He refused to listen to any more. No doubt she was still only trying to save his soul, to make up for her failure with him in Newgate. Walking to the door, he pressed his ear to it. So far, silence. Carefully, he opened it, and stood listening a while longer. Nothing. He stepped out.

“Where are you going?”

“Wait here.” Ignoring the note of worry in her voice, he proceeded up the stairs. Time to scout out the street and decide if the moment had come to move.

The street was dark. A few shadowy figures hurried along it. He could leave and skirt down the nearest alley. Best head toward Clerkenwell.

When he reentered the cellar, the woman had removed the pins from her hair until it fell loose about her shoulders. She was combing it through with her fingers. For a second his gut clenched, remembering his wife’s similar motions with the tortoiseshell comb he had bought for her one time from a tinker.

When the woman noticed him watching her, she quickly gathered her hair in her hands and wound it back up in a tight knot.

“It’s time to leave,” he said.

She replaced the pins in her hair, then stood and straightened her cloak, her movements quick and efficient.

He came to the table and wrapped the food up. Corking the bottle, he placed the things back into the satchel and flung it over his shoulder. Who knew when he’d have more?

He turned and found her standing near him. She was above medium height, the top of her bonnet reaching to his temple. Her pale gray eyes looked at him calmly. For a woman who had been abducted and kept hostage, she had shown an amazing amount of courage.

Suddenly, his conscience smote him. He couldn’t very well leave her in this rookery. Despite his months in the brutal surroundings of Newgate, he remembered a time when he’d been among civilized people. Men who respected women.

He swallowed, remembering his own wife again. He’d never have left her to fend for herself in such a pit. He pushed open the door and gestured. “Either come with me and be quiet about it, or I’ll leave you in this stew to find your own way out.”

She followed silently behind him as he climbed the stairs once more. They stood in the doorway of the derelict building some time before he ventured out. Finally taking her by the arm in a sure, but not rough, grip and placing a finger to his lips, he stepped out of the overhang of the doorway.

Jonah had a fairly good knowledge of the layout of the neighborhood. He’d spent most of the past year since arriving in London in the surrounding areas, before they’d thrown him into Newgate. His eyes strained through the darkness, knowing that although no one was about, there was no telling how many people watched the street. It was an area where few lingered after dark and most had something they preferred hiding.

He reached an alley and walked down it, skirting the piles of litter. A cat let out an outraged meow and jumped up onto a jagged brick wall.

Their boots crunched over the thin layer of ice that now covered the puddles. He turned left and went down a narrower path. Another turn, then another, and they left the open area and were once more hidden by buildings.

He spared her a glance. “Where do you live?”

“Just outside Marylebone, beyond the Uxbridge Road tollhouse.” She kept her words brief, as if understanding the need for quiet.

“I don’t know that part of town. I’ll leave you where you can get a hack.”

They skirted another building then went down another alley. Soon the streets widened and more pedestrians and carriages were to be seen. He made a wide circle around Gray’s Inn. He knew he was taking a grave risk entering this neighborhood, especially so early in the evening, but he’d made up his mind he wouldn’t leave this innocent woman alone in the stews of London.

Suddenly a crowd of uniformed men turned the corner just as he was ready to emerge from an alleyway onto a main street. Horse guards, by the jingle of their spurs against the cobblestones. Jonah jerked to a stop, pulling the woman by her middle against him. He didn’t have a chance to unsheathe his knife to hold to her throat or cover her mouth with his hand. He didn’t dare move, didn’t dare breathe, nor make the slightest sound to draw the men’s attention as they passed in front of him.

One of them slipped and clutched at his companion’s arm.

“By George, Harry, have a care,” the other admonished, giving him a shove that sent him dangerously close to where Jonah was standing. “If you can’t hold your liquor, you belong with the Grenadiers!” Laughter rang out all around them.

By their tone, they were likely leaving a tavern and not on a manhunt. Even so, if one so much as turned in his direction, they’d see him where he stood only a few feet away in the shadows. His attention slid to the woman in front of him. Her bonnet hid half his face. He could feel her slim frame beneath his grip. All she had to do was call out and he’d be finished.

As the seconds ticked by, he realized his entire future hung on this woman’s whim. The sweat broke out on his forehead and armpits. His heart pumped in deafening thuds as he relived those last moments on the gallows.

Then the soldiers were gone. Their laughter faded, as did their footfalls on the cobbles. The ensuing silence was only broken by his heartbeat. Slowly, he loosened his hold on the woman’s midriff. She stepped a few inches away from him, as if awaiting his next move.

She hadn’t given him away. He swallowed, still scarcely believing his good fortune. He took a large gulp of the frigid air, breathing in the taste of freedom.

He mustn’t risk another near encounter with the law. Taking her arm once again, he crossed the street after a quick look up and down it. He led her at a rapid pace a few more blocks on a less-traveled side street. Finally he stopped.

“If you walk in that direction,” he said, gesturing, “you’ll come to Red Lion Square. Continue a little farther and you’ll reach Holborn. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding a hack there to take you where you live.” He thought of something. “Do have any blunt to pay your fare?” He certainly had nothing to give her.

She nodded. “I’ll manage.”

“All right. I’ll leave you here.” He swallowed, finding it hard to say the next words. It had been a long time since he’d felt gratitude to anyone for anything. “And…uh…thanks for holding your tongue back there.”

“I told you I wouldn’t give you away.” Through the darkness, he could feel her straightforward look. “Don’t forget my offer. If you find nowhere to go, come to my brother. St. George’s Chapel on St. George’s Row just above Hyde Park. You’ll not be turned away by the Reverend Damien Hathaway.”

He shifted on his feet. “I don’t expect you’ll be seeing the likes o’ me unless it’s at the end o’ the noose. I’ll be long gone from London ere you wake up tomorrow.”

She shook her head. “You’re a fool. Look at you. You don’t even have a greatcoat. How long are you going to survive in this cold?”

“I survived this long. I’ll manage.”

They stood eyeing each other for another few seconds. Would he ever see her again? Strange how the thought gave him pause. Even now, she was berating him, and yet he felt she meant him good and not harm.

Without another word, she pulled the hood of her cloak over her bonnet and turned away from him. His hand almost reached out to stop her, but then he dropped it back to his side. What had he meant by the gesture? What could he say to her?

In a certain sense, he owed her his life.

Her footsteps took her rapidly in the direction he’d pointed and she disappeared into the night.

He stood a second longer before hurrying back into a side street and toward the East End of London.

Florence stumbled from the hackney after a long ride across London. Her stiff fingers fumbled with her purse. Finally, she paid her fare and turned toward her house.

She breathed in the fresh, cold air. Her neighborhood seemed more like a village than a part of London. Beyond the parsonage lay orchards and fields. She walked up the steps to the large brick house where she and her brother lived since he’d been given the curacy of the small chapel.

She tried hard to forget the image of Mr. Quinn with his dirty clothes that offered so little protection from the elements. If he returned to the cellar, there was no wood left for a fire. Or would he head out of London on the Great North Road and hope to sleep under cover of a forest?

It would be harder to hide in a village.

She shut the front door behind her as the rattle of the coach faded in the distance. Familiar warmth enveloped her.

“Florence! I thought I heard someone come in. Thank God, you’re alive!” Damien hurried toward her, his arms outstretched, his pace fast in spite of his wooden leg.

They were not a generally demonstrative family, but it felt good right then to be held in a warm embrace. He smelled good, too, his cravat freshly starched, a great contrast to the stink of the other man and his surroundings.

Damien pulled away from her. His blue eyes searched her face. “Tell me what happened, where you’ve been, I heard so many stories.”

“I hoped you wouldn’t be worried.” She slipped out of his embrace and began to undo the clasp of her cloak. “First, let me get near the fire. It’s a raw night.”

“Of course, forgive me for keeping you standing here.” He took her cloak and bonnet and hung them on the hook. “I must also let Albert and Elizabeth know you are back. They were most concerned.”

“Yes, let me go to the kitchen at once.”

She spent the next several minutes assuring their two old retainers that she indeed was safe and sound. Finally she was able to sit with her brother in his study, her feet on the fender, a hot cup of tea in her hands.

“I’ve been praying for you since this morning, Florrie.” Damien used the nickname she hadn’t heard since they’d been children. “I heard there’d been a storming of the gallows and you’d disappeared in the fray. Some said you were abducted, others that you’d been crushed by the mob. It took a troop of guards quite some time to subdue the crowds.”

She shuddered, remembering the violent mob. “That explains how Quinn was able to get away. I can still scarcely believe what happened. The hangman was ready to release the drop, when all of a sudden a dozen men besieged the gallows and cut down the prisoner a second before his feet would have dangled in the air.” She put a hand to her cheek, picturing it all again. “The next thing I knew Quinn had grabbed me and was holding a knife to my throat.”

Damien drew in a sharp breath.

She raised her eyes to meet his gaze. “I’m sure he thought to use me as a shield.” She refrained from telling him how close she had come to having the guard’s pike embedded in her.

“How cowardly to grab a woman. Did he hurt you?”

“No.” She pictured the events as she stared into the fire. “I think he reacted out of pure fear—fear of being recaptured,” she added, remembering the man’s fierce look when she’d mentioned the authorities closing in. “As soon as he made his way through the mob, most of whom sympathized with the prisoner, I must say, he just kept going.” She shook her head. “I wonder if he even intended to take me at all. It almost seemed as if he simply forgot to let go of me.” Her arm was still tender from his bruising grip.

Damien reached across and covered her hand with his. “How terrifying for you.”

She smiled. “I know. Oddly enough, after a while, I was no longer afraid. I was too stunned by how the Lord was answering prayer.” She leaned forward. “The man was set to die. The Lord has given him a stay of execution. Jonah Quinn was not ready to face his Maker, in the state he was in.”

Damien nodded, a small smile curving his lips. “It certainly seems like the hand of the Lord when I see it was you out of all the crowd who was taken.”

Florence went on to describe where they had hidden out all day.

Damien shook his head in wonder. “And he didn’t hurt you.”

“No. I think he was more bluster than real threat.” For such a fierce-looking man, he’d behaved almost…gallantly, even to bringing her at great risk to himself to a place where she could get a hackney. She recalled their near brush with the soldiers.

What would her fate have been in the hands of another sort, like the fellow who had led them to the hideout? She shivered.

“Did they search for him very long?” she asked her brother.

“They spent more time subduing the mob, from what I heard. It has certainly caused an uproar. I think it’s the first time, in memory at least, that someone has escaped the gallows. The Crown will be nervous with the unrest there’s been since the war. They’re already saying it’s the Jacobins who are responsible.”

“The prisoner claimed ignorance of his rescuers.”

“He could be speaking the truth.” Damien cleared his throat. “They’re sure to question you once they know you’re back.”

She frowned into her tea. “There’s little I can tell them, or wish to.”

“Did you get any sense of its having been planned?”

She looked at her brother, her heart heavy. “No. I don’t think there is even a plan for Quinn to hide out or be smuggled abroad. It’s only a matter of time before the authorities find him.”

Damien nodded thoughtfully, his own glance straying to the fire. “So many poor unfortunates housed in Newgate. They won’t have any mercy on this man if they catch him.”

“He insisted on his innocence right up to the end.” A wave of desolation swept through her when she remembered how alone he’d looked when she’d left him. She’d been so sure the Lord had called her for a special purpose in the man’s life.

She looked at her brother sadly. “I wasn’t able to get through to Mr. Quinn at all. He remained deaf to any of my admonitions to seek the help of the Lord. He disappeared into the night where he left me and I doubt I shall ever see him again.” She paused and hesitated on the next words. “I even told him he could come here, that you would be able to help him in some way. I felt sure…” She stared unseeing into her teacup.

“Don’t fret. You were obedient in going where the Lord led you and witnessing to this unfortunate soul. You have nothing to reproach yourself with. You must trust the Lord now to finish the work begun in Mr. Jonah Quinn.”

His swarthy face came to her mind. Underneath the filth and foul language, she’d sensed a man of substance. A soul worth saving.

Lord, help him find You, she prayed silently. The streets of London could be cold and inhospitable.

Jonah spent the next few days moving from one abandoned cellar to another, searching through the refuse around Westfield Market by night for a scrap of food. When he was able to find some fuel, he hazarded a fire in the various hovels, but he dared not risk detection. He trusted no one around him. He had no contact with those who had rescued him and gave up hoping for more. He was on his own, the way he’d been since his wife and children had perished.

It had been their doom the day they’d come to London. But what else could he have done once the open fields around his village had been enclosed? They’d been left with no land to graze their few cows or grow any wheat. With the war lasting so long, the price of wheat kept going up, so they could hardly buy bread anymore.

Jonah pushed the memories from his mind. It did no good to go over the same thoughts. What was done was done. He couldn’t change a single fact of his miserable destiny.

He had no funds, precious little food, not even a coat he could huddle under.

He was beyond help.

It was only a matter of time before he’d die of exposure or the authorities would catch him. Already he’d felt a burning in his throat that had grown worse each day until he could hardly swallow. The gin was long since gone, so there was nothing to relieve the pain.

He scratched his itchy scalp then folded his arms once more over his chest, tucking his fingers under his armpits. How had he gone from a life of hard work but basic satisfaction at the end of the day to the life of a virtual beggar in the city?

He’d never wanted much. Life had been good the way it was. He’d come home to Judy and the two babes, eat his plate of potatoes or bread and butter, sometimes with a piece of bacon, stretch out his legs before the fire, then retire for the night in their small cottage. That life seemed one of a king now.

The decline had come fast, starting when he could find no work in the city because he was an “unskilled laborer.” He’d learned the meaning of that term quickly on. His wife had been more fortunate at first, finding piecemeal work, picking over silk for a family in Spitalfields. But with the difficulties in that industry, the employment had soon dried up.

He’d only managed to find work for a few days at a time, mainly digging ditches. The day he was forced to snitch a piece of fruit off a market stand to bring something home to the wee ones, he thought he’d sunk as low as a fellow could.

For a while Judy had taken in laundry, but it left her exhausted, her hands worn, and when the cold weather set it, she’d gotten sickly spending so much time wet. One by one, the little ones had also succumbed to the fever until Jonah had been the only one left.

That’s when he’d met a cove by the name of Stevens. He’d seemed an upright gentleman with an honest trade. He’d promised Jonah employment in his shop. The wages were low, but Jonah was desperate enough to take anything.

The job had been humble enough. Sweeping the shop, unloading the wares from the delivery wagons, all used goods, sorting through the dirty clothing and odd assortment of wares. Gradually, Jonah had grown to wonder at the steady supply of merchandise, especially when he’d seen the number of pocket watches and rings. When he’d begun to ask questions, his boss had laughed and told him to mind his own business.

Then came that fateful day when Mr. Stevens had asked him, with that cherubic smile on his face, to take the banknote to one of his suppliers.

The next day, he’d been accused by the man of passing a false bill.

It was only during the long months sitting in Newgate awaiting his trial that Jonah had pieced it all together. Stevens’s shop had been nothing more than a front for stolen goods. When Jonah had begun to question things, Stevens had seen that it was time to get rid of him. No one had believed Jonah’s simple denials in the face of the evidence of the forged note. The evidence was irrefutable. The trial had lasted no more than five minutes before he was declared guilty and sentenced to hang.

Jonah bowed his head on his folded arms. Why did he fight against the inevitable any longer? Why not give up the ghost and be done with it?

A woman’s sharp words pushed past the despair engulfing him. If you find nowhere to go, come to my brother…. You’ll not be turned away by the Reverend Damien Hathaway.

She’d not given him away when she’d had the chance.

Despite her snappish tongue, she’d proved to be a true and stalwart ally.

Was she his only hope?