The Making Of A Gentleman

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.

Chapter Five

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.