The Making Of A Gentleman. Ruth Axtell Morren

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ