The Making Of A Gentleman. Ruth Axtell Morren

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      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?

      Chapter Three

      Florence walked from the chapel through the dark orchard to the rear of the parsonage. The rain fell in cold hard drops and she was glad of her hood. She had just finished arranging things on the altar for tomorrow’s service.

      She quickened her step while trying to avoid the muddy puddles, but it was impossible to see them all in the dark. Ahead, the lights of the house windows beckoned with their golden glow. She fumbled with the latch of the door to the walled kitchen garden. The box hedge brushed its stubby wet branches against her, sending forth its pungent odor. They’d have to trim it back come spring.

      A sudden rustling made her heart jump. She froze.

      “Who’s there?” her voice rapped out. A vagrant or Gypsy seeking a roof over his head for the night?

      A large figure moved from the shadows. “You said I could come to you.”

      More than his voice, she recognized his size. “Mr. Quinn!”

      “Shh! I’m a wanted man, if you haven’t forgotten.” He stepped closer.

      His face was filthy and haggard. Dark circles ringed his eyes. She wasted no more time on questions. “Come along. You’ll freeze out here.” Without a backward glance, she quickened her step along the stone path. How long had he been standing there in the freezing rain?

      “Oh!” She felt her foot slip on a slick stone. Before she could land on her backside, a strong grip stopped her fall. She well remembered that iron hold.

      He let her go as soon as she regained her balance. “Watch your step.”

      “Tha-thank you.” She straightened. “Come along,” she said, her tone firmer than she felt inside.

      Where had he been since she’d last seen him? It had been, she calculated, five days. She’d prayed for him each one and thanked the Lord that he was still free—if alive—since her visits to Newgate had told her he hadn’t been apprehended.

      They’d only questioned her minimally. Few people had even been aware she’d been grabbed by the prisoner. The warden let the matter drop when she gave him the scant details of her abduction. She was thankful she hadn’t had to lie. She’d merely told them Jonah Quinn had let her go once he’d found a hiding place. She had told them nothing of the location of the cellar. In truth, she would have no idea how to find it again herself.

      They reached the back door to the parsonage. Quinn closed it behind them and she turned to look at him in the lamplight. The warm glow only emphasized his drawn cheeks and rough beard, all dripping from the rain.

      “My goodness, you must be frozen.” He wore the same jacket and breeches she remembered, everything soaked through. “Come along to the fire.”

      She gestured to the bench in front of the hearth. “Sit down, while I fetch my brother and some dry things for you.”

      He looked as if he wanted to say something, but she hurried from the room. It was a miracle if the man didn’t catch his death.

      She rushed to her brother’s study first. “Damien, you must come immediately.”

      “What is it, Flo?” he asked, half rising from his desk chair.

      “It’s him. He’s come.”

      “Who?”

      “The escaped prisoner, Jonah Quinn.”

      He dropped his pen. “Where is he?”

      “I’ve brought him to the kitchen. He’s chilled to the bone. Who knows how long he’s been standing in the garden.”

      Damien СКАЧАТЬ