The Making of a Gentleman

by Ruth Axtell Morren

Miss Hathaway addressed her brother. “He’ll have to be shorn. I shall fetch the shears and a cloth to catch the hair. We’ll have to shave him as well. Pity we didn’t see this below stairs.”

  She spoke of him as if he wasn’t there, but before he could raise any objections, she had left the room.

  “Why don’t you finish your meal,” Mr. Hathaway said in a gentle tone.

  Jonah turned back to the remaining bread and butter, which no longer held any appeal. Before he could take it up, he sneezed.

  “It sounds like you’ve caught a chill,” the curate said, sympathy in his tone.

  “Aye.” Jonah picked up the piece of bread and forced himself to eat it. As soon as he’d swallowed the last bite, he lay back against the heaped-up pillows.

  Hathaway, immediately at his side, picked up the tray. He stood a moment and cleared his throat. “I’m glad you came to our house. It gives me a chance to thank you for not harming my sister the other day.”

  Jonah’s face heated at the memory of abducting an innocent woman. “I—”

  “She’s the only family I have left, and she’s very precious to me.” The curate’s face was so open and sincere that Jonah felt doubly ashamed.

  He’d once cared for his family like that. Only he’d lost them. He felt his throat swell up and something sting his eyes.

  Relieved to hear the sound of the door opening, he turned away from the curate.

  Miss Hathaway entered, equipped with a pair of shears, shaving blade and strop, followed by the old man carrying a steaming bowl of water and more towels.

  For a moment, Jonah’s gaze locked with Miss Hathaway’s. Only his wife had ever shorn him.

  “Good, he’s finished,” she said, addressing her brother. She proceeded to wrap the large cloth tightly about Jonah’s neck and secure it behind him. Her touch was deft and sure. “Come, Albert, you may shave him. As soon as you’re finished, I shall cut his hair.”

  Before he could react, she stepped away from him, and Mr. Nichols took her place. He laid a steamy hot towel against his beard and then proceeded to lather it. Slowly, Jonah eased himself back, enjoying the feeling of the hot, soapy water against his skin. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea….

  In a few efficient strokes, his beard was nearly gone. He brought a hand up to his cheek, hardly remembering what clean-shaven skin felt like.

  “Just a few more strokes, sir, and I’ll be done.”

  Jonah removed his hand.

  “There you go, sir, if you want to rinse your face off.”

  Jonah did so, then was handed a towel to dry himself off.

  Miss Hathaway stepped up to him, brandishing her shears. Without so much as a by-your-leave, she was clipping at his hair with quick movements. The sheet around his neck was soon covered in thick, black curls. He wondered if he had any hair left.

  “That’s as close as I can cut,” she told her brother. “I shall continue with the razor.”

  Razor? He shifted away from her. “What do you mean, razor?”

  She looked down at him. “It means I intend to shave your head. Now, sit still so I don’t nick you.”

  He turned to her brother. “Reverend, I—”

  “It’s the best way to ensure no vermin remains in your scalp,” Mr. Hathaway told him, his expression apologetic.

  Jonah brought a hand up to his hair. It felt short and spiky. “It seems most o’ my hair’s been cut away already.”

  “It will soon grow back, and with the proper—” he coughed “—hygiene, you should remain lice-free.”

  The next he knew, small but firm hands were working up a lather in his remaining locks. She really meant to shave his scalp. He pulled away from her.

  Miss Hathaway’s hand clamped down on his shoulder. “Sit still.”

  But he’d have no more of her treating him as if he were a half-wit. He threw the blankets off himself and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “No one’s touching my scalp,” he said, standing to his full height.

  She glared up at him. “Now see here, we’ll not have the house infested by vermin because of your stubbornness.” She pushed down on his shoulder, but he shoved her hand aside.

  “It is just a temporary measure,” her brother said, coming between them and laying a hand gently on Jonah’s arm. “You’ll see how quickly it grows back.”

  “It’s my scalp you’re talking about.”

  “You’re perfectly right. Permit me to apologize. You see, it’s probably our own fear of getting the lice that caused our overzealous reaction. Please forgive us for discussing your condition as if you weren’t present.”

  Jonah sneezed.

  Hathaway offered him another clean handkerchief. He looked at it a second, then slowly took it. Why was the curate being so generous after the fuss Jonah had raised? He blew his nose. “Well, I suppose if it’s the only way…”

  Hathaway eased him back against the pillows. “It’s the quickest and most effective treatment. Your hair will grow back in no time.”

  Jonah pulled the covers back over himself. “At least I won’t have to bother with a comb.”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  His sister moved to take away his pillows. “I shall have to change the casings. They’re likely infested already.” Disgust edged her words.

  He glared at her. Who did this stick of a woman think she was? “If you don’t want me here, just say the word and I’ll take my leave.” He shoved away from the brother’s hand and launched himself from the bed. Not two steps and his legs gave out, forcing him to clutch the bedpost. If he’d felt humiliated coming to this house before, standing now in his nightshirt, wobbling like a babe, was too much. “Where are my clothes?”

  Before he could take another step, a wave of dizziness swept through him. His hand slipped from the bedpost. His body hit the floor with a large thud.

  “Mr. Quinn! Oh, dear!” Miss Hathaway knelt at his side. He felt her touch on his shoulder. “Damien, we must get him into bed.”

  Hathaway crouched down at his other side. “Are you all right, Mr. Quinn?”

  Miss Hathaway’s soft hand went to his forehead. “He’s feverish. It’s no wonder, the way he was standing out in the rain. Mr. Quinn, can you stand if we help you?” Finally she was looking directly at him, her pale gray eyes showing real concern.

  He attempted to rise, feeling their assistance on either side of him, but he couldn’t stop shivering, so he just knelt there, teeth chattering, limbs trembling, sight blurring….

  Florence looked at her brother in alarm. “He’s very ill.”

  Damien felt his forehead and nodded. “Let me get Albert and see if we can get him back in bed.”

  “I think between the two of us we can manage.”

  Damien frowned. “I don’t know, he’s a large man.”

  The two of them put their arms under Quinn’s and began to hoist him up, but her brother was right. He was large and too heavy for the two of them to move.

  Quinn began to stir. His thick eyelashes fluttered upward and his green eyes looked into hers. “Wh-what—where am I?”

  “You’re here with us,” she said in a soothing tone. “You must have gotten light-headed. Do you think you can stand so we can help you back to bed?”

  Quinn blinked a few times as if focusing and finally shook his head as if to clear it. He reminded Florence of a great beast, except this time he no longer had shaggy locks to shake.

  With a deep breath, he strained his torso upward. Both Florence and Damien aided him at each side. His legs buckled under him when they finally got him upright.

  “Careful, there,” she murmured, feeling his weight fall upon her as she draped one of his arms over her shoulder. “You’re almost to the bed. Just a few more steps…”

  He collapsed against the headboard.

  Florence replaced the pillows she had removed earlier, deciding not to attempt to shave his scalp until he fell asleep, which by
the looks of things, would be in a matter of minutes.

  “Just lie back, Mr. Quinn.”

  “I believe he will go by Mr. Kendall from now on,” Damien said quietly.

  She looked across at her brother, who had walked to the other side of the bed and was tucking the blankets around the sleeping man.

  “It’s the name he gave Albert and Elizabeth.”

  “I see,” she said, adjusting the blankets on her side. She hadn’t thought of that issue. Her glance strayed to Quinn, who had closed his eyes, his thick lashes resting against the flushed cheeks. Although they’d helped many people who came to them, they’d never had a fugitive from the law under their roof. Of course he couldn’t use his own name. She chewed her lip, beginning to understand the full implications of offering Quinn refuge.

  Subterfuge, deception…it all came down to the same thing. They’d have to lie.

  She noticed Quinn still shivering despite the heavy blankets and placed a palm gently on his forehead again. It was quite warm to the touch. “Should we call Mr. Hershey?” she whispered to Damien.

  Before he could answer, Quinn’s eyelids shot up. “Who’s that?”

  “Our apothecary,” Damien said before she could answer.

  Quinn grabbed his arm. “Don’t tell a soul I’m here.”

  “It’s all right,” Damien soothed him. “You’re safe here.”

  “Swear to me, don’t…tell anybody…”

  “All right,” Damien agreed. Only then would Quinn release him. Florence tucked the blankets up closer to his chin. His jaw was clenched tight, as if to keep his teeth from chattering.

  “I’ll bring him some hot tea,” she said, and bent to turn down the lamp. Then she retrieved the supper tray. Once they got him quiet, she’d bring more hot water and finish her job with the razor.

  Chapter Four

  Florence wrung out a cloth and spread it across Quinn’s forehead, as she’d been doing over the past four days. It was now a fight for his life as fever racked his body. The man had not proved easy to nurse. His large, muscular frame thrashed about every time they tried to remove his wet nightshirt or move him the slightest to change the linens underneath him.

  She regarded him now. He slept peacefully at the moment, his face at rest. Gone were any traces of the savage-looking man who’d abducted her. In his place was an individual with strong, handsome features. His jaw was square. Either she or Albert had been shaving him to ensure he remained free of vermin. She’d grown to know the feel of every plane of his face. She knew the curve of the cleft of his chin to the small dimple placed in the center of it. Her eyes traveled over his smooth skull. She’d managed to shave it while he slept. His head was nicely shaped, as well as his ears, she noted, which didn’t stick out, but lay flat against the sides of his head.

  Her brother’s entry interrupted her contemplation. “How is he?” Damien asked in a low tone, approaching the opposite side of the bed.

  She sighed and sat back. “More or less the same. One moment the fever breaks, then a few hours later it’s back. I don’t like the sound of his cough either.”

  Damien nodded and bent over Quinn, feeling his cheek with the back of his hand. “Yes.”

  “He continues delirious.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard him. He seems most disquieted over several things. Probably due to his recent experience on the gallows and daring escape. It’s understandable.”

  “Yes. He mentions a Judy and Mary and…a Joshua,” she said, recalling the names. “I wonder if they are his family.” She refrained from voicing the obvious—his wife and children. Strangely, she could not picture him as a husband and father, when she’d seen him only as alone and on the run.

  “Likely. Why don’t you let me sit with him a while?”

  Why did she feel loath to leave Quinn’s bedside? Florence glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Almost half past ten in the evening. “You need your rest. You are preaching tomorrow.”

  “I won’t stay up long. It will give me an opportunity to go over my sermon.”

  In truth, her neck and shoulders ached with fatigue. “If you’re sure,” she said slowly. At his nod, she rose from her chair and took up her needlework from the table.

  When Damien had seated himself in her vacated chair, she lingered at the foot of the bed. “You haven’t decided yet what to do about Mr. Qui—Kendall?”

  “I don’t think there is much we can decide until the fever passes.”

  “And if it…shouldn’t?” It was the first time she’d allowed herself to voice the thought she’d fought to keep at bay. She couldn’t believe this man’s life was to be for naught.

  Damien adjusted the blankets on that side of Quinn. “I don’t think the Lord saved this soul from the gallows to take him so quickly. We must wait and see what He would have us do.”

  Her brother’s words reassured her. “Of course.”

  With a murmured good-night, she departed the room. If Damien felt as she did, it must be more than her own personal desire to wish to see Quinn well and strong. All she desired was for the Lord to have His perfect way in this man’s life.

  Jonah felt alternately as if he were being beaten with a rod or his body was once more huddled outside in the icy cold. At those times, he couldn’t get warm, and his body shook so his teeth rattled. The pounding between his temples wouldn’t go away.

  He’d fall asleep only to find himself back in the dungeon of Newgate, lying against the dark stone walls of his cell. Or worse, feeling the rope around his neck and knowing in a few seconds it would be jerked against him with bruising strength. In those moments, he couldn’t move, no matter how much he thrashed about. His body felt trussed like a bird’s, helpless to do anything but swing in the air as he gasped for air.

  He’d wake up shivering to brief moments of light. His surroundings seemed warm but he couldn’t get any of that warmth into his bones. Different faces hovered over his, pressing cold compresses against his skin, chilling him even more, or thrusting spoonfuls of warm broth or foul-tasting liquids into his mouth. He welcomed the former as the heat soothed his sore throat and struggled against swallowing the latter.

  Strong arms would hold him back and a stern voice would scold him. “Come, Mr. Quinn, you must drink this if you hope to be well.”

  He knew that voice. Firm, uncompromising. It belonged to that woman, the prison lady with the spare frame and pale features. Once he’d opened his eyes and stared straight into her light-colored ones—either washed-out blue or gray.

  “You aren’t going to die on us now, Mr. Quinn. You haven’t put us to all this trouble to give up the ghost now.” With that she’d placed another ice-cold cloth on his forehead.

  Sometimes she called him Kendall, sometimes Quinn, which confused him. He hadn’t the strength to argue with her. His body needed all its force to fight against the chills racking it.

  Other times he’d awaken to see a pretty young woman hovering over him. She reminded him of his Judy. Plump, dark haired and rosy cheeked. This one, though, looked scared most of the time. Was he that frightening to look at? Once he’d been considered not a bad-looking sort, back in his youth. He could have had his pick of the lasses, but he’d chosen Judy for her saucy smile and curvy figure.

  He remembered calling for Judy and little Mary and Joshua more than once. He kept hoping they’d answer, but only soft murmurs greeted his words.

  Then finally came that night when he felt drenched. The linens clung to him. He didn’t think he could sweat so much.

  “God be praised. The fever has broken.” The woman’s voice again.

  “Hallelujah.” Her brother’s lower, gentler one responded. Jonah struggled to open his eyes as strong arms helped him sit up. “Come, sir, let me help you with this nightshirt. It’s soaking.”

  It was lifted off him and another, dry, one was put over him, enveloping him in its clean warmth.

  “We must remove the sheets as well.�
� The woman’s hand gripped him lightly by one shoulder, helping to keep him upright.

  Before he could move, they had stripped the sheet from under him and were smoothing a dry one in its place. Then the covers were removed and a dry sheet placed over him, the blankets replaced and the pillows plumped up behind him.

  “Here, drink this.” Miss Hathaway’s hand came up under his neck and helped prop him forward to take a sip from a glass. Cool liquid slipped down his throat, which no longer hurt to swallow, he discovered. He began to gulp down the liquid, a watery, slightly sweetened drink, bringing his hand up to the cup to lift it farther.

  “There now, careful or you’ll spill it.” He could already feel it dribbling down his chin. Miss Hathaway removed the cup and brought a cloth up to wipe him. “Would you care for some more?”

  He nodded, not sure if his vocal cords were going to respond properly. She raised the glass to his mouth and this time he drank more carefully.

  “There. Mustn’t overdo on the first day.” She placed the glass on the table and patted his mouth once more before helping him to lie back against the pillows.

  She smelled the same as the cake of soap he’d used the first night here. The lavender scent brought back the evening of his first bath and decent meal. “How—” He stopped, his voice raspy beyond recognition.

  “What’s that?” She had leaned closer to him and peered at him. He had the sense those gray eyes missed little. After nursing him through this bout, she’d probably seen more of his hide than most people.

  He attempted to clear his throat and instead erupted in a paroxysm of coughing.

  “Easy there, Mr. Qu—” She handed him a handkerchief. “Your fever has broken, but your lungs are still quite congested.”

  When his coughing had subsided, he began again. “How long’ve I been lying here?”

  “Nearly a fortnight. You came to us on a Saturday eve, and it is now Wednesday, the fifth of March.”

  He laid his head back and shut his eyes. February had gone by without his recollection, except for blurred images.

  No sooner had his head touched the pillowcase than he sensed the difference. His fingers touched his scalp. It felt the way his chin did when he hadn’t shaved in a few days.