The Making of a Gentleman

by Ruth Axtell Morren

  He poured the tea into their two cups. Heartbeat rising again, she scooted over to make room for him beside her on the bench. He set down her cup beside her and sat down with his own. As before in the scullery, his brawny frame filled the space, and she had to resist the urge to move herself an inch or two away from him.

  He glanced sidelong at her. “So, you really think it’s going to work, turning me into a gentleman?”

  She fiddled with her teaspoon, trying to think how to answer. She didn’t want to discourage him, and yet she didn’t want to give him false hopes. “I pray it will for your sake…and my brother’s.”

  “You’re afraid if I get caught, they’ll blame your brother. What can they do to a clergyman?”

  She closed the opening of her dressing gown tighter about her neck. “That shows how little you know. Can you imagine what it will do to his reputation if it is discovered he harbored an escaped convict? Why, I’m sure it’s considered breaking the law, if not worse—perhaps even treason. His clerical collar would probably not prevent his being locked up.”

  “Imagine that. You’d be visiting your own brother at Newgate,” he said with a chuckle.

  She glared at him, finding nothing amusing in the scenario. “I hardly think that’s something to joke about.”

  His eyes, looking dark and reflecting the firelight, studied her. “Sometimes I make jokes when things are too serious.”

  “I’d probably end up sitting alongside of him in his cell for that matter.” Suddenly, she had to smile at the incongruous image of the two of them locked up together.

  “Except you’d probably wind up in the women’s cell, and there’s no telling whether you’d be able to see him or not.”

  They fell silent again. Then he said, “You two care a great deal for each other.”

  She shrugged, uncomfortable with the topic. Others had called her overprotective. “We’re all we have left of our family.”

  “He said the same thing to me.”

  “Did he?” When had Damien discussed their relationship with him? “You know what it’s like to lose those you love.”

  “Yes.”

  “You have no family left up in…Bedfordshire?”

  He glanced away from her and back toward the fire. “Yes, some kin, but I’ve lost touch with them. I’m sure no one would want to acknowledge a convict, much less a runaway one, now.”

  “Yes. It could be dangerous for them.”

  “So, you’re stuck with me for the present. Which brings me back to my question. You think this playacting will work?”

  “It depends partially on you.”

  His eyebrows rose. “How so? I’ve felt I really have very little to do with any decisions these days.”

  “But only you can decide whether you want to carry out our suggestions about your—er—conduct.”

  He shook his head, his eyes filled with amusement. “I think I’ve been behaving with a vast deal of restraint.” He ran his hand over his head. “Having my head shaved off to start with.”

  “But it’s growing back.” She frowned. “That reminds me, you must do your best to shave every morning.” She peered in the glowing light from the fire at his shadowy jawline. “Perhaps even in the afternoon if we are going out in the evening or expecting guests.”

  He rubbed the same hand over his jaw, and she swallowed at the raspy sound, her throat dry. “Not used to shaving so often. Twice a day? How can a man find the time for so much grooming?”

  “Gentleman implies a man with ample leisure on his hands,” she answered, trying to ignore the sensation that the sight of his forefinger continuing to rub across his cheek caused her.

  “So you’ll be willing to show me off in company?”

  “Of course. We must be able to pass you off in company to ensure that no one recognizes you.”

  “No new converts at Newgate yesterday?”

  She lowered her cup, wondering at the sudden change of topic. “My ministry is to sow seed. I shall not always be there to see the harvest.”

  “A farmer’s hope is to bring in the harvest.”

  “A Christian learns to think in terms of eternity, not merely season to season.”

  “For a farmer, the end of the harvest season brings either a full belly in winter or starvation.”

  “Yes, I realize you are bound by temporal considerations, serious ones. That is why those who have are commanded to help those in need.”

  He blew on his tea and took a sip.

  “You must endeavor to sip without making a sound.”

  He gave her a sidelong glance but took another, quieter sip. “Better?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about you, Miss Hathaway? No plans to set up your own household, like the good rector advised you?”

  His voice was soft. Again, she became aware of how close he sat next to her and how she was dressed. He was too big and broad. “You mustn’t…ask…impertinent questions.”

  Instead of looking contrite, he said, “Just how old are you? Seven-and-twenty? Eight-and-twenty?” He leaned back, his glance skimming over her. “You can’t yet be thirty.”

  How dare he eye her like a mare about to foal. Thirty, indeed! “A gentleman never asks a lady her age,” she said through stiff lips.

  “Don’t get your dander up. I can’t imagine you’ve reached thirty yet.”

  “I’m eight-and-twenty, if you must know.”

  He nodded. “You don’t look bad for a woman of eight-and-twenty. You’ll probably have another one o’ them fellows from the church courting you soon.”

  She turned away from him, surprised at the anger that rose up in her at the remark. How could he joke about something so personal? The next second she felt the blood drain from her face. Another one of them fellows? How could he possibly know about…?

  When she said nothing, he added. “You’d better hope so, if you don’t want the rector sniffing around your heels.”

  She whipped around and stared at him, her dismay forgotten. “What did you say?”

  “You heard me.”

  She would not stand for such unseemly suggestions. How dare he imply such a—a—lewd thing? She banged the teacup down on its saucer and stood up. “You are being deliberately rude and impolite. Reverend Doyle is the noblest gentleman of our acquaintance. Such a thing would never…why, it doesn’t bear thinking on!”

  She belted her sash more tightly around her waist. “Furthermore, it is no business of yours when and whom I marry, if I do. Your role in this house is to follow our example and be careful no one suspects who you really are. Is that understood, Mr. Kendall?”

  “Follow your orders. Aye, that’s clear enough.” He looked away from her and picked up his cup. His sip was as silent as Damien’s.

  Suddenly she felt ashamed of herself. Perhaps she was more tired than she thought. The strain of introducing Quinn to society. That must be the reason. Yes, that was it.

  She cleared her throat. “I apologize if I seemed rude to you just now. It’s just that you must learn that there are certain things you don’t ask a lady.”

  “Oh, I understand fully and I shall endeavor to carry out all your orders.” His tone of voice mimicked hers and he continued looking straight ahead at the glowing fire.

  She took a step back. “Well, I shall leave you to your ruminations. It has been a tiring day.”

  “Aye, that it has.”

  She picked up her teacup and took it to the sink.

  “Good night, Mr. Kendall,” she said at the door.

  He didn’t turn around. “Good night, Miss Hathaway.”

  Jonah sat before the fire, too tired to move. He felt weary in his soul. This was a different tiredness from that after a hard day’s labor in the fields when he’d come home, eat his supper and fall asleep almost immediately, a deep sleep that would only be interrupted by the sound of the cock crowing before sunrise.

  This was a weariness that
made him question whether it was worth getting up tomorrow and continuing the masquerade they’d begun. Wouldn’t it be simpler to just give himself up? After all, what was his life worth? Who cared whether he lived or died?

  Miss Hathaway had the ability to look down her slim nose at him and make him feel worth less than a ha’penny. She was right. Who would ever believe him to be a gentleman?

  Now that fine rector, there was a gentleman. From the man’s satin-lined coat to his tapering white fingers, he reflected generations of quality. When he bothered to focus his cool gaze on Jonah, Jonah felt the full extent of the gap between the two of them.

  Jonah shook his head. Reverend Hathaway had a soft heart and perhaps believed he could save Jonah with a little polish and a few changes of clothes. Quality like that worn by Doyle went much deeper. It wasn’t something one could put on and take off in the evening.

  The Hathaways had risked their lives and reputations for him. Was he worth it? Did he have a right to continue exposing them to all the dangers his presence in their household represented?

  Yet, where could he go? What could he do for them in return? He looked around the shadowy kitchen. He wasn’t used to a life of inactivity. He felt sufficiently recuperated from his illness and ready to take on something. But all he knew was manual labor. All he’d been able to do was offer Albert some help around the yard. The man was getting on in years and seemed to carry out all the heavy work at the parsonage.

  Miss Hathaway had said her brother would train him in clock repair, but so far, Mr. Hathaway had seemed more interested in improving his reading skills and teaching him the Scriptures.

  Jonah rubbed a hand over his face. Life was too difficult a conundrum to work it all out in one night.

  He couldn’t figure Miss Hathaway out either. One moment she snapped at him, the next she seemed as nervous as a wren around him.

  He thought she’d freeze him with a look when he’d asked her age. He chuckled. Eight-and-twenty. Not so old. Yet not so young. Now that he’d had a chance to study her up close a time or two, he’d begun to realize how superior her looks were. Not the kind he’d ever have paid any notice to before. But she did have a pair of fine gray eyes. Her lashes were golden, as were the softly curving eyebrows above them. Her nose was narrow, her lips finely chiseled, not full like he preferred on a woman, but slender and a delicate pink.

  What he’d judged as pale and washed-out at first glance now struck him as refined and of superior quality.

  He shook his head. What was he sitting there thinking of Miss Hathaway’s looks for? She was a lady and he was a coarse laborer, a condemned man to boot.

  The hour was late, and here he was becoming fanciful.

  Chapter Ten

  “How nice of you to stop by for a visit,” Florence told the rector and his mother. She shifted in her seat and wondered where Quinn was. Would he notice the carriage in the drive? She hoped he wasn’t out helping Albert somewhere in the fields. He knew those tasks were better reserved for the mornings when there was little likelihood of unexpected visitors.

  She wished Damien were here, but he was at the orphanage. To hide her anxiety, Florence busied herself with ringing for tea.

  Quinn could be unpredictable in his behavior, one moment looking as elegant as a gentleman, the next, letting out an oath fit for a sailor.

  Unfortunately, the rector’s mother could be a stickler for proper behavior. Would they ask for Quinn?

  Thankfully, the rector had other things on his mind. “Damien has begun literacy classes at the workhouse.” His tone held disapproval.

  “Yes,” she replied. “He has been thinking of it for some time.”

  The rector frowned. “He had mentioned an idea he had. I had not encouraged him to pursue it. Teach them to read and they’ll no longer be satisfied with their lot.”

  Florence formed pleats in her gown. “I assure you, he is using the Scriptures as his basis, so I don’t think you’ll see a bunch of Jacobins coming out of his classes.” She hesitated. “I was thinking of offering a similar class to some of the women at the prison.”

  The old lady’s eyes rounded. “The prisoners? What do they need to read for?”

  “Those that are being transported—both men and women—for instance,” she began, “could use the skill once they arrive in the colony.”

  The rector leaned toward her. “My dear Miss Hathaway, you must consider this decision carefully. You don’t want to take on too much. I find you looking a bit peaked, don’t you, Mother?”

  The old lady scanned her through her lorgnette, and Florence had to make an effort to remain still. If she was looking tired, it wasn’t from her prison work. Sleep had been eluding her at night ever since…her evening visit with Quinn.

  She began swinging her foot back and forth and brought it to an abrupt halt. She turned with relief at the sound of the door. Betsy came through with the tea cart.

  As Florence busied herself with serving the tea and handing the cups to Betsy, she took advantage of the moment to mouth to the girl, “Quinn?”

  “What’s that, miss?” Betsy asked.

  Florence bit her tongue in annoyance. “Nothing. Here, please take these to Mrs. Doyle,” she said, giving her a plate of cakes.

  “By the by, where is your houseguest?” the rector asked.

  “He is out, I believe.” Florence sipped her tea, hoping he wouldn’t ask for any details.

  “He is a singular-looking gentleman,” Mrs. Doyle remarked. “Most arresting features.”

  “Ye…es.” Florence’s hand faltered on her cup.

  “How did the two of you meet him?” the rector asked.

  “We…well, it was unexpected.” She set down her cup. “You know how Damien is always hearing of people needing help.”

  “Yes. A true altruist, your brother.” The rector smiled. “I’m always advising him to have a care. People can take advantage, you know.”

  “Yes.” Florence glanced toward the window facing west. “There’s a bit too much sun, isn’t there? I don’t want it getting in your eyes, Mrs. Doyle.” She stood and went over to adjust the blind from the afternoon rays.

  “You’re most considerate, Miss Hathaway,” the elderly lady said. “This is delicious cake. You must tell Mrs. Nichols.”

  “I shall, indeed.”

  “So, you say this fellow Kendall was recommended to your brother?” the rector persisted, setting down his empty cake plate.

  “Yes…in a manner of speaking.” Well, it was on the Lord’s recommendation they had taken him in. As Florence took the cord in her hand, her gaze roamed over the grounds. She could see Albert had finished planting much of the kitchen garden. Today, she’d heard him mention he’d be pruning some of the trees in the orchard. She looked toward the bare branches of the apple orchard.

  Two men were there. Albert stood below one gnarled tree, speaking to the man in the tree.

  Quinn. He was high in the tree, a pruning saw in his hands. Florence frowned, recognizing the rich plum color of one of his new coats. The dun-colored breeches and white stockings and black shoes…all part of his new wardrobe.

  What was the man thinking?

  Her fingers tightened on the thin rope. She glanced back into the room. What if the rector were to see him out there? Wouldn’t he find it odd to see their houseguest—a gentleman farmer—behaving like a hired hand?

  She bit her lip, glancing back outside. She couldn’t very well leave at that moment and march out to the orchard.

  Stifling her annoyance, she let the cord swing free and made her way back to the settee.

  “I’m sure Mrs. Nichols would share her cake recipe with your cook, if you’d like,” she said, making an effort to smile in the woman’s direction.

  “Yes, I should like that,” Mrs. Doyle said, taking a sip of tea.

  “Mrs. Nichols has a wonderful recipe for apricot compote. It makes a lovely accompaniment with the cake,” sh
e said, her leg swinging back and forth. She stilled it.

  The rector smoothed down his white stock. “The Duke of Winchester is planning a dinner party.”

  “Indeed?” The Duke of Winchester was the most important man in Marylebone.

  “I had thought to ask him to invite you and Damien.”

  He had Florence’s full attention now. Neither she nor Damien had ever been privileged to meet the duke.

  Doyle’s spoon clinked against his cup. “I could include your houseguest, if you should so wish it.”

  Florence’s cup rattled against the saucer as she brought it down a little too forcefully.

  The rector continued. “I’ve been telling the duke of your brother’s sermons and how your congregation has grown in the last few years. He is most interested in meeting him.”

  “I…see.” How would she reply about Quinn? Would she have to give the rector an answer this afternoon? How would Quinn ever pass the duke’s inspection? A man whose mansion took up most of Portman Square?

  Yet…if Damien caught His Grace’s attention…Florence’s thoughts began to race, her worry about Quinn momentarily pushed aside. It could be just the sort of patronage her brother needed. His work was too important to be relegated to an out-of-the-way corner of London. With the proper backing, there was so much more Damien could accomplish in his work with the poor.

  She leaned toward the rector. “Tell me more about the duke…”

  “Why don’t you trim that one there?” Albert pointed to the branch a few feet away from Jonah.

  “This one?”

  “Yes, that’s the one.”

  Dutifully, Jonah made his way toward the tree limb, gripping the apple branches before him and creeping forward on his knees. When he was close enough, he leaned forward and began to saw through the branch. Movement was restricted in a gentleman’s coat and cravat, but he hadn’t wanted to take the time or trouble to change his garments when he’d spotted Albert out in the orchard. The man was too old to be scaling trees. Besides, Jonah had never been able to back down from the challenge of a stubborn tree.