The Making of a Gentleman

by Ruth Axtell Morren

  The referee stood over him. “One!…two!…” He flung down his hand with each count.

  A collective gasp burst from the audience when Quinn finally moved. Like a leviathan in his death throes, he rolled over. Florence cowered beside her brother, hearing Quinn’s groans. Biting her fist, she watched him rise in stages, first to his hands and knees and finally to his feet. His back was black with dirt and covered with lacerations.

  “Fifteen!…sixteen!…”

  Quinn lurched over to Albert’s end of the ring and collapsed onto the other man’s knee. Immediately, Albert squeezed a sponge of water over Quinn’s head and took a bottle of water and poured it down his throat. Quinn’s throat muscles worked up and down, drinking greedily of the liquid.

  “Nineteen!…twenty!…”

  Assisted by the two men, Jonah stood back on his feet.

  How could he think about returning to the fight?

  But he shook the men off and staggered to the center of the ring where his opponent awaited him.

  The two men squared off, setting their toes to the freshly drawn line, standing with elbows bent, fists curled tight, right legs drawn forward. Florence could see them muttering things to each other and watched the bloodlust rise in their eyes.

  She could see they were both near their end. Like two drunken louts, their movements erratic, they danced around each other, their fists flailing in and out, in and out, over and over until one or the other managed to knock a punch at the other, almost as if by accident.

  Florence prayed, her lips moving silently. Oh, Father, make it end soon. Make it end soon. Protect Quinn. Forgive him for his sheer stupidity. How could he expose himself—them all—like this? She was going to beat some sense into him if it was the last thing she did.

  Would anyone recognize him? Her eyes darted through the crowd then back to the ring. Although his hair was short now, and he was minus a beard, and he was more heavy than he had been when he stood on the gallows, in other respects, Quinn once again resembled the filthy man who’d taken her hostage that fateful day.

  Had it been…a mere two months ago that not only his, but her own, life had changed so dramatically? Never had she found herself so angry with one individual at the same time she felt such anguish for him.

  Florence bit her lip, cringing as a punch connected with Quinn’s jaw, sending him reeling back a few paces, though he managed to remain upright. Slowly, she released her breath.

  The next moment she resumed her tirade. How could Quinn have done such a thing? Had he so little regard for his own safety, much less that of those who’d harbored him these weeks? Had he no gratitude for all her brother had done for him?

  She craned her neck forward as the shouts rose anew.

  “Darken ’is lights, Kendall! Land ’im yer fives! That’s the way!”

  Somehow Quinn had managed to connect with the other man’s jaw. The Bull’s head snapped back and before he recovered, Quinn was raining punches on either side of him, at his neck and face. He didn’t let up, but kept at it until the other man stumbled back several steps.

  She cringed as Quinn bent his head down and rammed it against the man’s stomach. The man’s breath was knocked out of him and like a giant tree, he tumbled onto the ground, sending up a cloud of dust.

  The shouts around the ring rose to a frenetic roar. The referee stepped over to the fallen man and began his count.

  “The Bull is down! The Bull is down! Kendall has taken down the champ!” The cries deafened Florence so she couldn’t hear the referee’s count. She prayed the man would stay out cold if only it meant the end of this madness.

  The Bull didn’t move. By the time the count reached twenty, the man had only managed to move his head.

  “Thirty!” The referee swung both arms out, signaling an end to the fight. “We have a new champion!” he shouted, taking Quinn by the arm and raising it up. “William Kendall. Quick-footed Kendall!”

  The crowd took up the chant. Albert and his friend rushed to Quinn and draped his arms around their shoulders, helping him back to his corner. Florence could see no more as the crowd rushed onto the ring like floodwaters breaking down a dam.

  Damien reached out a hand to her. “Come on. Let’s try to make our way around.”

  This proved more difficult than they’d bargained for. Everyone pressed forward, eager to congratulate the new champion.

  When they finally managed to reach the other side of the ring, Albert noticed them first. He looked up from sponging Quinn’s face. “Reverend Hathaway!” His eyes widened. “Miss Hathaway!” His glance went past Florence. “Elizabeth! What do you mean bringin ’em ’ere?”

  “Hello, Albert,” Damien replied for them all. “How soon do you think you can bring him home?”

  Quinn turned. At the sight of them, his mouth split open in a wide grin, his lip dripping blood at one corner.

  Florence gasped. How dare he grin like an ape as if he had no cares in the world? She forgot her worries over the fact that a few moments ago he’d almost been killed.

  In that second his gaze crossed hers, his eyes brilliant green in the sunlight. “You’re looking at the new champion.”

  “Was it worth it?” she said, through stiff lips.

  He leaned his neck back as Albert wiped away more of the blood from his face. “Every lick,” he replied, his smile saucy despite the bloody lip. His eyes shifted to Damien. “Hullo there, Reverend. Did you see how I leveled ’im?”

  “I did, indeed. Think you can walk?”

  “I reckon so, why?”

  Damien’s glance flickered over the crowd, his voice lowering. “It’s best you get away as soon as possible. You’ve achieved a certain amount of notoriety today. We don’t want you taking any chances.”

  Quinn’s smile disappeared as he took in the rest of their party. He looked back at Damien with a frown. “Think there’s any danger here?” he asked, his own tone barely above a whisper. “It’s a far cry from where I was.”

  “It’s better to err on the side of caution,” Damien said. “Can you stand?”

  Albert put an arm around Quinn as he attempted to stand. “Guess I’ll manage,” he said.

  “That’s a good man.” Damien turned to Albert. “Why don’t you get his shirt on, and we’ll wait to clean him up and bandage him when he’s back?” His gaze flickered over Quinn’s bloody torso. “Think you can wait that long?”

  “I think I gave better than I got, what d’ye think, Reverend?”

  “I think you’re right,” Damien said with his first smile.

  Florence pressed her lips together. Hopefully, Damien would not succumb to Quinn’s charm and weaken over this serious matter.

  Betsy’s voice bubbled over her shoulder. “Oh, William, you were wonderful.”

  Florence glared at her as the girl shoved past her to Quinn’s side. Mrs. Nichols followed close behind her, the two women smiling like silly schoolgirls. As they offered Quinn their congratulations on a fight well fought, Florence turned on her heel.

  She’d had enough of this spectacle. If he was going to expose himself to the awful danger of discovery, she wouldn’t be a part of it. She started pushing through the crowd.

  “Excuse me, make way here, please!”

  Florence was ready with water and washcloths when she heard the sound of celebration outside the kitchen door.

  Quinn and the rest trooped in, everyone still laughing and talking as if they’d been to the races.

  “I’m going to break open a cask of ale to celebrate your victory,” Albert said.

  “Let me get the glasses,” Mrs. Nichols said, coming in after him and untying the knot of her cloak. “Oh, Miss Hathaway, we wondered where you had got to.”

  “I thought someone had better put something on those cuts and bruises before they fester.”

  At that, they sobered and went about their tasks. Damien entered last, closing the door behind him. He joined Florence
at the table. “I don’t think anyone remarked particularly on our departure. Certainly, no one followed us all the way here. I think everything will turn out all right.” He squeezed her shoulder and gave her a small smile, which she tried to return without much success. While she had waited for their return, her mind had kept going over the fight and all the possible negative consequences, not least of which were the wounds inflicted on Quinn’s body. If they didn’t fester, it would be a miracle.

  Her glance strayed to the victor, and she winced inwardly at the sight of his battered face.

  As if sensing her observation, Quinn’s eyes met hers. “Ready to bandage me up?” he said with an irrepressible smile.

  She turned back to the basin of water without a word. How could he make light of this?

  Damien gave her shoulder another squeeze and turned to Quinn. “Why don’t you come here and have Miss Hathaway doctor you up a bit? You do look a bit the worse for wear.”

  “I do feel a bit beat-up. Haven’t been in a good fight for some time.”

  Damien helped Quinn off with his outer garments. Florence frowned at the plum-colored coat. It was probably stained with blood by now and reeked of sweat. Later, she’d have to see if it was salvageable. She turned to the pile of clean lint she’d brought from the pantry.

  Quinn was struggling to bring his shirt up over his head, since Damien had gone to hang up his coat. Before Florence could step closer to help him, Betsy rushed to his aid.

  “Let me get that for you, William.”

  The name on Betsy’s lips stung Florence afresh.

  “Your arms must be sore from wrestling the other man.” Betsy bent over his hand. “Ooh, look at your poor knuckles, they’re raw!”

  “A mite.” Quinn lifted his arms with a groan as the girl gently tugged at the soiled and rumpled white shirt and lifted it over his head.

  He smiled down at her. “Thank ye, lass.”

  “Sit here,” Florence said in clipped tones, forgetting her anger for the moment at the knife-thrust of pain the sight of Betsy’s familiarity with Quinn caused her.

  She bent over the basin of warm water and wrung out a washcloth then approached Quinn’s broad bare back, trying to decide where to begin. Gingerly, she touched a bruised and scraped shoulder blade.

  “Ouch! Have a care, woman. What do you think I am, a bag o’ meal?”

  “An ignorant animal from what I saw on the field.” Giving him no chance to reply, she plunged another washcloth into a basin of cold water. “Here, put this against your eye if you don’t want it to swell the size of an egg tomorrow.”

  She continued sponging down his back.

  Betsy sat down across from Quinn at the table. “I wish I could’a watched the fight from the beginning but Da didn’t let me come.”

  Florence indicated the basin on the table. “Betsy, fetch me some more warm water.”

  Betsy blinked, looking chastened. “Yes, miss.”

  When Florence had finished sponging the dirt off his back, she said in clipped tones, “Turn around.”

  He moved slowly. It was no wonder, thought Florence, eyeing the cuts and scrapes on every inch of his torso.

  She squeezed water out of the washcloth then approached him once more. He sat back with his elbows on the table, his broad chest laid bare to her.

  Swallowing against the sudden tightness in her throat, she stepped closer. She placed the hot cloth against his upper chest and wiped the dirt away gently.

  He let out a satisfied sigh. “That feels good.”

  “You’re filthy.” Her sharp tone contrasted with her quavering insides. As she continued sponging off his chest, she reminded herself of all the times she’d sponged him off when he’d been feverish. Then he’d been a stranger, a fugitive at their mercy, unconscious most of the time. Now, she could feel his eyes following her every move.

  She swiped at the streaks of dirt, watching the water flatten the sprinkling of dark hair on his chest. Blowing out a breath, Florence straightened. With the back of her hand, she wiped the perspiration from her forehead then braced herself to continue her task, hoping her hand would remain steady.

  He flinched as her cloth touched his rib cage. “Have a care there.”

  “It’s not my fault you’re bruised. If you’d acted like the gentleman you’re supposed to be, you wouldn’t find yourself in this state now.” The thought fueled her anger and propelled her on with her task.

  Quinn sucked in his breath as she touched a bruise then swore as the cloth rubbed against an abrasion. “What d’ye think I am!”

  She dunked the cloth back in the water and watched it color immediately with blood and dirt. “Watch your language. You certainly didn’t mind acting like an animal in the ring.”

  “Well, now I’m outta it and don’t need more of a beating.”

  She worked her way up to his grimy neck. “Ouch! Careful there.” He brought his hand up and swatted at her.

  “I wouldn’t have to rub so hard if the dirt weren’t so ground in. Bring me another basin of water,” she snapped at Betsy when she came over to ogle Quinn’s wounds. “Make it hot this time.”

  Quinn twisted around to glare at her. “You want to scald me on top of everything else?”

  “It wasn’t my doing you’re in the shape you’re in now. In case you’ve forgotten, you’re supposed to look like a gentleman in a fortnight.”

  The two fell silent as she began with his face. Albert filled a tankard and brought it to Quinn. At Albert’s look of inquiry her way, Florence shook her head. She would not toast to his foolhardy victory. There was no telling what it would cost them.

  “Here’s to the new champion!” Albert said, lifting his tankard in the air.

  “Hurrah!” shouted the others, following suit.

  Florence watched Quinn tip back his head and quaff down a generous portion. His Adam’s apple moved up and down as the liquid went down his throat. He smacked his lips and brought the tankard down with a thud. Had she taught him nothing?

  She wrung out the washcloth. How could he be so callous about putting everyone at risk by his public exhibition?

  “Need any help, miss?” Mrs. Nichols asked, approaching them.

  She handed Mrs. Nichols the washcloth. “Yes. You can help me wash him off so I can put something on these cuts.” Her hand was beginning to shake, whether with anger or another emotion, she wasn’t about to ask herself.

  Florence bent over her medicine box and removed a jar of basilicum ointment for the cuts. “Betsy, prepare me some bread crumbs, with the dried elder flowers and chamomile flowers hanging in the pantry for a poultice.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  The girl scurried off to get the ingredients. Soon the kitchen filled with the smell of boiling vinegar water mixed with the herbs.

  “You look as if someone has stepped on you,” Florence said to Quinn as she dabbed ointment on the cut at the edge of his lips.

  “It certainly feels like it.”

  “There, now you’re all cleaned up,” Mrs. Nichols declared, stepping back with a satisfied look.

  “Thank ye kindly, Mrs. Nichols.”

  Quinn’s jaw was prickly under her fingertips from the feel of his beard. Florence hurried to another cut, this one on his temple. He could have been killed. She bit her lip as she pictured his opponent’s fist smashing into Quinn’s temple.

  She frowned, looking more closely at his dark hair, which was now curling around her fingers. “You’ve got cuts in your scalp as well.” Once more she took the washcloth and went to work on his scalp. His hair felt silky to the touch. The smell of soap reached her nostrils as she dabbed at the wounds.

  “Did you see me fight?” Quinn’s voice startled her as he craned his neck to address her.

  “Why would you think I saw you fight when you didn’t deign to inform either Mr. Hathaway or myself that you proposed to exhibit yourself in public this way?”

  The amuse
ment in his green eyes died as he saw the coldness in hers.

  “I figured I’d surprise you when I won.”

  “What made you so certain of victory?”

  He shrugged, wincing immediately afterward. “I just made up my mind about it.”

  “So, are you satisfied now that you’ve exposed yourself to a crowd of people?”

  “No one recognized me there. Besides, the result was worth it.” He turned to Albert. “Where’re my winnings?”

  Albert hurried over with a dirty pouch.

  Quinn hefted it with a satisfied smile. Florence heard the clink of coins from the bulging sack. “This is the reason I went into the ring.”

  Before she could say anything, he untied the sack and upended it onto the table. A pile of coins fell out.

  “Twenty guineas,” he announced in a triumphant tone.

  Florence’s mouth went dry. “You did this for money?”

  He nodded, a wide grin splitting his face. “Take it, it’s yours.”

  Her glance went from his face to the pile of money and back again. “What do you mean?”

  “I won it for you.”

  Damien approached him. “Oh, William, you didn’t have to—”

  If she had thought she was angry before, her ire knew no bounds now. “How dare you expose us all to danger and then offer us your filthy lucre!”

  His smile faded. An ugly look came into his eyes.

  She could feel the heat growing in her face. “It’s not enough my brother has risked his reputation, all those of this household, his very life for the sake of your worthless hide but you have to go out and publicly expose yourself—for what?” She pointed at the pile of money with her washcloth. “For a pile of gold! How dare you? How dare you?” She glared at him. “You, Mr. Kendall, are indeed despicable!”

  Quinn rose and stepped toward her, his bare body towering over her. “You want to know why I done it?” He jabbed a finger at her chest so she flinched. “I’m fed up with your making me feel like a beggar. I been eatin’ and drinkin’ ’ere without a penny o’ me own to spare. A man gets tired o’ people lording it over ’im.” He picked up a fistful of the coins and he shook them at her. “So you can take the bl—” The rest of the sentence was filled with oaths as he flung the money at her feet.