“It’s best you not go out,” the old man said in a kind voice. “I’ll see to him.” He grabbed his cap and exited.
As Albert helped Damien to his feet, the guards were already placing leg irons on Jonah’s legs and manacles on his wrists.
Florence pressed her fist to her mouth, unable to bear watching and helpless to move away.
When Jonah had trouble climbing aboard the wagon, one guard butted him with his rifle. The others laughed and reviled him. Their muffled shouts came to her through the windowpane.
Dear God, grant him Your grace to endure, she prayed. Grace to endure to the end. May he see Your glory.
Even as she prayed, her mind was working furiously at what she could do now to help set him at liberty. First, she must see the rector. She had to convince him to help Quinn. They must request an audience with the lord chancellor. Perhaps if he could be made to understand Jonah’s innocence, he would rescind the execution order and recommend transportation. That would be preferable to execution even if it meant she’d never see him again until glory. If that didn’t work, she would go all the way to the home secretary, doing whatever she had to to be heard.
Whether she had to beg, cajole, plead, admonish—whatever it took—she would see justice done in Jonah Quinn’s case.
Jonah sat hunched in his cell, a guard whistling off-key just outside the thick door.
One side of the dark cell was slightly more than the length of him, a few feet longer on the other side. A stone ceiling arched above him, with a small, double-grated window on the wall too far up to see out of. A board on the stone floor served as a pallet.
When he’d first entered the prison corridor, he’d been overpowered by the stench. In the months since his freedom, he’d forgotten just how foul it was.
He’d expected rough treatment since turning himself in, but he hadn’t expected the rage that greeted him from both the prison guards, who considered themselves personally offended by his escape, and the other prisoners, who jeered at him as news of his recapture traveled through the men’s large cell.
By their angry shouts, he’d realized they considered they’d had to pay the price for his escape, with harsher treatment and more vigilance.
“Flog him! He deserves a flogging! Hang him! Traitor!”
Finally, the clamor had died down. He’d been sitting now in the semidarkness of the solitary confinement reserved for the condemned. He’d lost track of the time. He knew from his prior experience that hours, days, weeks blended into one another, but he also realized they would probably hang him sooner than later this time around.
Worse than anything was the inactivity. There was nothing to be done in solitary confinement but wait. A man could go mad in here. Jonah clutched his head in his hands, the shackles around his wrists and ankles clanking with each movement. He remembered Miss Hathaway’s first visits to him. Back then, he’d been anxious to see her leave. Now, he’d have given anything to see her face through the tiny grate in the door, to hear Scriptures from her soft lips…
Lord, did I hear You aright? Have You brought me to this place? D’You mean for me to face the noose once again?
It would no doubt come quickly. The prison officials would want to exact a just retribution upon him and make a public example of him.
He prayed for the courage to face it once again.
Forgive me, Lord. You gave me a new chance at life, and all I did was chafe at the bit. I didn’t deserve it. I’m nothing but scum o’ the Earth.
A verse came into him with such clarity it stunned him.
“Fear not: for I have redeemed thee, I have called thee by thy name; thou art mine.”
What was his name? Jonah. He remembered the day Damien had taught him about his namesake. He had chuckled about the prophet Jonah caught inside the whale’s belly three days. Now, he no longer smiled as he remembered how Jonah had compared his time in the seas with being in the depths of despair. He had cried out to the Lord then and it was then, only then, that the whale expelled Jonah onto the dry land.
Damien had explained how the story illustrated the redemption a person had in the Lord Jesus.
Once again he heard the words, I have redeemed you and called you by name.
What did it mean? It was almost as if the Lord were holding out to him the chance at a new life. But that was impossible. They would never let him out now. He had made a mockery of the system and they would make him pay for it.
Perhaps the Lord was holding out to him the promise of eternity.
He’d see Judy and the babes once again. He tried to comfort himself with that thought.
Instead his mind pictured Florence Hathaway and the way she’d looked at him when they’d said goodbye. She’d looked at him…as if in admiration. How could a lady as noble as she look at someone like him in admiration?
He remembered the feel of her slim figure in his arms, her face pressed to his chest. He’d felt like her protector then, like a man worthy of being a knight to a fine lady.
It was nonsense. But perhaps the memory would help him get through the last moments he had on Earth.
Would he see her face once more at the front of the crowd at the hanging? Or would she and her brother be locked away for their part in hiding him?
He prayed for them both, asking for the Lord’s protection and mercy over them. They did nothing wrong, only helping a dog like me. Forgive them, Lord.
Florence sat on the edge of the velvet upholstered chair in the rector’s private sitting room, her hands on her lap, clutching her reticule. “I’ve come here today, Reverend Doyle, to ask for your help in securing Jonah Quinn’s release.”
She faced the elegant man sitting in front of her as the spiritual leader she had looked up to all her life. She hoped and prayed he harbored no ill will toward her for her refusing to marry him, reminding herself it was he who had taken back his proposal.
The rector raised a dark eyebrow, which contrasted with his gray hair. “My dear Florence, you are overwrought, or you would not ask—nay, think—such a preposterous thing.”
Florence moistened her lips, bringing her thoughts into submission. She must remain calm and plead Jonah’s case in a logical, reasonable way. “Reverend Doyle, you do not understand all the circumstances.”
He held up his hand. “My dear, Damien has explained the whole history of the infamous Quinn quite clearly and fully to me over and over. I’m just relieved the man saw fit to turn himself in. The mere thought that you had him under your roof all those months. I shudder to think of the danger you were in.”
“But, Reverend, you know how sound Damien’s judgment is. If he determined Mr. Quinn was a man worthy of his help, surely that deserves a second look by you.”
“I know the criminal mind can deceive even the most astute person, and one as sensitive and kindhearted as your brother has little chance against someone as cunning as Quinn.”
She gripped her reticule more tightly. “Reverend Doyle, I am begging you to help me. I need to secure an audience with the home secretary. I need to know that the rector of my brother’s parish—our friend and advisor—is fully behind my plea.”
He shook his head, his regard full of pity. “My dear Florence, even my help wouldn’t do any good. The home secretary will do nothing on the man’s behalf. Quinn flaunted the entire judicial system. What kind of example would be set, letting a man like that go free? What kind of message would it send to other prisoners or criminals still at large? The Tory government wouldn’t hear of it. There is too much unrest in the city as it is. Crime is on the rise.”
She stood, a despair so profound filling her she could scarcely breathe. “I’m sorry you see it this way.”
“Don’t go so quickly, my dear.” He stood and took her hand. “I feel you are taking this to heart too severely. I would not want it to come between us. Ours is a friendship of years. How long have you known this criminal?”
Hope rekindled in h
er. “It is precisely because of our friendship that I have appealed to you. You are a man of God. You know that our Lord commanded us to help the prisoner.”
“Don’t twist Scripture for your own ends. He never said to help a convict escape.”
“But where a man has been wrongfully accused?”
“You have no proof of that, only a convict’s word. And what is his word worth? How stellar has his conduct been? A man doesn’t change his ways overnight.”
She released her hand. “All I know is Mr. Quinn has been a gentleman in the time he has been in our household. Moreover, he came back of his own free will. He turned himself in at the urging of his conscience.”
“That is a sign of guilt.”
“No, it is a sign that the Lord touched him, and that he trusts his Lord and Savior enough to put himself into His hands.”
The rector continued looking unconvinced. Florence felt a profound disappointment in the man she’d admired all her life. “I call that an act of a true gentleman.”
“A true gentleman is one by birth and not by a superficial acquisition of some manners.”
She stepped back. “Then neither is Damien a true gentleman nor am I a lady. Perhaps you should rethink your friendship with us both.”
“My dear, yours is not a mere veneer of polish but a lifetime’s acquisition of manners, education and moral uprightness.”
She lifted her chin. “But it is not by birth.”
He cleared his throat. “Well, perhaps I was a bit hasty in using that qualification.”
“Yet, it is nevertheless true, is it not? In the eyes of society, there are rigid definitions to what constitutes a lady and gentleman.”
“In your case, my dear, I overlook any—er—inferiority of birth in light of your superiority of spirit and mind.”
She bowed her head. “I thank you for your condescension, but I am afraid our views on the subject are too far removed to ever be reconciled. Good day, Reverend Doyle.”
She left without giving him a chance to say anything more. The friend and advisor she had counted on since the death of her parents was not the man she had supposed him to be.
Chapter Eighteen
She and her brother talked things over that evening and decided to procure the services of a lawyer. The next day Damien consulted with an acquaintance in the city, who gave him the name of one of the most distinguished barristers for criminal cases.
A few days later they sat in his office at Gray’s Inn.
“I’m afraid your chances are as good as nil.” The imposing middle-aged lawyer steepled long fingers in front of him. He had heard them out, giving nothing away, raising Florence’s hopes as he listened to them in silence.
Now, she felt herself deflate at the words said almost indifferently. “The court will show no leniency to an escaped convict. Not in this year of food riots, equipment smashing and general unrest among all the unemployed.” He shook his head and shuffled the papers in front of him, giving the impression he was ready to move on to the next case. “I’m sorry to crush your hopes. I would feel dishonest in taking your money.”
Florence refused to give up. “Can we not appeal to the home secretary?”
“I doubt he would give you an audience.” At the look on her face, he added, “I can try. I have a few favors to call in from an undersecretary. I shall see what I can do.”
Florence stood up and held out her hand. “Thank you, sir. We shall await your summons then.”
She and Damien spent the next few days trying their best to secure news of Jonah, but they were not permitted inside the prison. They tried to get money for him to buy food and were finally able to find a turnkey who’d always been friendly to them.
He told them that Mr. Quinn seemed to be doing well in his solitary confinement. “As well as the condemned do in their cells,” he added with a shrug.
Finally, they received a message from the lawyer. “What does he say?” she asked, watching Damien break open the red seal.
He scanned the contents then looked at her. “We have an audience tomorrow afternoon at two with Secretary Ryder.”
She let out a breath of relief. “Thank God.” She turned to her brother. “Let us pray for God’s favor.”
Jonah spent the hours fretting over Miss Hathaway. Had she been to the prison? He hoped neither she nor her brother would do anything to put themselves at further risk. Knowing her spirit, though, he knew she was probably doing something on his behalf, no matter how hopeless. She was a fighter, she was.
His grin widened, remembering the time she’d grabbed the soapy washcloth and scrubbed out his mouth. Would he ever have let anyone else treat him so? Would anyone else have dared? He tried to imagine his Judy doing such a thing and sobered. It wasn’t possible.
Oh, Judy love, would you ever have thought your Jonah could have these thoughts about such a fine lady?
She would have laughed in his face and made some coarse remark about his getting too far above his station.
He wasn’t bothered by the fact of thinking about another woman. Judy was gone and would have expected him to find another wife, just as if it had been Judy who’d survived him, he’d have fully expected her to marry and have someone to take care of her and the babes.
But they were gone, and so, too, would he soon be, so why was he thinking such foolish thoughts as taking Miss Hathaway for a wife?
The moment the word popped into his thoughts, he froze.
Miss Hathaway for a wife. Suddenly, other images crowded his mind, a host of them—waking to her each morning, dining at her table each day, walking with her, assisting her in her prison work, working her land (what a tidy farm that would be), protecting her—so many of the things he’d already been doing, but with the difference of now being her equal and helpmate. It was impossible to conceive of it.
Nevertheless, once the thought had expressed itself, he couldn’t help his imagination roaming further. At least it kept the gloom surrounding him at bay. He pictured Miss Hathaway. Everything about her was fine, from her slim ankles, which he’d noticed more than once, to her pale hands, always so clean and soft-looking, not red and chapped like all the women’s of his class, to her small waist, which he could imagine spanning with his broad hands…He remembered her graceful neck rising above her neckerchief…her pale cheeks except when those two spots of color appeared on them, whenever she was annoyed beyond measure.
A frown clouded his brow when he thought of that lily-livered man, the rector. If ever a bee was after pollen, it was that old hypocrite. That man loved his food and drink and place in society more than any spiritual matters. Jonah would have put money on it. Yes, sir. He nodded in the dark.
He sighed. He’d never know now if Miss Hathaway would be fooled by the rector’s soft words. Would the two end up wed? He hated to think of Miss Hathaway under the rector’s thumb. He’d seen men like that before, all sweetness while they wooed a woman, then the moment they’d snagged her, they became tyrants. The women usually grew more silent with the passing days, humbly scurrying to do their husbands’ bidding. Bullies these men were. Wolves in sheep’s clothing.
Jonah couldn’t imagine Miss Hathaway’s fire snuffed out like that, by an old windbag, but it worried him to see her so meek around the rector, just because of his rank in the church. Bah! He almost spit in the dark and refrained himself just in time.
Why stop now? Who would see him and scold him now? But he refrained, nonetheless, swallowing the saliva in his mouth. If he were to die tomorrow or the next day, he’d do it as a gentleman…to honor Miss Hathaway and her brother. His focus traveled upward into the dark recesses of his cell…and to honor his Maker, Who’d brought those two individuals into his life.
“There shall no clemency be shown to a man who has made a mockery of the laws of this land,” the home secretary pronounced from behind his large desk. Without letting either Florence or Damien address another word, he turned to his as
sistant, a young gentleman hovering in the background in the book-lined chamber of the Houses of Parliament. “I do not understand why you have wasted my time on such petitions, which are clearly not in the interest of our government.”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” the man stammered.
The home secretary turned back to them and addressed Florence directly for the first time. “I have heard of your good work at Newgate. For this I commend you. But you must not take it upon yourself to aid and abet one who has so egregiously broken the law. Now, good day to you both.”
Florence strode ahead of her brother and the barrister, her lips pressed down in anger and frustration. Once on the street, she whirled around to them. “This is not right.”
A spring shower dampened their cloaks with its fine mist as they stood on the curb.
“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid you have had your answer,” the lawyer said.
She refused to accept the fact that they had exhausted all avenues, appealing first to the lord chancellor and now to the home secretary. But as the distinguished barrister continued looking at her, her hope diminished. Her shoulders slumped.
“All but one,” said Damien in his quiet tone. Both Florence and the lawyer stopped.
He looked at each one in turn. “The prince regent himself.”
The barrister shook his head. “As I explained to you, the home secretary exercises the royal prerogative of mercy on behalf of the monarch. His refusal to look further into Quinn’s case means we cannot go any further.”
“And if we appeal directly to the regent?”
The lawyer smiled sadly, as if trying to explain something to someone too naive to understand the basics of English law. “I’m afraid that is impossible. Unless the home secretary grants you his recommendation, the regent will not hear the case.”
Florence turned away from his pitying face and gazed across the busy street. They would need a miracle to obtain an audience with the regent, who had so recently acquired full powers of the monarchy since old King George had fallen irrevocably into madness more than a year ago. She thought of Queen Esther obtaining favor from the king.
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