The Making Of A Gentleman

That last remark caught his attention. His eyes narrowed under his heavy brows. “You’re the prison lady.”

She acknowledged the name they called her at Newgate with a slight inclination of her head. “Yes.”

He swore again. “I thought there was somethin’ familiar looking about you. You’re the one that offers the condemned false hope.” He pushed the remains of the food away and belched. “As soon as you leave to your warm dwelling, they’re left in the filth and cold of their prison walls, trusting their future to empty promises of a savior.”

“The only One who can help you now is that Savior.”

“Bah! I’ll take my chances on me own.”

“Where do you hope to go if you stay here? You may elude capture for a few days, maybe weeks, but eventually, they’ll catch you. If you leave here, there’ll be even a greater chance of detection. Someone will recognize you. Most people will fear you, the way you look now, like a great wild beast.”

His eyes widened before they flickered away from her and back toward the fire.

She leaned forward. “You can stow away on a ship, but then what? Where will you go? France? We’re at war with them. America? With the blockade?” She gave a doubtful laugh.

Quinn’s large hands clenched on the tabletop, the only sign that her words were having any effect.

“You could always turn yourself in—”

“Never!”

“In a few hours, days at most, they’ll have this place surrounded, mark my words—”

He stood, knocking his chair over backward. “They’ll never take me alive.”

She knew in those moments, as his green eyes stared into hers, that he spoke the truth.

Realizing the futility of arousing his ire further, she tried another tack. “You could petition to have your case retried. It’s been done before.”

“What do you know of my case?”

“I know enough to know you may be as innocent as you claim.”

Her words caught his attention. Picking up the fallen chair, he retook his seat.

She leaned forward. “I’ve been around Newgate long enough to know that witnesses can be bought or sold.”

He seemed to weigh her words a moment longer before shaking his head. “They’ll never believe me if they didn’t the first time.”

“In any case, your innocence or guilt is not the most important issue. The fact is the Lord has given you a reprieve. You would have been condemned to a fate worse than mere death if you had swung on that gallows today.”

His eyes registered surprise for a second. Then he threw back his head and laughed, a deep, rough guffaw. “Worse than mere death?” he mimicked her cultivated syllables. “I beg your pardon, madam, but it’s easy for you to call it that since you haven’t had a rope strung about your scrawny neck.”

“I may not have stood where you stood today, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t watched enough souls go to their grave to understand the seriousness of their eternal destiny.”

He leaned in close, his green eyes glittering with mockery. “Are you one of those who like to watch a man swing from the gallows? It shows how little fine manners separate the scum o’ the Earth from those born to wealth.”

She jerked back. How dare he accuse her of enjoying the sight of someone strangling at the end of the rope? Before she could think of a suitable retort, he had turned away from her as if tired of her conversation.

He swung out his knife again. She flinched, but relaxed when she saw he used it only to pick his teeth.

Florence shifted her attention to the fire, which had burned low. “May I replenish the fire?” she asked softly.

He grunted. Taking it for assent, she stood.

There were only a few sticks of wood left. She used one to stir up the remaining embers and laid what was left atop them.

Damien, I pray you don’t worry about me. By now, he may have heard something about the escape. As far as she knew, no condemned person had ever slipped the noose.

“Did you know you would be rescued today?” she asked into the silence.

“No.”

She drew in her breath. The enormity of his reprieve took her breath away. The Lord had indeed heard her prayer for mercy. “You were prepared to die today?”

He laid down his knife and looked at her. His expression was flat and unreadable. “As ready as a man ever is.”

“You refused to kneel and pray.”

He turned aside and spit on the ground. “What, kneel for the benefit of a jeering crowd and play into the hands of that cleric so he can use it as a lesson to hold over the other poor prisoners?” He clasped his hands together and closed his eyes. “Yes, dear people,” he mocked the pious tones of the ordinary. “Witness here a dying man’s repentance for a crime he never committed.”

She had no words to reply to that. She knew the man he was referring to and could hardly refute what he was saying.

Not knowing what else to say and feeling stiff from kneeling by the fire, she stood and shook her skirt out. Although the chill had left her limbs, she felt exhausted. The night’s vigil and the day’s excitement were taking their toll. She sat back down and recommenced praying. The Lord surely had a plan, and she needed to know what He would have her do next.

Instead of showing signs of fatigue, Quinn seemed to grow restless. He stood and began to prowl about the low cellar. He investigated every corner of it. Then he checked the door. Finally, he came back, spread out a dirty blanket on the hard ground next to the small fire, and lay down.

“Remember, if you try anything, I have the knife right here.” He patted the blade, which rested beneath his hands on his broad chest.

She sniffed. “It’s not up to me to turn you in. The Lord spared your life for a reason.”

He turned his back on her.

After a while, she heard the deep, even breathing that told her he was asleep. She began to recite Scripture. She felt her own lids grow heavy. Finally, able to fight the fatigue no more, she rested her head on the pillow of her arms and shut her eyes….

Chapter Two

Jonah opened his eyes. He tensed, as he’d done every morning in his solitary cell in Newgate. The fire pit in front of him brought reality back in a jumble of images.

The feel of the rough hemp about his neck. The cap over his face blocking out the sea of faces in front of him.

He was going to die, and he didn’t know if he’d disgrace himself before the crowd. How they loved a good show. Would he suffocate quickly, his short, insignificant life snuffed out, or would the rope prove uncooperative and leave him swinging there for agonizing minutes?

Before he’d been isolated in the condemned man’s cell, he’d heard richly detailed stories from other prisoners of how chancy a clean death was. Often the hangman would have to pull on a prisoner’s legs so he’d die the quicker. A rare prisoner even survived the hanging, his throat raw and bruised, only to have to face the rope the next day.

Jonah didn’t think he could go through such a proceeding twice.

Despite his bravado, he’d been terrified. He’d stared at the dank, stone ceiling of his cell as the hours ticked by, and contemplated his demise. What would the morrow bring? Where would his soul go after the rope cut off the breath from his body? Or would his life be ended for good?

He passed a hand in front of his eyes now, wiping away the last horrible memories. His shoulders ached from his position on the floor, though he was used to a hard surface from the wooden pallet in his cell. The fire had long since gone out. His feet felt numb.

Quiet breathing alerted him that he wasn’t alone. The prison lady.

She—he didn’t even know her name—still sat on the chair, but now her head rested on her arms and it was obvious she slept. She looked peaceful and harmless. He laughed inwardly, thinking how little the image reflected the reality. The woman’s words were like barbs, pointed and skillfully aimed at a man’s weaknesses.

They’ll flush you out like a partridge. Her pale eyes had taunted him, her tone as self-assured as the presiding judge’s at the Old Bailey. You would have been condemned to a fate worse than mere death if you had swung on that gallows today.

What did she know of his life? Who was she to judge? Had she ever been accused of a crime she didn’t commit? How would she have responded to a rope around her neck? Would all her preaching help her then? Not for a moment had she truly noticed the man in front of her.

He observed her in her sleep now, her back rising and falling in an even rhythm. A strange curl of something snaked through his gut. Something he hadn’t felt in so long. Then her cutting words rose again and he saw her for what she was. His prisoner.

The tables were turned. He, the prisoner, with a prisoner of his own. He wasn’t quite sure why he hadn’t let her go once he was away from Newgate. Surety against the soldiers? Perhaps. Although he doubted the value of one woman’s life to the soldiers. Especially such a scrawny one. He remembered how slight she’d felt when he’d half dragged, half carried her along the streets.

He shrugged. It no longer mattered. He’d let her go soon. She was of no use to him now. He’d have enough trouble keeping his own hide in safety. Two would be nigh on impossible.

He stood and listened but could discern no noises from the street. If the soldiers hadn’t ferreted him out here, he might actually have a fighting chance. For the first time since his escape, he began to believe in his freedom. It had happened so quickly. One moment facing his death, the next offered a chance at liberty.

He didn’t even know who had organized his rescue. From the few words he’d exchanged with the cove who’d led him here, it sounded like an underworld boss. He certainly didn’t have the kind of friends who’d risk their lives for him. If anything, circumstances had proved how quickly his acquaintances in the city would betray him.

Eventually they’ll catch you. The prison woman’s words came back to him…again. He threw an angry look at her sleeping form. How dare she invade his mind with her convictions? She was a nothing, a self-righteous little nothing.

And yet, her direct words, those clear gray eyes that cut through to a man’s soul, haunted him, worsening his restlessness. He rose to his feet and paced, ignoring the pins and needles as his feet came back to life.

He thought of the many eyes in this rookery. Even when the streets appeared deserted, there were dozens of watchers from the broken and boarded-up windows. How long before someone turned him in? What if the Crown offered a reward for his capture?

He halted. Suddenly the walls seemed to be closing in on him, and he remembered the feeling of confinement in the dungeonlike cell at Newgate. He would not go back to that. They’d not catch him, he swore. They wouldn’t! He’d die first.

The woman stirred and raised her head. Her hand went to her bonnet, half fallen off. Then she turned and her gaze met Jonah’s.

“’Bout time you woke up.”

“How long have I been asleep?” she asked, rubbing her eyes. The sight of her slim pale hands curled against her face gave her a vulnerability she’d lacked before, and Jonah felt an odd protectiveness sweep over him. What had she been thinking, exposing herself to prisoners and mobs? He remembered the other man’s lewd words when he’d left him and they sickened him. This woman had a refinement that belonged to the drawing room, not hiding out in a hovel on Saffron Hill with a fugitive.

He remembered holding the knife to her delicate neck and guilt stabbed him. She smoothed back her hair while he watched. What was he going to do with her? He shrugged to hide his dismay. “You’re the one with the watch.”

She fumbled beneath her cloak and finally managed to extract the timepiece. “It’s almost six o’clock.”

“It’ll be dark outside.”

She pushed her hair away from her forehead and looked at the cold grate.

Her longing for a fire was clear. To distract her, he said, “I haven’t heard any hoofbeats on the road above us so the search hasn’t reached this quarter.”

“Yet.”

He glared at her and turned back around. To think he’d felt a moment of pity for her.

She began to untie the ribbons of her bonnet and proceeded to remove it. She wore her light brown hair in a simple knot and her cloak was gray. Was she a Quaker? Despite her plain appearance, she had the air of a lady. It was more than her speech. It was something in her gestures and the cut of her clothes. Not that he’d ever had much contact with ladies in his life.

“You said you didn’t know you were to be set free today, but did you know any of the men who stormed the gallows?” she asked.

“I had little time to see anything once the cap was removed from me eyes.”

“Did you recognize any of them?” she persisted.

He frowned at her, wondering why the close questioning. Was she going to go to the authorities as soon as he released her? “I don’t know nothing of any of ’em! And it’s best you probably know as little as possible.”

She arched a thin eyebrow at him.

He folded his arms across his chest. Did nothing cow her? “You’re bound to be questioned once you return to your nice, cozy house.”

She nodded slowly. “My reason in asking was to wonder if these men have made any provision for your escape. Will they take you somewhere else now?”

He turned and resumed his walk in the small space, not liking to be reminded of the future. “I wouldn’t think they’d chance further involvement. It was dangerous enough what they did.”

“Yes. If any were caught, they’d be up for treason.” When he said nothing, she gave him that weighing look. “So, you are on your own now.”

He shrugged as if the idea didn’t bother him at all. “It’s not the first time.”

She chewed her lip a moment. “I have a suggestion.”

He stilled but said nothing.

“My brother might be able to help you.”

Was it possible? This sharp-tongued woman was offering him help? True, she had conceded he might be innocent, but to involve herself further, that entailed quite some risk. “Your brother?” was all he could think to say.

“Yes. He lives with me…I mean, I live with him. I…keep house for him.” For the first time, she seemed nervous. Perhaps she realized the folly of dragging someone else into this mess and making him an accessory to a crime.

“How could he help a man in my shoes?”

“I d-don’t know exactly, but he is very wise. He might know of somewhere you could go. He might be able to help you out of the country. I don’t know…He’s very levelheaded. He won’t give you away.”

“Who is he? Someone of importance?” Was she a wealthy nob and he hadn’t realized it?

“Not in earthly terms. He’s a curate.”

He turned away, angry at himself for the spurt of hope he’d allowed her words to give him. “Ach! I can see the kind of help you have in mind.”

“I was thinking in terms of material help in this case, not spiritual, although, you will need that as well. He is not rich, by any means, but I’m sure he’ll help you in any way he can.”

He refused to listen to any more. No doubt she was still only trying to save his soul, to make up for her failure with him in Newgate. Walking to the door, he pressed his ear to it. So far, silence. Carefully, he opened it, and stood listening a while longer. Nothing. He stepped out.

“Where are you going?”

“Wait here.” Ignoring the note of worry in her voice, he proceeded up the stairs. Time to scout out the street and decide if the moment had come to move.

The street was dark. A few shadowy figures hurried along it. He could leave and skirt down the nearest alley. Best head toward Clerkenwell.

When he reentered the cellar, the woman had removed the pins from her hair until it fell loose about her shoulders. She was combing it through with her fingers. For a second his gut clenched, remembering his wife’s similar motions with the tortoiseshell comb he had bought for her one time from a tinker.

When the woman noticed him watching her, she quickly gathered her hair in her hands and wound it back up in a tight knot.

“It’s time to leave,” he said.

She replaced the pins in her hair, then stood and straightened her cloak, her movements quick and efficient.

He came to the table and wrapped the food up. Corking the bottle, he placed the things back into the satchel and flung it over his shoulder. Who knew when he’d have more?

He turned and found her standing near him. She was above medium height, the top of her bonnet reaching to his temple. Her pale gray eyes looked at him calmly. For a woman who had been abducted and kept hostage, she had shown an amazing amount of courage.

Suddenly, his conscience smote him. He couldn’t very well leave her in this rookery. Despite his months in the brutal surroundings of Newgate, he remembered a time when he’d been among civilized people. Men who respected women.

He swallowed, remembering his own wife again. He’d never have left her to fend for herself in such a pit. He pushed open the door and gestured. “Either come with me and be quiet about it, or I’ll leave you in this stew to find your own way out.”

She followed silently behind him as he climbed the stairs once more. They stood in the doorway of the derelict building some time before he ventured out. Finally taking her by the arm in a sure, but not rough, grip and placing a finger to his lips, he stepped out of the overhang of the doorway.

Jonah had a fairly good knowledge of the layout of the neighborhood. He’d spent most of the past year since arriving in London in the surrounding areas, before they’d thrown him into Newgate. His eyes strained through the darkness, knowing that although no one was about, there was no telling how many people watched the street. It was an area where few lingered after dark and most had something they preferred hiding.

He reached an alley and walked down it, skirting the piles of litter. A cat let out an outraged meow and jumped up onto a jagged brick wall.

Their boots crunched over the thin layer of ice that now covered the puddles. He turned left and went down a narrower path. Another turn, then another, and they left the open area and were once more hidden by buildings.

He spared her a glance. “Where do you live?”

“Just outside Marylebone, beyond the Uxbridge Road tollhouse.” She kept her words brief, as if understanding the need for quiet.

“I don’t know that part of town. I’ll leave you where you can get a hack.”

They skirted another building then went down another alley. Soon the streets widened and more pedestrians and carriages were to be seen. He made a wide circle around Gray’s Inn. He knew he was taking a grave risk entering this neighborhood, especially so early in the evening, but he’d made up his mind he wouldn’t leave this innocent woman alone in the stews of London.

Suddenly a crowd of uniformed men turned the corner just as he was ready to emerge from an alleyway onto a main street. Horse guards, by the jingle of their spurs against the cobblestones. Jonah jerked to a stop, pulling the woman by her middle against him. He didn’t have a chance to unsheathe his knife to hold to her throat or cover her mouth with his hand. He didn’t dare move, didn’t dare breathe, nor make the slightest sound to draw the men’s attention as they passed in front of him.

One of them slipped and clutched at his companion’s arm.

“By George, Harry, have a care,” the other admonished, giving him a shove that sent him dangerously close to where Jonah was standing. “If you can’t hold your liquor, you belong with the Grenadiers!” Laughter rang out all around them.

By their tone, they were likely leaving a tavern and not on a manhunt. Even so, if one so much as turned in his direction, they’d see him where he stood only a few feet away in the shadows. His attention slid to the woman in front of him. Her bonnet hid half his face. He could feel her slim frame beneath his grip. All she had to do was call out and he’d be finished.

As the seconds ticked by, he realized his entire future hung on this woman’s whim. The sweat broke out on his forehead and armpits. His heart pumped in deafening thuds as he relived those last moments on the gallows.

Then the soldiers were gone. Their laughter faded, as did their footfalls on the cobbles. The ensuing silence was only broken by his heartbeat. Slowly, he loosened his hold on the woman’s midriff. She stepped a few inches away from him, as if awaiting his next move.

She hadn’t given him away. He swallowed, still scarcely believing his good fortune. He took a large gulp of the frigid air, breathing in the taste of freedom.

He mustn’t risk another near encounter with the law. Taking her arm once again, he crossed the street after a quick look up and down it. He led her at a rapid pace a few more blocks on a less-traveled side street. Finally he stopped.

“If you walk in that direction,” he said, gesturing, “you’ll come to Red Lion Square. Continue a little farther and you’ll reach Holborn. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding a hack there to take you where you live.” He thought of something. “Do have any blunt to pay your fare?” He certainly had nothing to give her.

She nodded. “I’ll manage.”

“All right. I’ll leave you here.” He swallowed, finding it hard to say the next words. It had been a long time since he’d felt gratitude to anyone for anything. “And…uh…thanks for holding your tongue back there.”

“I told you I wouldn’t give you away.” Through the darkness, he could feel her straightforward look. “Don’t forget my offer. If you find nowhere to go, come to my brother. St. George’s Chapel on St. George’s Row just above Hyde Park. You’ll not be turned away by the Reverend Damien Hathaway.”

He shifted on his feet. “I don’t expect you’ll be seeing the likes o’ me unless it’s at the end o’ the noose. I’ll be long gone from London ere you wake up tomorrow.”

She shook her head. “You’re a fool. Look at you. You don’t even have a greatcoat. How long are you going to survive in this cold?”

“I survived this long. I’ll manage.”

They stood eyeing each other for another few seconds. Would he ever see her again? Strange how the thought gave him pause. Even now, she was berating him, and yet he felt she meant him good and not harm.

Without another word, she pulled the hood of her cloak over her bonnet and turned away from him. His hand almost reached out to stop her, but then he dropped it back to his side. What had he meant by the gesture? What could he say to her?

In a certain sense, he owed her his life.

Her footsteps took her rapidly in the direction he’d pointed and she disappeared into the night.

He stood a second longer before hurrying back into a side street and toward the East End of London.

Florence stumbled from the hackney after a long ride across London. Her stiff fingers fumbled with her purse. Finally, she paid her fare and turned toward her house.

She breathed in the fresh, cold air. Her neighborhood seemed more like a village than a part of London. Beyond the parsonage lay orchards and fields. She walked up the steps to the large brick house where she and her brother lived since he’d been given the curacy of the small chapel.

She tried hard to forget the image of Mr. Quinn with his dirty clothes that offered so little protection from the elements. If he returned to the cellar, there was no wood left for a fire. Or would he head out of London on the Great North Road and hope to sleep under cover of a forest?

It would be harder to hide in a village.

She shut the front door behind her as the rattle of the coach faded in the distance. Familiar warmth enveloped her.

“Florence! I thought I heard someone come in. Thank God, you’re alive!” Damien hurried toward her, his arms outstretched, his pace fast in spite of his wooden leg.

They were not a generally demonstrative family, but it felt good right then to be held in a warm embrace. He smelled good, too, his cravat freshly starched, a great contrast to the stink of the other man and his surroundings.