Ruth Axtell Morren - The Making Of A Gentleman

“So, from today forward, we will only refer to you as Mr. Kendall.”

Jonah thought of something else. “Where are me clothes? I think I’d like to get out of this bed. Seems I’ve been here months.”

He turned to his sister. “His clothes?”

“I’m afraid they’ve been disposed of.”

“What do you mean, disposed of?” Quinn asked, feeling a sudden terror.

“Burned.”

“Burned?” He swore then stopped in midsentence at Miss Hathaway’s stern frown.

“The vermin,” she said. “We had to ensure there would be no spread of it through the household.”

He stared at her, panic growing in him. “I had some…things…” Once again, his face felt hot at having to confess these things to this lady.

“You had a lock of hair and a small square of cloth in one pocket,” she said in a softer tone. “I saved them for you, supposing they were sentimental keepsakes.” She rose and went to the bedside table. From the drawer she extracted a ragged square of dirty calico and the dark curl. She handed them to him. “Is this what you meant?”

He took them without a word, enclosing them in his fist, ashamed and comforted at the same time. These were the only keepsakes he had of his former life, the lock of Judy’s hair and the bit of cloth from one of little Mary’s frocks. He swallowed the lump in his throat. Nothing remained of his Joshua. He cleared his throat and glared at the woman standing over him.

“So, what am I supposed to walk around in? My nightshirt?”

“We’ll procure some new clothes for you.” She turned to her brother. “We can send for Mr. Bourke, my brother’s tailor,” she added, sparing Jonah a glance. She continued addressing her brother. “He can measure Mr. Kendall and have some things made up for him. Mrs. Nichols and I can begin immediately on some shirts and neckcloths.”

Again she was treating him as if he wasn’t in the room. “In the meantime what am I supposed to do?” he said to her back.

She turned to him. “In the meantime, you’ll have to satisfy yourself with a nightshirt and dressing gown of my brother’s.”

“I haven’t much choice, I suppose?” His glance went slowly from sister to brother, and he saw the understanding in their eyes. He was not just referring to the state of his wardrobe.

“I’m afraid not,” Hathaway said, an apologetic note in his tone. “Which brings me to the most important question.”

Jonah stared into the young man’s eyes.

“Are you willing to trust us to do what is best for you for however long you remain under our roof?” The curate smiled as he ended, softening the solemnity of his words.

Miss Hathaway’s expression was not so encouraging. Her gray eyes measured him. “My brother believes this is your best chance. I am willing to do whatever I can to ensure you are presentable.” She paused. “My brother has asked for your trust. But my question to you is, can we trust you? Will you do your part, Mr. Kendall? It will be no easy task to change the habits of a lifetime.”

Her steady gray eyes looked skeptical and her words left him with no doubt that he would have to earn her approval.

Was he up to it?

Did he have a choice?

The young curate held out his hand. After a moment, Jonah stretched out his own. The two clasped hands, sealing their bargain. Although he didn’t shake Miss Hathaway’s hand, somehow he knew the biggest hurdle would be to prove himself to her.

Florence sat on the striped settee in the upstairs morning room and watched Mr. Bourke wrap his tape measure about Mr. Quinn’s neck. “Sixteen and a half. A thick neck,” he mumbled, jotting on his notepad.

Quinn stood in his nightshirt, a stoic look on his face. His hair was starting to grow in, showing a black shadow all over his head. Florence frowned. The shadow continued down the front of his cheeks. The man hadn’t shaved again this morning. She gave a mental shake of her head. It would take more than her brother imagined to change this man’s personal habits and bring about any semblance of gentleman.

The tailor whipped the tape measure off. “Arms apart.” Quinn spread his arms out. “Wider, please.” The little man reached around Quinn’s torso with the tape, resembling a squirrel trying to embrace a mighty oak. To his credit, Quinn remained patient. He hadn’t said anything since greeting the tailor with, “Come to dress me at last?”

He whistled. “Forty-five and a quarter…a broad chest that,” he muttered. He proceeded to his waist. “Thirty-three and a quarter.” The tape went around his hips. “Thirty-eight.”

He clicked his tongue, looking at the numbers on his pad. “Not a classic build. The shoulders are too broad, though at least the waist is trim. He certainly won’t require a corset.”

Florence cleared her throat. “All we need, as I explained earlier, are good suits of clothes proper for a gentleman of, er, Mr. Kendall’s stature.” The tailor wrapped the tape around a bicep.

“Fourteen and a quarter. Make a fist please…sixteen and a quarter,” he noted of the expanded bicep.

Again, he tsk-tsked. “This man’s dimensions are quite disproportionate, more suitable for a prizefighter than for a gentleman.”

Quinn cocked an eyebrow at the smaller man. “I have fought in the ring a time or two.”

The tailor stepped back. “Indeed, sir? Where was that? Maybe I’ve see you fight.”

“I rather doubt it. They were local fights during country fairs, and suchlike, up in Bedfordshire.”

“Pray, let us continue with the fitting.” Florence eyed Jonah with a frown. So, they not only had a convict on their hands, but also a prizefighter.

“Yes, of course, Miss Hathaway.” Bourke glanced down at his notepad, continuing to talk to himself. This time the words no longer sounded critical, but were beginning to reflect awe. “The shoulder span wide, the waist narrow, the hips—” he nodded his head, his lips pursed “—the same. Now for the back.” He stepped behind Quinn and spread the tape across the breadth of his shoulders. “Eighteen and a half. Nice and wide…will require more cloth than usual.”

The tailor peered around at Florence, the tape measure dangling from his neck. “I see a navy-blue, double-breasted tailcoat with square tails…let us say…to the knee, not farther, a bit of gathering at the shoulder, a narrow collar with a long roll to here…” he said, waving his hand to illustrate the point. “Velvet perhaps on one? A waistcoat of the same material and one of a contrasting color? Red satin?”

She pressed her lips together in disapproval. The last thing she needed was his turning Quinn into a macaroni. Before she could contradict him, the tailor took a few steps away from Quinn and eyed him. “As for materials, a fine broadcloth, one in navy, another in black? Or perhaps bottle-green?” He turned to Florence again.

“Green,” she found herself saying and only then realized she was thinking of the color of his eyes. She glanced up at them and quickly away.

“Excellent choice, Miss Hathaway.” The tailor wrote down the color. “And the waistcoats? A half a dozen? Cashmere, lutestring, a satin for Sunday wear,” he rattled off, answering his own question. “I have a lovely embroidered silk in pink and blue…”

“Nothing to call attention,” she said at once. “Sober colors, cream or ivory and some dark to match the coat.”

He looked down his thin nose at her. “Miss Hathaway, everything Bourke & Sons of Bond Street does is in the utmost taste.” He turned his back to her and surveyed Quinn, the measuring tape stretched taut between his hands. “Now for the length. Excuse me, sir.” He bent over and held the tape down the outside of Quinn’s leg to his bare ankle. “Very good.” Then he proceeded to measure the inward length.