Ruth Axtell Morren - The Making Of A Gentleman

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.

Damien pulled away from her. His blue eyes searched her face. “Tell me what happened, where you’ve been, I heard so many stories.”

“I hoped you wouldn’t be worried.” She slipped out of his embrace and began to undo the clasp of her cloak. “First, let me get near the fire. It’s a raw night.”

“Of course, forgive me for keeping you standing here.” He took her cloak and bonnet and hung them on the hook. “I must also let Albert and Elizabeth know you are back. They were most concerned.”

“Yes, let me go to the kitchen at once.”

She spent the next several minutes assuring their two old retainers that she indeed was safe and sound. Finally she was able to sit with her brother in his study, her feet on the fender, a hot cup of tea in her hands.

“I’ve been praying for you since this morning, Florrie.” Damien used the nickname she hadn’t heard since they’d been children. “I heard there’d been a storming of the gallows and you’d disappeared in the fray. Some said you were abducted, others that you’d been crushed by the mob. It took a troop of guards quite some time to subdue the crowds.”

She shuddered, remembering the violent mob. “That explains how Quinn was able to get away. I can still scarcely believe what happened. The hangman was ready to release the drop, when all of a sudden a dozen men besieged the gallows and cut down the prisoner a second before his feet would have dangled in the air.” She put a hand to her cheek, picturing it all again. “The next thing I knew Quinn had grabbed me and was holding a knife to my throat.”

Damien drew in a sharp breath.

She raised her eyes to meet his gaze. “I’m sure he thought to use me as a shield.” She refrained from telling him how close she had come to having the guard’s pike embedded in her.

“How cowardly to grab a woman. Did he hurt you?”

“No.” She pictured the events as she stared into the fire. “I think he reacted out of pure fear—fear of being recaptured,” she added, remembering the man’s fierce look when she’d mentioned the authorities closing in. “As soon as he made his way through the mob, most of whom sympathized with the prisoner, I must say, he just kept going.” She shook her head. “I wonder if he even intended to take me at all. It almost seemed as if he simply forgot to let go of me.” Her arm was still tender from his bruising grip.

Damien reached across and covered her hand with his. “How terrifying for you.”

She smiled. “I know. Oddly enough, after a while, I was no longer afraid. I was too stunned by how the Lord was answering prayer.” She leaned forward. “The man was set to die. The Lord has given him a stay of execution. Jonah Quinn was not ready to face his Maker, in the state he was in.”

Damien nodded, a small smile curving his lips. “It certainly seems like the hand of the Lord when I see it was you out of all the crowd who was taken.”

Florence went on to describe where they had hidden out all day.

Damien shook his head in wonder. “And he didn’t hurt you.”

“No. I think he was more bluster than real threat.” For such a fierce-looking man, he’d behaved almost…gallantly, even to bringing her at great risk to himself to a place where she could get a hackney. She recalled their near brush with the soldiers.

What would her fate have been in the hands of another sort, like the fellow who had led them to the hideout? She shivered.

“Did they search for him very long?” she asked her brother.

“They spent more time subduing the mob, from what I heard. It has certainly caused an uproar. I think it’s the first time, in memory at least, that someone has escaped the gallows. The Crown will be nervous with the unrest there’s been since the war. They’re already saying it’s the Jacobins who are responsible.”

“The prisoner claimed ignorance of his rescuers.”

“He could be speaking the truth.” Damien cleared his throat. “They’re sure to question you once they know you’re back.”

She frowned into her tea. “There’s little I can tell them, or wish to.”

“Did you get any sense of its having been planned?”

She looked at her brother, her heart heavy. “No. I don’t think there is even a plan for Quinn to hide out or be smuggled abroad. It’s only a matter of time before the authorities find him.”

Damien nodded thoughtfully, his own glance straying to the fire. “So many poor unfortunates housed in Newgate. They won’t have any mercy on this man if they catch him.”

“He insisted on his innocence right up to the end.” A wave of desolation swept through her when she remembered how alone he’d looked when she’d left him. She’d been so sure the Lord had called her for a special purpose in the man’s life.

She looked at her brother sadly. “I wasn’t able to get through to Mr. Quinn at all. He remained deaf to any of my admonitions to seek the help of the Lord. He disappeared into the night where he left me and I doubt I shall ever see him again.” She paused and hesitated on the next words. “I even told him he could come here, that you would be able to help him in some way. I felt sure…” She stared unseeing into her teacup.

“Don’t fret. You were obedient in going where the Lord led you and witnessing to this unfortunate soul. You have nothing to reproach yourself with. You must trust the Lord now to finish the work begun in Mr. Jonah Quinn.”

His swarthy face came to her mind. Underneath the filth and foul language, she’d sensed a man of substance. A soul worth saving.

Lord, help him find You, she prayed silently. The streets of London could be cold and inhospitable.

Jonah spent the next few days moving from one abandoned cellar to another, searching through the refuse around Westfield Market by night for a scrap of food. When he was able to find some fuel, he hazarded a fire in the various hovels, but he dared not risk detection. He trusted no one around him. He had no contact with those who had rescued him and gave up hoping for more. He was on his own, the way he’d been since his wife and children had perished.

It had been their doom the day they’d come to London. But what else could he have done once the open fields around his village had been enclosed? They’d been left with no land to graze their few cows or grow any wheat. With the war lasting so long, the price of wheat kept going up, so they could hardly buy bread anymore.

Jonah pushed the memories from his mind. It did no good to go over the same thoughts. What was done was done. He couldn’t change a single fact of his miserable destiny.

He had no funds, precious little food, not even a coat he could huddle under.

He was beyond help.

It was only a matter of time before he’d die of exposure or the authorities would catch him. Already he’d felt a burning in his throat that had grown worse each day until he could hardly swallow. The gin was long since gone, so there was nothing to relieve the pain.