The Making Of A Gentleman. Ruth Axtell MorrenЧитать онлайн книгу.
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Critical praise for
RUTH AXTELL MORREN
and her novels
THE ROGUE’S REDEMPTION
“A beautifully written Regency-era love story.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
THE HEALING SEASON
“The author expertly creates an endearing story that will both encourage and delight the reader.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
DAWN IN MY HEART
“Morren turns in a superior romantic historical.”
—Booklist
“Morren’s tales are always well plotted and fascinating, and this one is no exception. 4½ stars.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
LILAC SPRING
“Lilac Spring blooms with heartfelt yearning and genuine conflict as Cherish and Silas seek God’s will for their lives. Fascinating details about 19th-century shipbuilding are planted here and there, bringing a historical feel to this faith-filled romance.”
—Liz Curtis Higgs, bestselling author of Whence Came a Prince
WILD ROSE
Selected as aBooklist Top 10 Christian Novel for 2005
“The charm of the story lies in Morren’s ability to portray real passion between her characters. Wild Rose is not so much a romance as an old-fashioned love story.”
—Booklist
WINTER IS PAST
“Inspires readers toward a deeper trust in the transforming power of God…[Readers] will find in Winter Is Past a novel not to be put down and a new favorite author.”
—Christian Retailing
The Making of a Gentleman
Ruth Axtell Morren
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For Frances, a modern day “prison lady”
and
Thank you, Allison, for taking this ugly
duckling and helping turn it into a swan…
Let the sighing of the prisoner come before thee; according to the greatness of thy power preserve thou those that are appointed to die.
—Psalms 79:11
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Questions for Discussion
Chapter One
London, 1812
The hangman’s noose swayed gently in the chill winter breeze, the pale Italian hemp stark in the murky light.
No matter how many hangings Florence had attended, the sight of a man—or woman—hanging from the noose caused her a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She shifted her gaze from it, although there was nothing to comfort the eye in the rest of the panorama facing her. Newgate Prison’s classic stone facade, unrelieved by any windows, stared back at her, its walls as gray as the lowering skies above her.
The February wind bit at her. Shivering, she pulled her cape tighter. Despite the bodies around her, the cold penetrated through to her bones. Perhaps because she’d eaten nothing since yesterday evening, preferring to spend the time in prayer and fasting for the condemned man.
The crowd pressed against her as new arrivals jockeyed for position. They had been drifting in since last evening when the portable gallows was wheeled in by the team of horses. Two crosslike structures supported a parallel set of bars between them. A lone noose hung from one of these bars, designed to support up to a dozen bodies. But on this rare occasion, only one man would be hanged.
A few guards stood below the platform, bearing pikes or muskets. Florence glanced over at the one nearest her. His unshaven face and slouched stance showed the effects of having stood watch all night.
Though the growing audience swelled, waist-high wooden barriers extending out along the walls of Newgate prevented anyone from getting closer than a few feet from the gallows.
Florence had been attending the hangings for six years now, ever since she’d begun ministering to the inmates of Newgate. She was determined to show them a last friendly face and let them know up to the end that there was somebody praying for their souls. She hoped a glimpse of her would remind them of the verse she’d shared with them at the end, I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.
“Last confessions of dying man! Tuppence. Get the true and final confessions of Jonah Quinn!” A man wending a horse with difficulty through the crowd waved a sheaf of printed broadsides, their ink no doubt still damp.
How she hated these executions, where a person’s life was made a mockery and the proceedings a theatrical farce. She focused on the empty platform once again. The prisoner wouldn’t be brought forth until half past seven. She knew the schedule well.
Lord, break his will. Soften his heart. Don’t let him depart with that hardness of heart that prevents him from receiving Your mercy.
The prayer had become a litany to her since last night.
A prayer for Jonah Quinn, a man accused of forgery, one of the dozens of capital offenses codified in the “Bloody Code.” It had been a shock to most sitting at the January Sessions that his sentence had not been respited. Nowadays, all but a few of the capital crimes were commuted to transportation. The Recorder of London, principal presiding judge at the Old Bailey, had stared hard under his dark brows so at odds with the white curling wig flowing over his shoulders at the accused as he pronounced the age-old words “hanged by the