The Making Of A Gentleman. Ruth Axtell MorrenЧитать онлайн книгу.
a thin sliver of dry toast.
“Your stomach has held nothing down but teas and broths for over a week. If you don’t want to suffer severe abdominal pains, you will satisfy yourself with what Mrs. Nichols prepares for you.”
“You want to keep me weak as a kitten and at your mercy in this bed, is what I think,” he said, picking up the spoon and shoveling it into the watery egg. “First you shave my head while I’m lying out of my wits, and now you starve me.”
She folded her arms to keep from boxing his ear. Ever since he’d regained consciousness, he seemed to do nothing but complain to her. To the others, he behaved with more politeness than she’d expect from a Newgate convict. But to her he seemed to do nothing but find fault. Was he still angry that she’d shaved his head?
“On the contrary, Mr…. Kendall,” she told him now, “I’d have you strong and well so you no longer grumble. Honestly, what have the reverend and I brought upon ourselves opening our doors to you?”
For a second, she read a stunned hurt in his eyes. But it was gone immediately as he focused on wiping out the remains of the egg in his bowl with his toast. A man of his brutish strength and rude ways wouldn’t be bothered by her words. Still, her conscience smote her for her unkind remark. What would Damien say if he’d heard her?
After she’d left the room, Jonah sat on the edge of the bed and swung the covers off, his arm feeling like jelly in the process. He needed to use the chamber pot and didn’t want to ring for either the curate or Albert. Not after Miss Hathaway’s remark.
Her comment rankled. No less because it was true. What had he brought on these innocent people? If he should be discovered hiding in the parsonage, what would happen to them?
He scratched his jaw, his whiskers feeling itchy, although not nearly as bad as his face and scalp had felt for months now. Once again, he passed a hand over his head, unused to the smooth feel of it. Although it didn’t feel so smooth now. Rough stubble grazed his fingertips.
He took a deep breath and tried to stand. A wave of dizziness passed over him and he reached out for a bedpost, but he was too far away. He fell back down on the soft bed.
He twisted around as a knock sounded on the door. It couldn’t be one of the women—they never knocked as they came in with some potion to administer or to take the very sheets from beneath him and make up his bed.
“Come in.”
The Reverend Hathaway poked his head in the doorway. “Good morning, Mr. Kendall,” he said with a smile. “I hope I’m not disturbing you. My sister said you were awake.”
“No, you’re not disturbing me.” He quirked his lips. “I was just about to use the chamber pot—” His words broke off as the reverend came in followed by his sister.
Her clear gray gaze locked with his. Any softness he’d sensed in them during his fever had long since gone.
“Of course. If you’ll excuse us, Florence.” Hathaway turned to his sister. For a second she seemed to hesitate—goodness knows, she probably thought she owned him body and soul after nursing him the way she had—then with a nod, she retreated and shut the door behind her.
Hathaway helped Jonah to his feet. “I’m sure you’re feeling as weak as a kitten. It’s understandable. You’ll quickly regain your strength.” As he spoke he led Jonah to the screen in the corner of the room. “There you go. Need any more help?”
“No, I’ll manage.” He’d been helped on and off a bedpan enough already by Albert.
“Very well, I’ll leave you and return in a few minutes.”
After Jonah had finished, he managed to make it to the dressing table and splash water on his face and hands. As he took up a facecloth, he noticed a hand mirror lying facedown on the table. Gingerly he took it up and turned it over.
An unrecognizable face stared back at him. A skull covered over with a light layer of black fuzz, gaunt cheeks shadowed by a layer of bristly whiskers. He passed a hand over his jaw once again, feeling the hollow cheeks, which made his cheekbones look wider. His face had always been full, his neck corded with muscle. Now, he looked like a caricature of that man.
He fingered the cleft in his chin. At least a few recognizable markings still remained. The eyes, too, were familiar. Their dark green irises, framed by black lashes and covered by heavy black eyebrows, stared back at him.
He scowled as his gaze traveled upward to his skull. His forehead seemed way too high now with no black curls to frame it. At least the hair was growing back although it looked shorter than his beard at this point.
He looked like a wrestler or prizefighter, except he no longer had the girth required.
A knock sounded once again on the door. He quickly put down the mirror and began making his way back to the bed, calling out “Come in” as he did so.
Mr. Hathaway returned with his sister. The curate hurried forward and took Jonah by the arm. With a defiant look at Miss Hathaway, Jonah shook the other man off. “That’s all right, Reverend. I’m getting me legs back.”
“That’s good.” Hathaway helped tuck the blankets around him once Jonah was in bed, then pulled up a chair for his sister and one for himself.
Again, Jonah glanced at the woman. She perched in that ramrod straight way of hers. So prim she was, with the tongue of a harpy. Pity, the brother seemed to have gotten all the looks in the family. Whereas the curate was blue eyed with wavy, light brown hair, his sister was a pale likeness. Her cheeks, although smooth, had no color in them. Her hair, covered with a lacy cap, was also light brown, but straight and of a shade with no golden tints in it like her brother’s. Her eyes were a washed-out imitation of his, neither gray nor blue. And yet, there was something compelling in them. Something that challenged a man, the way they could stare him down.
He looked away suddenly, ashamed of his critical appraisal. This was the only person who’d opened her doors to him and who’d nursed him for the past fortnight.
Hathaway folded his hands on his lap. “I wanted to have a talk with you now that the fever has broken. I realize you still need some time to recover your strength, but I thought it a good time to discuss what we ought to do in the coming weeks.”
Hathaway’s blue eyes searched his. “You are still a wanted man. Although the commotion died down in the time you were ill, your name remains among the wanted and there have been posters with your picture placed around Newgate according to Florence.”
Jonah’s eyes went to Miss Hathaway. “You’ve been back there?”
“It’s my work.”
He frowned, imagining it wouldn’t be long before the constable came around.
As if reading his thoughts, she said, “You may rest easy, Mr. Kendall. They know nothing about my abduction except that I was held for a few hours in a place on Saffron Hill I would never be able to find again.”
The news didn’t ease his worry. Jonah went to rake a hand through his hair. His fingers met stubble and he made a fist.
“Nothing has been posted around here or in Mayfair,” the curate added in a hasty tone. “I’m sure the magistrates believe you are hiding somewhere in the East End, indeed, if you even remain in London.”
Only somewhat relieved, Jonah took a deep breath and unclenched his hand. “I don’t suppose anyone’d ever imagine me holed up in the West End.”
The reverend returned the smile. “That does make things a lot easier. You must remain in hiding for the foreseeable future. If you were discovered now, it would mean a prompt hanging with doubled security. From the newspaper accounts, the Crown has been made a fool of. The band rescuing you seems to have been led by a competing receiver of stolen goods. A question of revenge and encroachment of one another’s territory. Perhaps they thought they could use you against your former employer.”
Jonah