The Making Of A Gentleman. Ruth Axtell MorrenЧитать онлайн книгу.
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.
Florence averted her gaze but not before it crossed Quinn’s. Was that amusement she read in their black-fringed depths? Or were they merely sardonic?
She pressed her lips together and looked away from him. If he thought to discompose her, he had another think coming. She’d seen enough of the man during his fever that the sight of a tailor measuring his leg could hardly put her to the blush. Without conscious thought, she remembered the broad planes of his muscular chest and ropelike biceps when she’d bathed him.
She rocked her leg back and forth across her knee and fixed her eyes on the fireplace across the room. She must really polish the candlesticks on the mantel. The silver bases were showing signs of tarnish. Soon it would be time for the spring cleaning—
“And the thighs…” Mr. Bourke whipped the tape measure around one. “Twenty-five. No padding needed there.”
“I should hope not,” Florence said, unable to keep her gaze from flickering back to the outline of Quinn’s leg. The tailor moved the tape measure around the circumference of one calf then down to his ankle. She swallowed, noting how well proportioned his legs were.
The tailor flipped his notebook shut and began to roll up his tape measure. “I think that will do for now. I shall have a pair of trousers and a coat and waistcoat ready to be fitted in—” he pursed his lips “—shall we say, three days?”
“Three days I’m to be without clothes?”
The tailor blinked at Quinn’s tone of outrage. Florence stood at once. “What he means is that he really needs the first outfit as soon as possible. His others were, er, damaged beyond repair.”
“Oh, rest assured, we shall have a few good outfits ready in no time.”
“Very well, we shall make do with what he has for the present.” She gave Quinn a stern look so he wouldn’t commit any more slips, before turning back to Bourke. “Mr. Kendall only needs some presentable suits, nothing too fancy. Shall we expect you Thursday morning then for the first fitting?”
“Nine o’clock, Miss Hathaway, if that is not too early for you?”
“Certainly not. Nine o’clock it is then.” She escorted the tailor to the door. “Why don’t you have a cup of coffee before you go?”
“That would be lovely….”
Their voices faded down the hall. “That would be lovely,” mimicked Jonah in a simpering tone. “In the meantime I continue flitting about in a nightshirt. I’m almost as much a prisoner in these fancy surroundings as I was back at Newgate.”
“What’s that about Newgate?”
Jonah jumped, but relaxed at the curate’s smiling face in the open doorway.
“Oh…just mumbling to myself.”
“I saw Mr. Bourke leaving. I trust your fitting went well.”
“If getting every inch of meself measured means a pair of trousers and shirt, then it went splendidly.”
Hathaway chuckled. “You’ll soon be walking around like a fine gentleman.”
Jonah harrumphed and marched back into his bed. “I’d as soon have a pair of trousers and a plain shirt o’ Albert’s if it meant going about clothed today.”
“Well, why not? I’ll talk to him straightaway. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind lending you something.”
Jonah’s eyes widened at the man’s ready assent. “You will?”
“Certainly. Why wouldn’t I? You must be tired of hanging about up here all day. I apologize for ignoring you most of yesterday. Sundays are busy days for us.”
“You had guests,” he began, thinking of the fancy coach he’d seen parked in front of the house as he’d whiled away the lonely hours upstairs.
He smiled. “Yes, the rector of the parish. Reverend Doyle. He’s a most learned man.” With a lift of his brows, he indicated the chair, and Jonah quickly nodded, realizing the man was asking his permission to sit down. It was his house, after all, his room, his bl—furniture, for goodness’ sake.
“He’s your boss, is he?”
Hathaway settled down in the straight-back chair. “Yes, you could say that. But more than that he’s a mentor and advisor. He’s taught me a lot over the years.” He rubbed the cloth of his knee breeches just above the wooden leg. “He’s the one who made it possible for me to attend university.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. His high recommendation to a local lord gave me favor with the gentleman, who paid for my studies there.”
“Your own kin didn’t have the blunt?”
“No. My father was a clockmaker, you see.”
“He wasn’t a gentleman?” He looked at the fine cut of the man’s coat. “But I thought you were a—”
Hathaway quirked an eyebrow, humor lighting his blue eyes. “A gentleman? No, I’m an artisan’s son. It shows how much a man can achieve with the proper education.”
Quinn shook his head. “But you’ve got to have a head for letters.”
“Yes. But there’s a lot the average person’s head is capable of if given half the chance.”
Quinn scratched at the stubble of his jaw. “You think so?”
“I know so. My sister and I teach children at the local orphanage in Marylebone. These children come from all levels of society, and yet they are like sponges.” The curate’s long fingers moved in animation. “You should see how quickly they learn their letters and numbers and are clamoring for more.”
“But they’re young. Their minds are, like you say, sponges.”
“Yes, that is so. An older person may be more set in his thinking, but that doesn’t mean his brain is less capable of learning if he sets his mind to it.”
Jonah merely shook his head.
“You’ll see, by week’s end, you shall be dressed like a gentleman and soon my sister shall have you speaking and behaving like one, too.”
He remembered Miss Hathaway’s exactitude during the fitting. “Miss Hathaway and Mr. Bourke seemed mighty particular about the sort of clothes I’m to wear. I never realized there was so much involved in dressing like a gentleman.”
Hathaway