Kitabı oku: «The Making Of A Gentleman», sayfa 5

Chapter Five

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.

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 chuckled. “Don’t let it rattle you. I let Florence take over the selection of my wardrobe long ago, realizing she had a much better eye for such things than I did. Left to my own devices I’d probably wear the wrong waistcoat with the wrong coat, or a different colored pair of stockings—”

Jonah started to laugh until he glanced down and realized the man’s error. The wooden leg seemed to grow larger between the two of them. He coughed. “How did you, uh, lose the leg?”

Hathaway touched the leather strap holding the wooden peg in place. “A wagon ran over me as a child.”

Jonah widened his eyes at the calm tone.

“I was eight. I was in charge of herding a flock of ducks back to our pond and I ran after one, heedless of the traffic on the road.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“I was fortunate not to be killed altogether. But the Lord was merciful. He spared my life for my parents’ sake. They only had Florence and myself,” he explained.

Jonah shook his head at the young man’s lack of self-pity. He himself couldn’t get over the fact the curate wasn’t even the son of a gentleman. He’d never have guessed it. He made a very fine-looking gent from his golden brown hair to his aristocratic features. “Pity about the leg, though,” he said.

A flush was the only indication that the words might have caused him any discomfort. “Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise.”

Jonah cocked an eyebrow. “How do you figure that?”

“I think my, er, impediment has made me more readily submit to God with my whole heart.” His lips curved upward. “I can identify with Jacob in the Old Testament when he wrestled with the Angel of the Lord one night. Are you familiar with the story?”

Here it came. Was Hathaway going to evangelize him the way his sister did those at Newgate? “No…I never heard much o’ the Bible.”

“Pity. Well, Jacob wrestled an entire night with a stranger.”

Jonah leaned forward. A wrestling story, that sounded interesting.

“Jacob was going to meet his brother, whom he had wronged many years before.”

“Hmm. And he got into a fight?”

He grinned. “God met with him one night.”

Jonah raised an eyebrow.

“Jacob was all alone. God appeared in the form of a man and wrestled silently with him. It wasn’t until Jacob found it impossible to best him that he realized this was more than a mere mortal.”

“It was God?”

“The Bible says it was ‘the Angel of the Lord.’ Jacob was a shrewd fellow. When he perceived it was a divine being, he wouldn’t let go until he received a blessing.”

Jonah rubbed his bare head, still expecting to find thick hair there. “Can a man fight with God and come out alive?”

“If God has a purpose with that individual and must first wrestle with him to put to death the ‘old man.’”

“The old man?”

“The man in the flesh,” Hathaway explained. “He will always contend with the man of the spirit.”

“So, how do you figure all this in your own case?”

Hathaway smiled. “Well, to break the stalemate, the Angel eventually touched the hollow of Jacob’s thigh and it immediately became dislocated. Jacob walked with a limp for the rest of his life.”

“Ah.” He was beginning to see the connection. “So, would you say God fought with you and you lived through it but lost your leg?”

Hathaway’s eyes twinkled. “I would say, rather, I came out of that accident with a realization, earlier in life than most people, of how much I must depend on God.”

Jonah rubbed an earlobe. “You weren’t railing at God for such a misfortune?”

The curate shook his head, a far-off look in his blue eyes, as if he were seeing himself again. “I was only a lad of eight. My parents had raised me to know a God of love, not one of vengeance. After the terrible physical pain of the accident was over, I was faced with a different situation.”

Jonah waited.

“Being viewed with pity by my elders or with ridicule by my peers.”

“Aye.”

“I had to get used to people staring at the absence of a leg first thing, before they even looked at my face. I needed desperately to be able to hold my head up in public.” Hathaway continued more slowly, his long, lean fingers rubbing the cloth of his pant leg above the wooden peg. “I think this need made it easier for me, in a way, to submit to God. It made me understand more quickly God’s love for me.”

He gazed keenly at Jonah. “No matter how human beings were to treat me, I could be sure God did not look at the exterior man, this man of flesh with its glaring imperfection, but He looked deep into the interior of me, and saw the real man I was, whole and sound.”

Jonah shifted uncomfortably as he remembered the scorn he’d endured when he’d been shackled like a murderer and heard the clank of the iron-barred door closing behind him. He wasn’t one of those criminals, he’d wanted to rail at the turnkey, but all he’d seen was ridicule and derision on the grimy face.

“When I lost my leg, I learned the truth of the Scripture verse which says ‘my strength is made perfect in weakness.’ It might have taken me many more years to understand and submit to that teaching if it hadn’t been for the accident. I probably wouldn’t have achieved all that I did for a mere clockmaker’s son—gone to Oxford, been ordained as a clergyman, and now at the age of six-and-twenty gotten a curacy in the greatest city in the world.” He sat up and smiled. “I would probably be a simple watchmaker, working alongside my father in his small shop and content with that.”

Jonah cleared his throat. “Would that have been so bad? You had a roof over your head, a fair income, I’ll wager, and your family around you.” So many had far less.

Hathaway looked at him with understanding. “No, I’m sure I would have been content…but would the Lord have been?”

Chapter Six

Was it just four days ago, I was still simply a man and not a confounded gentleman? Jonah tried to hide his grimace, but every time he moved it seemed something pinched or dug into him.

His neck felt as if it was encased in swathing an inch thick and a foot high. He could hardly bend his chin down enough to see his food. His new “pantaloons,” as they were called, chafed him they were so fitted. His coat and waistcoat, similarly close-tailored, made him feel he had to ask the sleeves their leave before he could maneuver his arms. He didn’t think he could lift them much above his shoulders.

What wouldn’t he give now to be back taking his meals in the kitchen with the Nicholses, dressed in Albert’s comfortable work clothes? Apart from a couple of hours each morning with Hathaway in his study, Jonah had spent most of his days helping Albert with any chores that needed doing.

He was momentarily distracted from the discomfort of his new clothes by the sight of the serving dishes set on the table by the young girl, Betsy, the Nicholses’ daughter, the one who always reminded him of his Judy when she’d been that age, before illness and poverty had worn her down to a shadow of herself.

Jonah winked at the girl as she moved away, and she blushed and began to giggle, but stifled it quickly at Miss Hathaway’s frown.

Mr. Hathaway bowed his head. A quick glance showed his sister following suit. Jonah did the same, having become accustomed that each meal began with a blessing.

The curate’s soft tones broke the silence. “Dear Heavenly Father, we thank You for the food before us. We ask You to bless it for our bodies’ use. In Your Son’s name, Amen.”

Good. Short, sweet and to the point.

Soon a heaped plate was passed to him and he gave a sigh of satisfaction, breathing in the savory scents wafting from it. Each day brought a new variety of food. He wondered if he’d ever get used to having such a tasty array set before him. Today’s plate held a joint of chicken leg and thigh, some boiled potatoes covered in a creamy sauce, some mashed turnips—good, filling food. He picked up the thick folded napkin at the side of his plate and unfolded it as he saw Miss Hathaway do. Then he tucked it into his cravat, though there was precious little space in which to do so.

Jonah leaned forward and picked up the chicken leg and brought it to his mouth. It was as succulent as it smelled. He took another healthy bite.

The sound of Miss Hathaway clearing her throat made him look up.

Both Mr. and Miss Hathaway sat looking at him as he held the chicken leg a few inches from his lips. Mr. Hathaway quickly focused back on his own plate. His silverware clinked on the surface of the china as he cut into his chicken.

Miss Hathaway rested her knife and fork at an angle against the edges of her plate, her lips pursed as she continued studying Jonah without saying a word.

He slowly stopped chewing, the remaining bit of chicken feeling like a wad of wool when it finally went down his throat.

“In this household, Mr. Kendall, we do not eat our meats with our hands.” She fixed her gaze on the chicken leg still held between his fingers as if it were a rat the cat had carried in. “We use the two implements at either side of your plate. They are set there for a purpose.” In illustration, she lifted her knife and fork upright, suspending them between her thumbs and forefingers above the snowy-white tablecloth.

Jonah’s glance flickered to Mr. Hathaway’s, but he found no succor in that quarter. The curate didn’t even look up from his food but continued to eat as if unaware of the silent battle being fought between his sister and Jonah.

Jonah took an instant decision. So far, he’d behaved with amazing patience and forbearance—allowing himself to be shaved bald like a plucked chicken, then standing half-naked while a foppish tailor wrapped him in a tape measure, all the while under Miss Hathaway’s ever-critical eye.

He brought the chicken leg back to his mouth. And though it no longer tasted as it had a moment before, he took a good healthy bite and began to chew, loudly.

Only when he’d swallowed did he put down the offending leg. He looked at his fingertips. They were shiny with chicken grease. He proceeded to lick them off one by one, reminding himself with each appendage, that this was what he’d always done in his own cottage.

The sound of his mouth against his fingers was the only one in that large dining room with its heavy dark furniture and spotless tablecloth covered with crystal vases and shining silver bowls. So much silver could have paid his rent for a few years.

Lastly, he took his hand and swiped the back of it against his mouth to remove any lingering chicken juices. All the while he returned Miss Hathaway’s icy stare with a steady one of his own.

“You realize, Mr. Kendall, do you not, that where you spend your future, your very life, depends upon your manners.” She cleared her throat. “A gentleman—” she placed only a slight stress on the word “—holds his silverware thus.” She replaced her knife and fork on the table and picked them up again, poising them over her plate as if in preparation to cutting her own chicken.

“And if they be as ignorant as I am?” he asked blandly, ignoring the throb of a pulse at his temple.

He heard a choked sound from Mr. Hathaway, but when he turned to look at him, he found him once again with his head studiously bent over his plate, his napkin held to his mouth.

“They shan’t be.”

“What makes you so sure o’ the fact?”

“They’ll have been trained, unlike you, to the office of gentleman since the time they were in short pants. Eating properly will have become second nature to them by the time they are out of the nursery.” She paused. “How old did you say you were, Mr. Kendall?”

Before answering her question, he lifted the crystal goblet beside his plate and took a long swallow. He smacked his lips before setting it down. “I didn’t say.”

“And how old, precisely, are you, Mr. Kendall?”

“Four-and-thirty November last.” He drummed his fingers on the tablecloth. “Let’s see…sitting in an overcrowded cell, awaiting trial, as I recall. With no money to buy extra victuals, I was enjoying the standard fare of hard biscuits and watery soup.”

He had the satisfaction of seeing Miss Hathaway look back down at her plate.

“Thirty-four is a fine age for a man.” Mr. Hathaway broke the awkward silence. He sat back in his chair at the head of the table and toyed with the stem of his glass. “You’re over the folly of youth yet haven’t yet entered into the infirmity of old age. Our Lord was in his early thirties when He began His ministry on this earth.”

“Is that so?” Jonah asked, his mind still on his silent battle with Miss Hathaway. She had taken her first bite of food—a small, dainty bite, he noticed—and now chewed, her prim mouth firmly closed, making no sound.

He looked back down at his own plate, which no longer looked as appetizing as when it had been served him.

“Your first real test,” Mr. Hathaway said in a gentle tone, “will be when you sit at table in company.” He glanced down the length of the table at his sister. “We have frequent guests here at the parish. Florence has her ladies’ group, and we often have dinner guests. The rector dines with us most Sundays, or we go to St. Marylebone and dine at the vicarage. He will probably be the first one to meet Mr. Kendall, don’t you think, Flo?”

She nodded, her face returning to him, her look measuring. Jonah studied the delicate movements of her throat as she swallowed. Only then did she speak. “That is likely.”

Mr. Hathaway turned back to Jonah. “The rector is a personal friend as well and frequently stops to call. If he doesn’t question your presence in our household, others will accept you. He is the only one of our parish even aware of my sister’s abduction that day at Newgate.”

“It is thankful the craze over Lord Byron has eclipsed your escape from the public’s memory,” Miss Hathaway added drily.

Jonah looked from her to her brother. “And if I don’t pass the good rector’s inspection in spite of all Miss Hathaway’s instruction?” It was his neck at most risk, after all.

Hathaway fingered his napkin holder. “I’m afraid then the safest course would be for you to remain indoors, in hiding. You’d only be trading one prison for another, and I don’t believe that would be acceptable to you.”

Jonah took another swallow from his goblet and set it down with a thump. “I’d prefer a hanging to that.”

“Just so.” The curate sat back. “That is why it is so crucial that you follow Miss Hathaway’s instructions.”

Jonah glanced to the other end of the table, expecting to see smug triumph on her thin face. Instead, her gray eyes were…assessing. With a heartfelt sigh of capitulation, he picked up his knife and fork and proceeded to cut into the piece of now-cold chicken.

He was stopped by Miss Hathaway’s soft but implacable voice. “The knife and fork is held in this manner.”

He looked up and, without a word, copied her example. It felt awkward to hold them as she indicated. He watched her cut a morsel hardly big enough to tuck behind a molar, spear it neatly with the tines of her fork and hold it aloft. “A gentleman never takes a piece larger than the size of a large marble.” So, saying, she popped it into her mouth and chewed. A few seconds later, she spoke again.

“You must endeavor to make as little sound as possible with your mouth while you chew. Mouth closed, of course. No smacking of your lips, no matter how tasty you find the food. And absolutely no picking at your teeth in public. You have been furnished with a toothbrush and powder in your room and you are to use those after a meal if you are at home, and before you retire at night, and in the morning before you appear in company.”

“Yes, madam.”

“Miss.”

“Yes, miss.” He sawed into his drumstick, hitting the bone. The leg slid across his plate. He pierced a piece of meat once more with his fork, holding it in place while he attempted to cut if off from the bone again. His tongue was between his teeth and he could feel a slight sweat break out on his forehead. But it would probably not be permissible to wipe his forehead with his napkin.

Finally, he got the blasted chunk of meat on the fork. It looked larger than a large marble. He glared at Miss Hathaway, but her head was bowed as she cut a piece of her own food. He brought the chunk to his mouth and began chewing. With his mouth closed.

By the time his drumstick was absent of most of its meat, it almost seemed more trouble than it had been worth to satisfy his hunger. He looked at the strands of meat still clinging to the bone. If he’d been back at his home, he’d have taken it up in hands and cleaned every last fiber off. In recent years it had been a rare occasion when they’d had any chicken.

He sighed and sat back. Well, he was living a new life now.

He’d have to adapt to it.

Even if it killed him.

Florence pushed open the kitchen door later in the afternoon to see if the chicken soup she had asked Elizabeth to prepare and properly pack in jars was ready to take to the prison.

She stopped short at the sound of Betsy’s laughter. Quinn sat at the table, his legs stretched out in front of him. Although he still wore his new outfit, he’d removed the jacket, which lay in a careless heap on a chair beside him. His cravat hung on either side of his neck, his shirt collar open at the neck.

The sight of him in such a relaxed pose filled her with both annoyance and understanding. He looked so at home in the Nicholses’ surroundings. Couldn’t Damien understand that it would take more than a change of clothes to transform this field farmer into a gentleman?

A pile of walnuts lay in front of him on the table. He held one between his two large palms.

“You don’t believe me, lass?” he asked Betsy.

Betsy leaned over his side. “I can’t see how you can shell that nut without a cracker.”

Albert, seated across from Quinn, chuckled. “You’d best not challenge him, lass.” Two tankards stood between the men.

Without another word, Quinn pressed the base of his palms together. His face grew red with the exertion. Or, with the ale he’d drunk, Florence thought.

A few seconds later, Quinn held his hands out to Betsy, the walnut shell in a few pieces.

“Oh, my! I’d never have believed it possible if I hadn’t a seen it with me own eyes.”

Quinn carefully extracted some of the nut meat with his fingers and held it out to her. “Here, have a morsel, lass. It’ll put some color in your cheeks, though I can’t say you need any. Must be Mrs. Nichols’s good cooking what does it.” He glanced at the older lady with a wink.

“Thank you, sir,” Betsy said, her fingers touching his as she took the nut meat from him.

Florence let the door shut behind her with a bang, bringing all eyes her way as she entered the room. “Good afternoon,” she said, sparing Quinn only a glance before heading toward Elizabeth. “I came to see about the soup.”

“Yes, Miss Hathaway. I have everything set out here.” She led the way to the other end of the kitchen to a table along one wall.

Betsy’s shrill laugh rang out. Florence’s glance veered abruptly to the center of the room. “You must remind Betsy not to be so free around gentlemen,” she said in a low tone.

Elizabeth glanced with concern at her daughter. “Oh, Miss Hathaway, I thought with Mr. Kendall residing under your roof, he was…well…” She peered into Florence’s eyes and her voice lowered to a whisper. “He is all right, isn’t he?”

“Yes, of course, he’s all right. Mr. Hathaway wouldn’t have invited him otherwise…” Her voice slowed, hoping what she said was the absolute truth. If anything happened to those in their care, she’d never forgive herself. “But it is unseemly for Betsy to be so free in her ways. A gentleman who doesn’t know her might misinterpret her behavior.”