The Making Of A Gentleman. Ruth Axtell Morren

her own lids grow heavy. Finally, able to fight the fatigue no more, she rested her head on the pillow of her arms and shut her eyes….

      Chapter Two

      Jonah opened his eyes. He tensed, as he’d done every morning in his solitary cell in Newgate. The fire pit in front of him brought reality back in a jumble of images.

      The feel of the rough hemp about his neck. The cap over his face blocking out the sea of faces in front of him.

      He was going to die, and he didn’t know if he’d disgrace himself before the crowd. How they loved a good show. Would he suffocate quickly, his short, insignificant life snuffed out, or would the rope prove uncooperative and leave him swinging there for agonizing minutes?

      Before he’d been isolated in the condemned man’s cell, he’d heard richly detailed stories from other prisoners of how chancy a clean death was. Often the hangman would have to pull on a prisoner’s legs so he’d die the quicker. A rare prisoner even survived the hanging, his throat raw and bruised, only to have to face the rope the next day.

      Jonah didn’t think he could go through such a proceeding twice.

      Despite his bravado, he’d been terrified. He’d stared at the dank, stone ceiling of his cell as the hours ticked by, and contemplated his demise. What would the morrow bring? Where would his soul go after the rope cut off the breath from his body? Or would his life be ended for good?

      He passed a hand in front of his eyes now, wiping away the last horrible memories. His shoulders ached from his position on the floor, though he was used to a hard surface from the wooden pallet in his cell. The fire had long since gone out. His feet felt numb.

      Quiet breathing alerted him that he wasn’t alone. The prison lady.

      She—he didn’t even know her name—still sat on the chair, but now her head rested on her arms and it was obvious she slept. She looked peaceful and harmless. He laughed inwardly, thinking how little the image reflected the reality. The woman’s words were like barbs, pointed and skillfully aimed at a man’s weaknesses.

      They’ll flush you out like a partridge. Her pale eyes had taunted him, her tone as self-assured as the presiding judge’s at the Old Bailey. You would have been condemned to a fate worse than mere death if you had swung on that gallows today.

      What did she know of his life? Who was she to judge? Had she ever been accused of a crime she didn’t commit? How would she have responded to a rope around her neck? Would all her preaching help her then? Not for a moment had she truly noticed the man in front of her.

      He observed her in her sleep now, her back rising and falling in an even rhythm. A strange curl of something snaked through his gut. Something he hadn’t felt in so long. Then her cutting words rose again and he saw her for what she was. His prisoner.

      The tables were turned. He, the prisoner, with a prisoner of his own. He wasn’t quite sure why he hadn’t let her go once he was away from Newgate. Surety against the soldiers? Perhaps. Although he doubted the value of one woman’s life to the soldiers. Especially such a scrawny one. He remembered how slight she’d felt when he’d half dragged, half carried her along the streets.

      He shrugged. It no longer mattered. He’d let her go soon. She was of no use to him now. He’d have enough trouble keeping his own hide in safety. Two would be nigh on impossible.

      He stood and listened but could discern no noises from the street. If the soldiers hadn’t ferreted him out here, he might actually have a fighting chance. For the first time since his escape, he began to believe in his freedom. It had happened so quickly. One moment facing his death, the next offered a chance at liberty.

      He didn’t even know who had organized his rescue. From the few words he’d exchanged with the cove who’d led him here, it sounded like an underworld boss. He certainly didn’t have the kind of friends who’d risk their lives for him. If anything, circumstances had proved how quickly his acquaintances in the city would betray him.

      Eventually they’ll catch you. The prison woman’s words came back to him…again. He threw an angry look at her sleeping form. How dare she invade his mind with her convictions? She was a nothing, a self-righteous little nothing.

      And yet, her direct words, those clear gray eyes that cut through to a man’s soul, haunted him, worsening his restlessness. He rose to his feet and paced, ignoring the pins and needles as his feet came back to life.

      He thought of the many eyes in this rookery. Even when the streets appeared deserted, there were dozens of watchers from the broken and boarded-up windows. How long before someone turned him in? What if the Crown offered a reward for his capture?

      He halted. Suddenly the walls seemed to be closing in on him, and he remembered the feeling of confinement in the dungeonlike cell at Newgate. He would not go back to that. They’d not catch him, he swore. They wouldn’t! He’d die first.

      The woman stirred and raised her head. Her hand went to her bonnet, half fallen off. Then she turned and her gaze met Jonah’s.

      “’Bout time you woke up.”

      “How long have I been asleep?” she asked, rubbing her eyes. The sight of her slim pale hands curled against her face gave her a vulnerability she’d lacked before, and Jonah felt an odd protectiveness sweep over him. What had she been thinking, exposing herself to prisoners and mobs? He remembered the other man’s lewd words when he’d left him and they sickened him. This woman had a refinement that belonged to the drawing room, not hiding out in a hovel on Saffron Hill with a fugitive.

      He remembered holding the knife to her delicate neck and guilt stabbed him. She smoothed back her hair while he watched. What was he going to do with her? He shrugged to hide his dismay. “You’re the one with the watch.”

      She fumbled beneath her cloak and finally managed to extract the timepiece. “It’s almost six o’clock.”

      “It’ll be dark outside.”

      She pushed her hair away from her forehead and looked at the cold grate.

      Her longing for a fire was clear. To distract her, he said, “I haven’t heard any hoofbeats on the road above us so the search hasn’t reached this quarter.”

      “Yet.”

      He glared at her and turned back around. To think he’d felt a moment of pity for her.

      She began to untie the ribbons of her bonnet and proceeded to remove it. She wore her light brown hair in a simple knot and her cloak was gray. Was she a Quaker? Despite her plain appearance, she had the air of a lady. It was more than her speech. It was something in her gestures and the cut of her clothes. Not that he’d ever had much contact with ladies in his life.

      “You said you didn’t know you were to be set free today, but did you know any of the men who stormed the gallows?” she asked.

      “I had little time to see anything once the cap was removed from me eyes.”

      “Did you recognize any of them?” she persisted.

      He frowned at her, wondering why the close questioning. Was she going to go to the authorities as soon as he released her? “I don’t know nothing of any of ’em! And it’s best you probably know as little as possible.”

      She arched a thin eyebrow at him.

      He folded his arms across his chest. Did nothing cow her? “You’re bound to be questioned once you return to your nice, cozy house.”

      She nodded slowly. “My reason in asking was to wonder if these men have made any provision for your escape. Will they take you somewhere else now?”

      He turned and resumed his walk in the small space, not liking to be reminded of the future. “I wouldn’t think they’d chance further involvement. It was dangerous enough what they did.”

      “Yes. If any were caught, they’d be up for treason.” When he said nothing, she gave