“The escaped prisoner, Jonah Quinn.”
He dropped his pen. “Where is he?”
“I’ve brought him to the kitchen. He’s chilled to the bone. Who knows how long he’s been standing in the garden.”
Damien was already heading for the door. “I’ll talk to him.”
“Yes. Let him know he’s safe here, for now. I must get some dry things for him.” She eyed her brother’s slim frame. “May I rummage about in your clothespress? I doubt anything of yours will fit him, but he can’t stay in those wet garments.”
“Rummage away, even if it’s only for a nightshirt.”
Jonah turned at the sound of the door. A young man—a gentleman by the look of his refined features, neatly trimmed hair and dark clerical clothing—stared at him. Of above average height and slim, his resemblance to his sister was obvious. Jonah remembered she’d said he was a curate.
The curate stepped forward, a pale hand outstretched. A distinct limp brought Jonah’s eye to a wooden leg, just below the knee. Pity.
“Welcome.” The word held genuine warmth. “I’m Reverend Damien Hathaway. You met my sister, Florence, the other day during your…adventure,” he added when Jonah said nothing.
After a second’s hesitation, Jonah stood and held out his own grimy hand. The other’s shake was firm, despite its more fragile, neat appearance.
“Jonah Quinn,” was all he said.
“Please, sit down, Mr. Quinn. Welcome to our home.” Hathaway smiled, and Jonah was struck by the friendly goodwill in the man’s clear blue eyes.
“Goodness, Florence was right. You’re soaked through. She has gone to get some dry things. You’d better get out of those as soon as possible. Let me help you with your jacket.”
Before he could comply, another door opened. He tensed, wondering if he must flee again. A gray-haired woman peered in.
She gave Jonah a sharp look and it was all he could do not to look away.
“Ah, Mrs. Nichols,” the curate said, as if Jonah’s appearance was the most natural thing in the world. “As you see, we have a visitor with us on this inhospitable evening. I was just going to fetch a blanket for him. Florence has gone for some dry clothes. I suggest some tea and perhaps a hot bath?”
“Of course, sir, I’ll have Albert fetch the tub. Dear me, it’s an awful night to be about. Come, let me take your coat.” She gave Jonah a quick curtsy. “Elizabeth Nichols, at your service.”
Jonah gave a quick bow of his head then stopped. He couldn’t give his real name. He hadn’t thought of that wrinkle. All he’d thought about was getting to somewhere warm and dry.
He looked across at Reverend Hathaway and read understanding in his eyes. “Kendall,” Jonah finally said. That was his mother’s family name. “William.” No one would think to connect Jonah Quinn with his brother’s name. “William Kendall, at your service,” he said, and held out his hand.
“Very good, Mr. Kendall,” the servant said.
Hathaway stepped forward. “Mr. Kendall has come to stay with us a while.”
“Of course, sir.” She turned away and went to hang up his coat, as if she were used to having ragged guests appear at all hours of the night.
The next moments were filled with bustle and confusion as Jonah sat on the bench by the fire, unable to stop the shivers racking his body. Mrs. Nichols came up to him with a large blanket. “Here you go, sir. If you’ll remove your wet things, you can just wrap yourself up in this till your bath is ready.”
“Yes, madam,” he answered, suddenly overwhelmed. He’d never been waited on in his life, except by his wife, who’d served him his supper when he’d come in from the fields and cleared it away from him when he was done.
When the others had left the room, he slowly began to remove his boots. Both were split at the soles, hardly affording protection against the wet streets. His stockings, full of holes, were soaked through. After removing them, he hesitated, wondering where to set them. The flagstones looked clean enough to eat off and the Dutch tiles along the wide-open range shone.
Just as he laid the dirty socks in a sodden heap on the floor, the door opened. The prison lady, Miss Hathaway, reappeared carrying a bundle of things in her arms.
She seemed startled to find him alone. “Where did everyone go?”
“To fetch me a bath,” he answered, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders.
She laid the armful on the table. “I’ve brought some of my brother’s things, though you are larger than he is. It’s mostly nightclothes once you’ve had a bath.” She spoke quickly as if she, too, were nervous. She wasn’t still afraid of him, was she?
An older man entered the kitchen, carrying a tin tub in one hand and a bucket in the other. “Evening, Miss Hathaway.” He gave Jonah a quick bob of his head before going to the range to pour the bucket of water into a large black kettle.
When the man had left again, Miss Hathaway indicated the rest of the things she’d brought. “Here are towels, a bar of soap, a hairbrush and, as I said, some nightclothes and a dressing gown from my brother. I shall leave you now and prepare your room.” She turned to go.
Before she reached the door, he said, “Those others—” He cleared his throat. “They won’t, uh, give away who I am?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Nichols? Oh, no. They’re used to seeing strangers come and go from here. As I told you, my brother never turns anyone away from his doors. You’ll find refuge here.”
“You don’t think they recognized me?” He remembered the odd look the woman had given him.
Miss Hathaway fingered the white lace at her collar, her only sign of hesitation. “I…cannot be certain. They know I was…abducted by you five days ago, but with scant details.” She looked away from him. “I thought it better to say little of the matter to anyone save my brother. I was questioned by the authorities of Newgate. Again, I gave few details, as I didn’t wish…to lie. I—I was glad then I knew little myself. I wanted to give you a chance to be gone from London…as you said you were planning.”
He could feel his face heat. Fine job he had made of his chance at freedom. He thought on her words. It didn’t bode well. Perhaps he shouldn’t have come here, the very place the authorities might look.
As if reading his thoughts, she said, her voice regaining its self-assurance, “I shouldn’t worry too much. My part that day has been all but forgotten and the Nicholses are trustworthy.”
Alone again, he sat wrapped in the large blanket, sipping a cup of tea before the fire and pondering where he’d ended up. From huddling in the freezing cold for five days to being treated like an honored guest. The open warmth and acceptance with which the curate and his sister had received him left him uneasy. Could he trust such kindness?
And Miss Hathaway. Jonah shook his head in further amazement. She’d not only held her tongue, but seemed to have forgotten how he’d held her at knifepoint and kept her hostage an entire day.
The old manservant returned and poured the heated water into the tub. When he’d gone, Jonah rose, feeling the full weariness of all those days on the run.
With an effort, he shed his torn breeches and eased into the hot water. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a bath, not even a pitcher of water and cake of soap. Even though he couldn’t stretch out his legs in it, he wished he didn’t have to leave the water. His body couldn’t seem to get warm despite the steaming water and blazing fire in front of him.
He grabbed up the bar of soap. As it hit the water, it released a fragrance. He put it up to his nostrils. Despite his stuffy nose, he got a