“There now, careful or you’ll spill it.” He could already feel it dribbling down his chin. Miss Hathaway removed the cup and brought a cloth up to wipe him. “Would you care for some more?”
He nodded, not sure if his vocal cords were going to respond properly. She raised the glass to his mouth and this time he drank more carefully.
“There. Mustn’t overdo on the first day.” She placed the glass on the table and patted his mouth once more before helping him to lie back against the pillows.
She smelled the same as the cake of soap he’d used the first night here. The lavender scent brought back the evening of his first bath and decent meal. “How—” He stopped, his voice raspy beyond recognition.
“What’s that?” She had leaned closer to him and peered at him. He had the sense those gray eyes missed little. After nursing him through this bout, she’d probably seen more of his hide than most people.
He attempted to clear his throat and instead erupted in a paroxysm of coughing.
“Easy there, Mr. Qu—” She handed him a handkerchief. “Your fever has broken, but your lungs are still quite congested.”
When his coughing had subsided, he began again. “How long’ve I been lying here?”
“Nearly a fortnight. You came to us on a Saturday eve, and it is now Wednesday, the fifth of March.”
He laid his head back and shut his eyes. February had gone by without his recollection, except for blurred images.
No sooner had his head touched the pillowcase than he sensed the difference. His fingers touched his scalp. It felt the way his chin did when he hadn’t shaved in a few days.
His eyelids opened and he stared at the woman standing over him. She’d had her way after all.
“No lice, I suppose,” he muttered.
Although she didn’t smile, he thought he detected something like humor in those gray eyes. “You are lice-free, I’m happy to report.”
He hadn’t the energy to feel angry. Lying back, looking at Miss Hathaway, he suddenly realized the great debt he owed her for nursing him through. If he’d been sick nearly a fortnight…
If he hadn’t found his way to this house, where would he be now? Long dead in some gutter, his body picked over by stray dogs.
Quinn’s condition improved rapidly after that day. His appetite grew in like measure, and Florence had to struggle to get him to satisfy himself with light custards and broths until she judged him sufficiently improved to digest more solid food.
“Is it back at Newgate I am?” he asked three days later, looking with disdain at the poached egg lying in a bowl, its only accompaniment 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
