his head in the water and began to scrub the months of filth from his scalp and beard, working his way down to his neck and chest.
His bathwater soon turned gray. With a sigh of regret he took the pitcher full of water left for him and let the clean water run from his head down the length of his body, feeling cleaner than he’d felt since arriving in London.
By the time he’d toweled dry, he was shivering again. He put on the nightshirt. It was long enough, but a trifle tight around the shoulders. The dressing gown was the same. He sat in front of the fire and rubbed his hair dry, hoping to get warm again. A voice called through the door, “May I come in, sir?” The older man, Nichols, peered into the room.
“Aye, come in.”
“Good, I see you finished your bath. Mistress says to come up to your bed as soon as you’re ready and we’ll bring you a bowl of soup, if you’d like.”
Soup. His very gut rumbled at the word. “I could use something hot.” He rose and followed Mr. Nichols up a carpeted stairs, the plush material blissful under his bare feet. He wondered if he could ask for a shot of gin. That would further warm his bones.
He entered a neat bedroom. A full-size bed filled most of the space. A fire burned in the grate.
“There you go, sir. Just make yourself comfortable. I’ll bring your soup up in a trifle.”
“Tha-thank you,” Jonah found himself stumbling over the simple words, words he’d rarely used of late. Suddenly he sneezed.
“Coming down with something?” Mr. Nichols tut-tutted. “Here, let me get you a handkerchief.” He rummaged about in a chest of drawers and handed him a white square.
Like everything in the house, it appeared clean. Jonah brought it to his nose. It also smelled clean.
As soon as he was alone, he climbed into the bed. He felt the full exhaustion of days on the run, of being afraid to sleep, of running from place to place…
He was roused with the arrival of the older woman who was carrying a tray. “Here you go, sir, some hot soup and a hot toddy to help put you to sleep. Albert said you sounded a bit congested.”
Jonah sat up as the tray was placed on his lap. In a split second he’d downed the tumbler of sweetened hot water and rum that stood beside the bowl. He smacked his lips before picking up the spoon and going to work on the soup. The woman adjusted the pillows behind him.
The soup was tasty, thick and savory, with chunks of beef and barley through it. So much like his wife’s cooking, back in the days when life had been kinder, except this contained a lot more meat.
He’d just finished it, and was almost wishing for a second dish, when Miss Hathaway reentered with her brother. The curate smiled at Jonah. “How is everything?”
“Good,” he answered, his attention still on his food. He was debating whether to ask for some more soup, or just collapse into sleep, when Miss Hathaway approached his bed. Like the other woman, she arranged the pillows behind him. He could smell the scent of lavender on her gown’s sleeve as she reached past him.
Suddenly she stepped back. “Look, Damien, he’s full of vermin.”
Jonah turned to her, a hunk of bread halfway to his mouth, not liking the alarm in her tone.
Her brother came round to her side of the bed and touched his scalp. “Excuse me, Mr. Quinn, for taking such liberties.”
Jonah sat still as the man began to probe his scalp.
Finally the man stood back, his brow furrowed. “A little bad news, I’m afraid. Lice.”
Jonah’s hand immediately went up to his scalp and rubbed it. As usual it itched.
“It’s not unusual to become infested, most probably while you were at Newgate. The thing is, it’s catching, and we don’t want it to spread.”
Miss Hathaway addressed her brother. “He’ll have to be shorn. I shall fetch the shears and a cloth to catch the hair. We’ll have to shave him as well. Pity we didn’t see this below stairs.”
She spoke of him as if he wasn’t there, but before he could raise any objections, she had left the room.
“Why don’t you finish your meal,” Mr. Hathaway said in a gentle tone.
Jonah turned back to the remaining bread and butter, which no longer held any appeal. Before he could take it up, he sneezed.
“It sounds like you’ve caught a chill,” the curate said, sympathy in his tone.
“Aye.” Jonah picked up the piece of bread and forced himself to eat it. As soon as he’d swallowed the last bite, he lay back against the heaped-up pillows.
Hathaway, immediately at his side, picked up the tray. He stood a moment and cleared his throat. “I’m glad you came to our house. It gives me a chance to thank you for not harming my sister the other day.”
Jonah’s face heated at the memory of abducting an innocent woman. “I—”
“She’s the only family I have left, and she’s very precious to me.” The curate’s face was so open and sincere that Jonah felt doubly ashamed.
He’d once cared for his family like that. Only he’d lost them. He felt his throat swell up and something sting his eyes.
Relieved to hear the sound of the door opening, he turned away from the curate.
Miss Hathaway entered, equipped with a pair of shears, shaving blade and strop, followed by the old man carrying a steaming bowl of water and more towels.
For a moment, Jonah’s gaze locked with Miss Hathaway’s. Only his wife had ever shorn him.
“Good, he’s finished,” she said, addressing her brother. She proceeded to wrap the large cloth tightly about Jonah’s neck and secure it behind him. Her touch was deft and sure. “Come, Albert, you may shave him. As soon as you’re finished, I shall cut his hair.”
Before he could react, she stepped away from him, and Mr. Nichols took her place. He laid a steamy hot towel against his beard and then proceeded to lather it. Slowly, Jonah eased himself back, enjoying the feeling of the hot, soapy water against his skin. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea….
In a few efficient strokes, his beard was nearly gone. He brought a hand up to his cheek, hardly remembering what clean-shaven skin felt like.
“Just a few more strokes, sir, and I’ll be done.”
Jonah removed his hand.
“There you go, sir, if you want to rinse your face off.”
Jonah did so, then was handed a towel to dry himself off.
Miss Hathaway stepped up to him, brandishing her shears. Without so much as a by-your-leave, she was clipping at his hair with quick movements. The sheet around his neck was soon covered in thick, black curls. He wondered if he had any hair left.
“That’s as close as I can cut,” she told her brother. “I shall continue with the razor.”
Razor? He shifted away from her. “What do you mean, razor?”
She looked down at him. “It means I intend to shave your head. Now, sit still so I don’t nick you.”
He turned to her brother. “Reverend, I—”
“It’s the best way to ensure no vermin remains in your scalp,” Mr. Hathaway told him, his expression apologetic.
Jonah brought a hand up to his hair. It felt short and spiky. “It seems most o’ my hair’s been cut away already.”
“It will soon grow back, and with the proper—” he coughed “—hygiene, you should remain lice-free.”
The next he knew, small but firm hands were working up a lather in his remaining locks. She really