a Judy and Mary and…a Joshua,” she said, recalling the names. “I wonder if they are his family.” She refrained from voicing the obvious—his wife and children. Strangely, she could not picture him as a husband and father, when she’d seen him only as alone and on the run.
“Likely. Why don’t you let me sit with him a while?”
Why did she feel loath to leave Quinn’s bedside? Florence glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Almost half past ten in the evening. “You need your rest. You are preaching tomorrow.”
“I won’t stay up long. It will give me an opportunity to go over my sermon.”
In truth, her neck and shoulders ached with fatigue. “If you’re sure,” she said slowly. At his nod, she rose from her chair and took up her needlework from the table.
When Damien had seated himself in her vacated chair, she lingered at the foot of the bed. “You haven’t decided yet what to do about Mr. Qui—Kendall?”
“I don’t think there is much we can decide until the fever passes.”
“And if it…shouldn’t?” It was the first time she’d allowed herself to voice the thought she’d fought to keep at bay. She couldn’t believe this man’s life was to be for naught.
Damien adjusted the blankets on that side of Quinn. “I don’t think the Lord saved this soul from the gallows to take him so quickly. We must wait and see what He would have us do.”
Her brother’s words reassured her. “Of course.”
With a murmured good-night, she departed the room. If Damien felt as she did, it must be more than her own personal desire to wish to see Quinn well and strong. All she desired was for the Lord to have His perfect way in this man’s life.
Jonah felt alternately as if he were being beaten with a rod or his body was once more huddled outside in the icy cold. At those times, he couldn’t get warm, and his body shook so his teeth rattled. The pounding between his temples wouldn’t go away.
He’d fall asleep only to find himself back in the dungeon of Newgate, lying against the dark stone walls of his cell. Or worse, feeling the rope around his neck and knowing in a few seconds it would be jerked against him with bruising strength. In those moments, he couldn’t move, no matter how much he thrashed about. His body felt trussed like a bird’s, helpless to do anything but swing in the air as he gasped for air.
He’d wake up shivering to brief moments of light. His surroundings seemed warm but he couldn’t get any of that warmth into his bones. Different faces hovered over his, pressing cold compresses against his skin, chilling him even more, or thrusting spoonfuls of warm broth or foul-tasting liquids into his mouth. He welcomed the former as the heat soothed his sore throat and struggled against swallowing the latter.
Strong arms would hold him back and a stern voice would scold him. “Come, Mr. Quinn, you must drink this if you hope to be well.”
He knew that voice. Firm, uncompromising. It belonged to that woman, the prison lady with the spare frame and pale features. Once he’d opened his eyes and stared straight into her light-colored ones—either washed-out blue or gray.
“You aren’t going to die on us now, Mr. Quinn. You haven’t put us to all this trouble to give up the ghost now.” With that she’d placed another ice-cold cloth on his forehead.
Sometimes she called him Kendall, sometimes Quinn, which confused him. He hadn’t the strength to argue with her. His body needed all its force to fight against the chills racking it.
Other times he’d awaken to see a pretty young woman hovering over him. She reminded him of his Judy. Plump, dark haired and rosy cheeked. This one, though, looked scared most of the time. Was he that frightening to look at? Once he’d been considered not a bad-looking sort, back in his youth. He could have had his pick of the lasses, but he’d chosen Judy for her saucy smile and curvy figure.
He remembered calling for Judy and little Mary and Joshua more than once. He kept hoping they’d answer, but only soft murmurs greeted his words.
Then finally came that night when he felt drenched. The linens clung to him. He didn’t think he could sweat so much.
“God be praised. The fever has broken.” The woman’s voice again.
“Hallelujah.” Her brother’s lower, gentler one responded. Jonah struggled to open his eyes as strong arms helped him sit up. “Come, sir, let me help you with this nightshirt. It’s soaking.”
It was lifted off him and another, dry, one was put over him, enveloping him in its clean warmth.
“We must remove the sheets as well.” The woman’s hand gripped him lightly by one shoulder, helping to keep him upright.
Before he could move, they had stripped the sheet from under him and were smoothing a dry one in its place. Then the covers were removed and a dry sheet placed over him, the blankets replaced and the pillows plumped up behind him.
“Here, drink this.” Miss Hathaway’s hand came up under his neck and helped prop him forward to take a sip from a glass. Cool liquid slipped down his throat, which no longer hurt to swallow, he discovered. He began to gulp down the liquid, a watery, slightly sweetened drink, bringing his hand up to the cup to lift it farther.
“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