No Longer a Gentleman Read Online Free PDF

lift the smaller one. It was heavier than expected. He barely managed to raise it six inches before losing his hold. It crashed to the floor and a chip spun away from the lower edge.
    Panting from his exertion, he vowed that he’d lift that damned stone over and over until he was strong enough to carry it around his cell. Then he would tackle the larger block that served as his table.
    He could and would exercise every day. What else had he to do?
    Perhaps even more important, he must rebuild his mind. He’d always been lazy in his classes, able to get by with little work and the help of an excellent memory. Lady Agnes had seen to it that he learned at the Westerfield Academy, but his years at Oxford had been fairly useless. He’d attended Christchurch College, where gentlemen’s sons like him dabbled in classes between social amusements. Kirkland and Ashton, characteristically, attended Balliol, the college associated with sheer brilliance.
    He considered the memorizations required by different masters. How much of Caesar’s Gallic Commentaries could he quote in Latin?
    “Gallia est omnis divisa in partes tres.” All Gaul was divided into three parts. He knew the Latin and English, and now he translated the passage into French. Since his voice also was weak from lack of use, he spoke the passage aloud as he exercised until he was too tired to do more.
    Shakespeare. He’d studied the Bard and also performed in plays at the homes of friends. Always he was chosen as one of the leads and he learned his speeches easily. “Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day …”
    No, not Macbeth, not here and now. What did he remember from Twelfth Night? Yes, that was a much better choice. “If music be the food of love, play on; Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting; The appetite might sicken, and so die.” He liked to sing and had a decent voice, so he could sing as much as he wanted to. Good for the soul and for maintaining his ability to speak.
    He must keep track of time, no longer letting the days slide by mindlessly. When he’d dropped the chair stone, a small piece had chipped off. He would designate today as August 15, 1803. Using the stone chip, he scratched that on a head-high stone near the door. Every day would be marked off with a scratch.
    He could hear church bells from the village. Careful listening would tell him what days were Sundays, and he should be able to determine major holidays.
    From now on, his life would have purpose. He might never have a chance to free himself. But if an opportunity was presented, no matter how small, he’d be ready.
    Gradually, Grey’s weakened body began to strengthen. So did his mind. He was amazed at how much he remembered of his lessons. He’d always enjoyed reading, so each day he chose a book from his mental library and recalled as much of it as possible.
    He didn’t talk aloud to himself because doing so made him feel too close to the madmen he’d seen when one of his more rattle-pated friends had taken him to Bedlam Hospital. The friend thought watching deranged patients amusing. Grey had found it deeply disquieting. The memory of those tormented souls haunted him still, especially on those days when he wondered if he was descending into madness.
    But an unexpected blessing appeared not long after Durand’s visit. Though he didn’t talk aloud, he had no compunctions about singing. Every day he sang several songs, and he enjoyed both the music and the way his voice was returning to normal after three months of disuse.
    He’d just finished a rousing rendition of an English drinking song when a young female voice whispered in French from the slit window above, “Bonjour, monsieur. Is it true that you are an English milord?”
    Grey leaped to his feet in excitement. Another human! And a female at that. “I was once, mamselle, but now I am a prisoner, of no importance.”
    The girl giggled. “A real milord! I’ve never met a