“Wotcha want ’ere?” A voice growled. A figure sat up in the bed.
She had the wrong room!
Muttering an apology, she hastened outside, turning swiftly into the real fourth room on the right, and quietly closed the door. How she hoped the man didn’t think her a woman of easy virtue and follow her here! How she wished she could lock the door for protection.
She carefully laid her burden on the sagging bed before shifting a spindly chair, the only other piece of furniture in the room, to the door. Her small trunk containing her meager possessions had been placed just within the door; she moved this atop the seat. At least she would hear any intruder, even if the flimsy chair would not hold them at bay for very long.
Weariness escaped in a silent sigh as she eased down next to the tiny child, her shoulders slumped in defeat. How her body craved rest. She could sleep for a week. But responsibility still nagged. She quickly undressed him. Sure enough he had soiled himself, and would doubtless soon awaken if he were not cleaned and dressed appropriately. And she could not permit the rash on his little body to worsen. She pushed to her feet and examined the pitcher of water dubiously. It might not be fresh but it would have to do. Another trudge to the trunk and she pulled out the last of the linens, eyes filling as she wished for the hundredth time to have brought more. The exchange of soiled linen for clean woke the babe, startling him into weak cries. Poor baby. She nestled him to her chest, the hungry mewling tugging at her.
“I’m sorry I cannot help you,” she whispered. Giving him what he craved was impossible.
When her arms felt like they must surely snap, the babe’s cries faded to exhausted whimpers, then silence, and she carefully wrapped him once more and placed him in the bed.
How she wished to sleep, too, but that rash would never heal if she did not wash the linen. She eyed the worn rag beside the enamel bowl, evidently left there for cleaning purposes, and quickly washed her face, feeling momentarily fresher as the past two days’ grime lifted from her skin. No wonder the people downstairs had looked at her askance.
After cleaning the soiled linen as best she could, she draped it in front of the fire, stirring the coals into something that might actually dry the cloth and take away the room’s chill, a chill that puffed her breath into tiny white clouds. From downstairs came a shout followed by raucous laughter. An eerie whistle blew around the window frames, like the sound of moaning spirits. Would she be safe? Shaking her head at her ridiculous thoughts, she pulled back the covers carefully, laid the child down, and slid between the too-thin sheets. She pulled the covers up to her chin, careful not to cover the baby, then blew out the candle and closed her eyes.
Darkness drew heavy around her, within her, pressing against her, tugging her to sleep—
A sound came, like the scurry of tiny feet. She shuddered. Please God, let there be no mice tonight. There was a trip, the tread of heavy feet in the corridor. Her heart thundered. She could hear a drunken murmuring, something she had heard many times before, something she knew would lead to bad things, things no gently bred young lady should ever have to know about. She closed her eyes again and prayed the drunk would stay away. God, protect me …
A faint noise intruded. A swish of curtains being dragged apart. Light seeping in. Someone scuttling about—
“Who’s there?” Julia sat up in a hurry, blinking as the light startled her to alertness. “Oh!”
A maid dressed in dark blue with a white apron and mobcap curtsied. “Begging your pardon, miss. Lady Carmichael sent me to see how you be.”
Lady Carmichael? Julia put a hand to her head. Who—? Where—? Had that been a dream, or was she living in one now?
“They have been quite worried about you, sleeping as long as you have and all.”
“How long … ?” she rasped.
The maid handed her a glass of water. “Nigh on two days, miss.”
“Two days?”
The maid nodded. “Her ladyship was getting quite worried.”
Julia swallowed the water, reveling in the sweet freshness slipping down her throat. Oh, she could drink gallons, her sudden thirst unable to be quenched.
The maid placed the empty glass on the small table beside the bed then gestured to the door. “Shall I arrange for some food to be sent up?”
“I’m not—” Her stomach grumbled, making a liar of her. “Yes, please.”
“Very good, miss.” The maid curtsied and disappeared, gone before Julia could correct the misnomer.
Julia pushed herself higher in the bed, glancing around the room. The bedchamber was painted a soft green, trimmed with cream. Silk curtains gracefully framed a window she judged overlooked the mews, their fabric an exact match for that trimming the bed’s canopy and covers. She fingered the lace detailing the pillowcase. No small amount of money had been spent on making this room as beautiful and comfortable as possible. She peeked under the covers. Gone was the tattered rag of a gown she had spent too many days and nights in. Vague memories swam of a hot bath, a meal. But why could she not remember this Lady Carmichael person? A memory tugged, but was smothered under a foggy wave of tiredness as she yawned again.
The door opened mid-yawn, admitting the maid followed by—
“It’s you!”
“Dear Julia. Finally, you rejoin the land of the living.” The elegantly dressed blonde woman smiled. “I had wondered if you remembered meeting me. We only met a couple of times, as I recall.”
“I—of … of course,” Julia stammered. Though the cool-eyed young lady of her vague memories bore little resemblance to the elegant society matron standing before her now.
“It was over eighteen months ago, so I would not blame you if you had forgotten. And of course, I was just a schoolgirl then, and being married to Lord Carmichael was really the furthest thing from my mind.” She sank to the velvet-covered chair. “I am pleased to see you awake. We were beginning to worry about you, seeing as you slept so long.”
The door opened again, admitting another maid carrying a tray of food that was soon carefully deposited before Julia on the bed. Toasted bread, strawberry jam, butter, eggs, and most pleasing to see, a steaming pot of tea. The maid poured the tea before withdrawing to the corner. Julia eyed the food, her mouth salivating. Her stomach growled insistently. But manners recalled from long ago refused her to eat.
Lady Carmichael gestured to the plate. “Please do not refrain on my account. You need all the nourishment you can get, it would seem.”
Julia glanced at her, then, upon receiving a nod of reassurance, began eating. After a few minutes, her insides spasmed, and she fought to hide a wince. It had been so long since she had eaten heartily, no wonder her body protested.
“Now, Anna is here to help you choose something to wear.” Lady Carmichael gestured to the maid, who offered another curtsy. “I’m afraid we had to burn the gown you wore on arrival, and we were not precisely sure of your measurements. But never fear, we shall have a modiste arrive and you shall be dressed appropriately soon enough. In the meantime, I have some of my own gowns available for your use, though I rather fear they shall swim on you a little.”
Julia forced herself to swallow another bite of eggs. “Thank you, Lady Carmichael.”
“Oh, it is no trouble. And, please, call me Serena, just as I hope you don’t mind if I call you Julia. We are related by marriage, after all.” Because Serena’s sister had married Julia’s half brother, Jon. At her nod, her hostess continued. “I cannot tell you how relieved we are to see you awake. I suppose I should not be so surprised, as the doctor said it was probably just exhaustion.”
A doctor had seen her? Julia shivered. What else had happened while she had been unconscious, reliving the nightmares of her journey? She dropped her gaze, focused her attention on carefully slicing the toasted bread into triangles.
“No doubt you will be relieved to know the doctor has pronounced your baby healthy.”
A corner of toast caught in her throat. “He’s n
ot—”
“Such a handsome young man,” murmured Anna, coming forward to pour Julia another glass of water, which she accepted with murmured thanks.
“Yes, he is, and quite well-behaved. It appears he didn’t seem to miss his mother too much,” Serena said, her smile almost wistful before dimming a little. “He is a charming boy. It seems he’s managed to keep the staff quite entertained these past days.”
“Such a pet, with that lovely red hair,” the maid offered.
“Yes.” Her hostess gave Julia a long appraisal. “I’m sure that must have proved something of a surprise.”
Two pairs of eyes gazed at her expectantly. What could she say but the truth? Or at least a version of veracity. “It was a surprise,” she finally admitted.
Serena nodded, before rising. “Well, I shall leave you to the rest of your meal. Please don’t hesitate to ask Anna for anything.” Her smile warmed again. “We are so very pleased to see you.”
“H-have you spoken to Jonathan yet?”
She shook her head. “I’m afraid he and Catherine are in Paris at the moment.”
So that was why the London town house was vacant.
“You did know they had married?”
“Yes.” The newspapers had reported her brother’s marriage even hundreds of miles away.
“Henry has sent a letter, though. He expects it to reach them in the next week or so.”
Julia nodded. “And Mama?”
“Lady Harkness accompanied them. Apparently she needed to see the fashions again, although we suspect it was more to keep an eye on little Elizabeth.” Something akin to envy flashed across her features before her expression cooled. “Her grandchild.”
She blinked. “Jon is a father?”
“And Catherine is a mother.” Again, that flash in the blue eyes. “Now, I must leave you. Please excuse me.” Serena offered a smile that looked somewhat forced before exiting the room.
Leaving Julia reeling. She was an aunt? What else had happened in the time she’d been away?
“Now, miss.” Anna held out two gowns, one pale pink, one light blue. “Which would you prefer?”
“I …” It had been so long since she’d seen such pretty gowns, since she had even had a choice, her mind felt numbed by indecision. “I cannot choose. Which would you recommend?”
“Well, the pink is a very pretty color, and is nice and warm—it’s quite cool outside, you see. And the blue would help bring out your eyes, so … shall we say the blue?”
Julia nodded.
“I think you will look very fine, miss. Besides, I cannot imagine you would wish to go outside today, seeing as it’s so cold and windy out, and—if I might say—you still have something of a nasty cough.”
Julia glanced out the window, the view eliciting another shiver, as if she still braved the cold and windy elements herself. Thank goodness someone had been here at the town house. She did not know how she would have survived the elements had they been away, too. And as for poor, sweet Charles …
Her heart wrenched. “Where is Charlie?”
The maid’s eyes lit. “Oh, is that the name of your son? Never mind, miss, the housekeeper is taking good care of him.”
“I … I would like to see him, if I may.”
She cringed. What was she doing, requesting permission from a servant? Exactly how far had she fallen from the girl she once had been?
The maid smiled. “Well, of course you can, miss. Just as soon as you’re dressed. Now, are you quite finished with your meal?”
Julia pushed away the remnants of her breakfast, slightly horrified to discover that she seemed to have dragged her bread crusts through the trail of egg yolk on the plate. Had she been that hungry?
The maid picked up the tray, bobbed a careful curtsy and exited, leaving Julia with a moment’s peace. She sank into the feather-stuffed pillows, stretching in another unladylike action as she luxuriated in her surrounds, and the thought of being cared for. How long had it been since she had been pampered in this way, since she’d been the object of someone’s attention? How long since she hadn’t had to fight and claw and do whatever was necessary to protect herself? She could not remember.
The door opened and the maid returned. The next half hour passed in a delightful dream as she was once again provided with hot—hot!—water for bathing, and the daintiest of undergarments—“Lady Carmichael apologizes if the sizing isn’t quite right”—and the delightful gown offered before.
“Now, miss, let’s get you dressed. Yes, slip your arms in here, and like so. Oh, that’s such a pretty color for you. Now, I shall do the buttons for you if you like. And shall I do your hair? Yes? Wonderful. Now just sit here, and let me take care of you.”
But even as these moments reminded her of who she once had been, the sense of things being right did not truly resound until little Charles was back in her arms. He blinked sleepy eyes then appeared to look at her with a wondering expression, as if unsure who the pretty lady in the pretty dress was.
“Hello, my little man. Yes, it is me under all this finery.” She rubbed a hand over his copper curls. “Don’t we make a pretty picture, you and I?”
She snuggled him close to her breast, cradling his soft curls with her hand. Sorrow twisted within. Poor wee mite. Had anyone ever mourned at that mound of earth in the Scottish churchyard? She blinked away the burn at the back of her eyes.
Anna finished her duties and moved to the door. “His lordship and her ladyship await you in the drawing room.”
Julia nodded, even as she felt the ease dissipate, the words pricking at the bubble of security. It would not do to imagine all would be well, that she could simply slip into her former life, that there would be no further judgment or consequences for her sins. Sure, and she held a consequence in her arms even now! How would they cope if she told the whole truth? At least it was only Henry and his wife, two people who would be far less likely to winkle the truth in its entirety from her than Jon or her mother may. Their disappointment she would prefer to put off for as long as possible.
Julia pulled Charles close and whispered, “We will have to make the best of things and pretend.”
He gave a gurgle which she took as affirmation. Holding the boy as her shield, she rose to follow the maid who waited in the hallway, while her thoughts flew frantically, alternately collecting then rejecting partial, hurtful truths as she wondered what would be most believed, and what would evoke their sympathy—and not their rage.
CHAPTER THREE
A CREAK CAME from the doorway. Thomas cracked open an eye, the despair so heavy on his chest tightening as he heard a footfall, the faintest jingling of keys.
“Señor?” The whispered guttural sound made it hard to distinguish whose voice it was. Their jailer’s? The jailer’s daughter? Another soldier?
He stayed motionless, his eyes searching the blackness. Perhaps if he said nothing they might assume he was asleep. He could not imagine they could see in the dark any better than he, not if they were forced to eat the same slops that Thomas and his cellmates had been surviving on for months.
He glanced to where he approximated the window must be. No trace of dawn lit the sky behind the bars. What did the person at the door want? Wisdom suggested he do nothing, say nothing. Chances were it was another trap.
“Señor?”
The daughter. Her lilt at the end sounded almost desperate. Well, he would most definitely maintain the pretense of sleep; he’d been stung by her before.
The sound of her breathing filled the room, then he heard a shuffle, a cooling whisk in the air, as if she’d gone. He lay where he was a moment longer, in case she decided to return. When no further sound came, he got up, checked the cell, then moved closer to the door. It was ajar.
His pulse tripped. This had to be a trap. Had to be. Surely she wouldn’t leave it open for him? But if he left, and by some miracle it was the route to freedom, then how could he leave his fellow Englishmen behind?
He g
lanced back at the dozing figures, even now tossing unquietly in their sleep. Would Smith have strength enough to attempt escape? Perhaps it was best to see how far he could go, then return if it truly was a miracle provided by an unclean Spanish angel, and not the trap arranged by a fiend from hell.
Thomas eased open the door, and peered through the murk. Nobody. Nothing. Nothing discernible anyway. But did it matter? Well he understood Desmond’s despair. His own misery writhed within, a living mess, like maggots infested his soul. Something had to change. His men were going mad. He must attempt escape again, for their sakes as well as his, or die trying.
With one hand stretched before him and the other to the rock-hewn walls, he followed the passage, carefully placing each foot, working to avoid the slightest noise that might alert his captors. After what felt an age, he reached an iron-barred door. A dragging of fingers over cold metal bars and he discovered the lock. With no key.
“Señor.”
He startled.
“I hoped you come.”
The faintest light skimmed her features, the bold dark eyes, the brazen mouth, the curves so sensuous, at once appealing and repellent. Remembrance tugged of another woman, her features fair and pure. He shook his head, clearing the memories, focusing on the woman before him, not the one who would doubtless hold him in disfavor, if she cared to remember him at all. “What are you doing?”
Her teeth glinted in the darkness, then with a twist of her hand, she unlocked the door. Dragged it open. “You want to escape?”
“I don’t understand,” he whispered. “Why are you doing this?”
She shrugged in that way peculiar to those of Spain. “I feels sorry for you.”
He snorted. “You could have felt sorry for me months ago.”
“Months ago, they not going to kill you next day.”
His heartbeat intensified. “They’re going to kill me?”
“Kill all of you,” she said, with another dismissive gesture. “Not that I care too much about the rest of your silly countrymen, but you”—she traced a finger down his shirt—“you, I do care for.”
The Making of Mrs. Hale Page 2
