The Making of Mrs. Hale

by Carolyn Miller

  The coach rattled over a bridge, the ridged surface sending a fresh ache down his spine, new chills along his skin. Beside him, Siddens groaned, his teeth starting to chatter. Thomas forced his mind to keep thinking, planning; anything to distract from the cold that threatened to steal his breath. He had high hopes for Carmichael, but if the viscount refused to help him then perhaps he would dare to see Jon. It wasn’t as if Jon could send him to prison; he and Julia were legally married after all. At least in the eyes of the powers that be in Scotland. And surely Jon should know where his sister was. He might even be pleased, perhaps, that Thomas had sought his help. He liked to be considered in that role.

  And if Jon refused to assist, then he could perhaps go to Portman Square and face the tigress in her den. He was sure Lady Harkness would love to see him. Or shoot him. Or see him strung up with a noose.

  His breath escaped in a long white stream of air. Though his conscience stabbed that he needed to go and explain the situation to Julia’s mother, his heart still withered at the thought of facing Lady Harkness. Had he once thought himself courageous? A different man had faced a raging elephant in India—a moment Jon had said was the worst of his life. Thomas had not flinched then. He’d known his duty and done what was needed. But though he knew his duty now, he knew equally Lady Harkness would not help him. If Julia had sought refuge at her mother’s house, Lady Harkness would be far more likely to spit in his face than tell him where her daughter was, sure to protect Julia like a tigress protects her cubs. Without mercy, without favor. Without a shred of compassion.

  And the worst thing was, Thomas couldn’t really blame her.

  He blew cool air onto his freezing hands, willing them to warm. He could not afford frostbite, could not afford his concentration to slip and he tumble unceremoniously to the ground.

  No. Carmichael simply had to help him.

  Thomas had to find where his wife was. His heart, his soul—the very marrow of his bones—begged to know whether he had any chance.

  Another bridge, this over an icy stream far below, made their high perch seem very high indeed. The coach suddenly dipped. Siddens gave a shriek. Thomas turned as the clerk, thrown from his seat by the rough passage, propelled over the side. He leapt across and grabbed the back of the man’s coat. “I’ve got you!”

  “Don’t let me fall!”

  “I won’t,” he gritted out. God help him; if the lad fell he’d tumble near twenty feet straight over the edge of the bridge, quite likely to his death, by the looks of that rushing water, which was even now swallowing the younger man’s hat.

  Left hand grasping the carriage roof edge, right arm feeling near wrenched from its socket, he slowly hauled the dangling man up. “Stop … moving,” he muttered between grunts of exertion.

  Siddens’s cries alerted the coachman, who made a loud clucking kind of noise before demanding that Thomas not release his passenger. “Else there be a deuce of a dust up wiv me bosses!”

  Finally Siddens was able to catch the luggage compartment slung between the back wheels, and dropped unceremoniously in the basket, the truly poor man’s perch for such trips. Although Siddens could scarcely claim poverty; instead, he should be thanking God Thomas had grabbed him in time.

  Within the minute of being assured his passengers were safe, the driver slapped the reins and the carriage was once more moving. Thomas brushed aside the clerk’s fumbling thanks and ignored the small boy’s comment about heroic acts. The portly gentleman moaned about yet further delays before demanding, “What is that infernal odor?”

  Thomas rubbed at his shoulder, working to release the pain. Thank God he’d been here when he had, that he’d had opportunity to save Siddens’s life.

  But seeing Julia, being with her once again …

  That would be one thing for which he could truly thank God.

  If God ever deigned to listen to such a sinner.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Portman Square, London

  JULIA GLANCED AROUND the bedchamber, drawing off her gloves, as the footmen bustled in carrying the trunks. She glanced at her mother, whose air of complacency seemed tinged with faint self-satisfaction ever since she had won at yesterday’s polite fencing for the privilege to host Julia. “I cannot believe you managed to pack everything up so quickly.”

  “Of course, darling, I want you here with me. And it wasn’t as if you had very many things, anyway. Indeed, it seems little Charles has as many items as you. I confess I am a little surprised.”

  Julia forced a smile. She could have said that Serena had ensured all of Julia’s and Charlie’s former garments were burned, declaring them not fit for the grubbiest of street urchins, and that apart from a few small trifles she’d managed to bring from Edinburgh, everything else she now possessed was due to Henry’s generosity and Serena’s good taste. But she sensed her mother’s appreciation for their kindness was growing thin, that she wished the obligation to come to an end, so she said nothing.

  They had made their farewells earlier that day, Henry’s urbane good manners ensuring Julia felt as though they had no wish to be parted from their company, even though she knew just what a disruption to their household she and little Charles had been. But his smooth manners were not quick enough to hide the flash of concern at his wife’s long cuddle with Charles before she reluctantly returned him to Julia’s waiting arms. No, it had been necessary to leave, to allow them to return north to his ailing father. It was necessary to leave the bubble of content and somehow negotiate this new life that would be hers.

  She moved to the window, stared out at the stark park centering the square, a patch of dingy grass, trees, and shrubs surrounded by black spikes to protect it from intruders. On the opposite side stood the neoclassical Montagu House; nearby, the elegant residence of the Countess of Home. Grand establishments for the wealthy and titled. How ironic that she who had thought such things at an end lived here now.

  It was strange to be back in Mother’s house. Jon had always complained that the house was too sterile, too cold, but Julia had not minded its newness. And having lived in the grubby flat in Edinburgh, she could even better appreciate the cool classical lines that made this town house so sought after. It would be so much easier to clean, too. A smile pushed past her lips. Yet another way she had changed these past months, for she would never have once considered ease of cleaning to be a benefit in a house.

  “What are you smiling about, my dear?” her mother asked, an indulgent expression on her face. “Are you glad to be back?”

  What could she say but yes?

  “It is so wonderful to have you home,” Mother said with an affectionate hug. “I have missed you so.”

  Again, the only correct response was that she had missed her, too.

  And perhaps she had. It was nice to feel important in Mother’s eyes again, to feel her care and concern. Serena’s efforts at clothing her appropriately had been put in the shade by Mother’s plans to ensure Julie was dressed in the latest fashions. Where exactly Julia was expected to go to wear such fashions was another matter. She had no desire to attend social functions, she certainly would not attend the theatre, or any balls. Catherine had been correct: Julia had no wish to go places to be stared at, to have people whisper about her. The whirl of gaiety Mother seemed to thrive on, the scandal in which she so often had figured, held no charm. Not for anything would Julia leave her child to peer wistfully from upper windows at the glittering guests arriving for one of Mother’s soirees, to grow up listening to laughter pealing through the small hours, wondering why her mother never laughed like that with her. Julia only wished for a quiet domesticity, something like that she imagined might exist in Catherine’s house, or in a cottage by the sea, a place with peace within four walls, a child, and her husband.

  Her husband. Her eyes burned, her throat clogged. The ache grew in her heart.

  Three days later

  “Now, Julia, I hope you will take some time to rest. It simply will not do for
you to carry on this way, tending to that little boy’s every cry as though we don’t have a capable staff and a highly qualified nurse.”

  Julia bit her tongue, as she’d been forced to do a dozen times since removing to Mother’s house. Yes, she knew she needed sleep, she craved sleep—longed for it with every ounce of her being—but her inner restlessness would not allow it. Whether it was simply induced by tiredness or whether she writhed against the resumption of the old roles of Mother Superior and her inferior daughter, she couldn’t help but feel edgy, like she wanted to cry, or scream, or shake something, or do something wild and extremely irresponsible. All she knew was that she seemed to be holding onto a veneer of social polish by the outermost edge of her teeth.

  It had only taken a day of Mother’s self-imposed exile from the whirl of engagements with friends and mantua-makers before she recollected how boring she found maternal duties. A smile twisted Julia’s lips. Of course, she should have remembered just how tiresome Mother had found the banalities of raising her own children. Or maybe it was just Julia’s upbringing she had thought best left to other people. Mother had always liked Jonathan more.

  “Julia? Why are you looking like that?”

  “I’m sorry, like what?”

  “Perhaps you should come with me. It might do you some good to get out into the fresh air. Perhaps a carriage ride to Hyde Park—”

  “No.” Be looked at by gossips? She would sink.

  “Really, Julia, you are not looking at all well. I cannot think you would want to be cooped up in here, hovering about as if waiting for that child to cry. That is what we have Crabbit for.”

  How to explain the worry that made her desperate to attend him, to ensure he would be well? “Mother, I have no inclination for anything of a social nature. I will try to rest, I promise.”

  “Well, I hope so.”

  At just that moment the sound of crying started up again. Julia caught the look of exasperation flitting across Mother’s features, the way she glanced at Julia as if expecting her to run to the child’s aid. Julia forced her feet to remain still.

  “Please, my dearest daughter, let Crabbit do her job. If you become exhausted then things will be all the harder for everyone.”

  “I will go upstairs now,” she promised.

  “To rest?”

  “Yes.” She summoned up a smile, forced it to not waver. “I appreciate your solicitude for me, Mother.”

  “Hmm.” Her mother eyed her with that shrewd look that suggested she’d seen past the façade to Julia’s frustration, but was not going to speak about it anymore. “Well, if you do find yourself resting, I’ll ensure you are not disturbed, not even for dinner if you wish.”

  “I would appreciate that, thank you.”

  Mother drew near and, with a small, sad smile, caressed her cheek. “I just want you to be happy, my dear, and I know when we’re overtired how difficult a thing that can be.”

  Her solicitude made the oh-so-ready tears spring to Julia’s eyes. To her surprise, and relief, Mother said nothing further, only kissed her brow, then sent her upstairs, proclaiming to the servants that under no circumstances was Miss Julia to be disturbed, and any visitors were to be denied entry.

  Julia dragged her feet up to the landing, turning to lift a hand as her mother called her farewell before the front door was closed behind her.

  Perhaps her heart was too quick to find fault with her mother, for she was tired. So tired. A desperate chuckle broke past her weariness. She might writhe against being treated like a child and being sent to bed, but it appeared sometimes such things were indeed necessary.

  Charles’s crying, which had abated, suddenly roared back to life. She gritted her teeth, wondering why his cries could slice through her skin like no other sound. No wonder Mother was so keen to escape the little boy. The poor pet was not a happy lad these days.

  She hesitated at her bedchamber door. She should sleep … but what if he was crying because he didn’t like the new nurse Mother had employed? Mother had misliked the nursemaid Serena had employed, saying she had a sly look about her, and wouldn’t trust that woman in her house if her life depended on it. Well, maybe Mother’s life did not, but Charles’s life certainly did. She turned her unsteady steps to the nursery on the second floor.

  “Hello, Crabbit.”

  “Good afternoon, miss.”

  Julia didn’t bother to correct the appellation, even though during the darkest hours of night she wondered just what the servants thought of her. A jade? A fallen woman? Another way she had changed—caring what servants might think. Stifling the insecurities, she moved to where the nurse held the little boy in her arms.

  “Sorry, miss,” Crabbit murmured. “It always takes a while for the child to recognize a new set of arms.”

  “Of course.” His crying soothed a fraction as she smoothed a hand over his gingery curls, and joined her voice to the nurse’s implores to hush. “Come, little man, it’s time to get to sleep.”

  He hiccupped, then drew in a shaky breath, as if uncertain whether to scream or settle.

  “Ah, the sweet lad knows his mother’s voice.”

  Julia forced a smile, remorse writhing within. No, he would never know his mother’s voice again.

  Charles squirmed a little longer, and she dropped her hand, stepped away. Perhaps Mother was right and she should let the nursemaid do her job. “Shh, it’s time for sleep.”

  Yet his anxious red face still twisted guilt inside. Had she done badly traveling an immense distance with such a young babe? So many times she’d begged for a little milk for him, but too often had to make do with water or thin gruel. Had the deprivation harmed him? Numbers of people on her journey had proved kind, and had even gone out of their way to assist when they saw Charles’s tender age. But she was one of countless poor travelers, far too many of whom held the emaciated look of numerous cares and inadequate sustenance.

  The questions had been alleviated somewhat by the doctor’s visit yesterday, assuring Julia that little Charles was growing healthy and strong, and the crying bouts were nothing to be worried about. His words reassured somewhat, but she would feel easier if the little boy slept.

  He stirred, opening his dark eyes in that unblinking gaze she found mesmerizing, before screwing his face up and beginning another bout of hearty tears, a saw-like sound that penetrated between heart and skin.

  “There, there,” Crabbit said. “Let’s have none of that, my lad. Your pretty mother needs her sleep, too.” She offered Julia a look of supreme capability mixed with complacent superiority. “Now don’t worry, miss. I’ll stay here with him and you can go have a rest.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure little Charles isn’t the only one in desperate need of sleep.”

  Julia offered a weary smile. “Very well.”

  But when she removed to her bedchamber, rest would not come. Not with the curtains pulled tight, not with a pillow over her eyes, not even when she exchanged her morning gown for nightwear and slipped under the covers, begging her body to respond to nighttime cues. She still felt that restlessness, that anxious unease. Perhaps reading would dull her senses and allow her sleep.

  She threw off the covers, slipped on a robe, and moved downstairs—mercifully absent of either baby cries or servants—to the bookshelves that anchored a corner of the drawing room. After a moment of looking at the titles she picked up a copy of Pope’s Sermons, checked the prose. Yes, that should suit. With the book tucked in her arm, she exited the room and moved to the staircase.

  A knock came at the door. God forbid whoever it was saw her in such a state of dishabille! She hurried up the stairs to the landing, glancing down to where a footman was opening the door.

  And heard a voice. A masculine, deep voice. A familiar voice. The book slid from her grasp as her heart began a rapid tattoo. No.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but Miss Julia is not at home.”

  The standard reply to unexpected visitors. But t
his visitor …

  Her mouth had dried. She swallowed. Swallowed again. “Thank you, William,” she finally managed to call, grasping the handrail, ignoring the footman’s look of surprise as she descended the stairs unsteadily. “I am home.”

  Like she was in a trance, she slowly walked towards the vestibule, her gaze fixed on the face she’d wondered if she’d ever see again. “Thank you, William, you may go.”

  She vaguely heard the sound of his retreat, her gaze refusing to leave the familiar features, at once so well-known and yet so different, his cheeks carved sharper, his coffee-colored eyes holding something that looked like suffering. “Thomas.”

  “Hello, Jewel.”

  His eyes, dark, intense, searched her hungrily, like he couldn’t get enough. Her breath caught. Her heart’s pounding intensified. The unsteadiness begged release. “What … what are you doing here?”

  His lips twisted with that wryness she remembered. “Looking for you.”

  A rushing sound filled her ears. Dizziness consumed her, like she might faint. He stepped forward and—just as her knees buckled—caught her.

  Then she was in his arms, smelling his musky scent, feeling the bristles of his chin, hearing his murmured endearments. She was dimly aware of being carried through the empty hall to the drawing room, the door closing, being carefully laid on the couch. She closed her eyes. This wasn’t real. Was it? Or was she reliving their honeymoon, a few nights in a little place called Kirkcudbright, a Scottish hamlet on the coast near the Solway Firth. Those nights learning to love, learning to be loved, learning what it was to be husband and wife in every sense. She had to be dreaming. It must be her exhaustion—

  “Oh, my darling, how I’ve missed you!” he murmured, his lips grazing her brow.

  Her eyelids flew open. It was real. He was here, alive, his eyes feasting on her, like he had never wanted to be parted. She reached out a hand, touched the roughness of his chin, felt his exhalation on her skin. “I thought you were dead.”