The Making of Mrs. Hale

by Carolyn Miller

  Well, that was certainly true. In the past week meat of all varieties had definitely not agreed with her. “Perhaps,” she allowed.

  “And have you experienced other symptoms of ill-health?”

  “She has been very tired,” Mother offered from her corner.

  “Hmm.” The doctor frowned, then moved closer to the bed. “Perhaps if you might permit me to look at your throat, Miss—forgive me—Mrs. Hale.”

  Julia nodded, following his instructions as he extracted a silver instrument from his bag and asked her to open her mouth. Perhaps she could pretend to be suffering the effects of a cold, then he might leave—

  “Hmm. Well, the good news is I see nothing of redness, nothing to suggest a putrid throat.” He offered a thin smile. “It’s good to know what you have is most likely not catching.”

  Another spurt of hysteria had to be smothered in a cough. No, it was likely not catching.

  He frowned. “Have you had that cough for long?”

  “A little while,” she murmured.

  “Please permit me to listen to your lungs. Now, lean forward, like so …”

  He placed a cool metal instrument at her back, then pressed his ear against it, so her mirror informed her. He listened for a moment, then instructed her to pull her shift down. “I hear nothing to suggest any inflammation. Would it be too much trouble to ask if I may listen to your chest?”

  “I think I would prefer that you did not.”

  “Very well.” He frowned, angling his head to one side as he considered her. He glanced back at her mother. “Lady Harkness, would you be so good as to permit me a few moments alone with your daughter?”

  The hairs rose on Julia’s neck. No. Why would he wish to speak with her alone except … ?

  Her mother acquiesced. When the door had closed, the doctor eyed her gravely. “Mrs. Hale?”

  “Y-yes?”

  “May I ask a few questions of a more personal nature?”

  She nodded.

  “I am sorry if you find such things distasteful, but I must have all the facts if I am to assist you. Can you recall the last time of your menses?”

  She licked suddenly dry lips. “I believe it was a few weeks ago.”

  “How many weeks? It is best to be as precise as possible.”

  “I … I’m afraid I cannot exactly recall.”

  He nodded. Scribbled something in his little notebook. Glanced up again. “And can I be so bold as to enquire whether you have had intimate relations with your husband recently?”

  “Sir!”

  “It is necessary to rule out all possible scenarios.”

  What could she answer? What should she say?

  “Mrs. Hale?”

  The words pierced her guard, prickling heat at the back of her eyes. “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry, would you mind answering the question, please?”

  Yes, she did mind! She didn’t want to answer. Oh, what should she say?

  She licked her lips again. “H-how recently?”

  He shrugged. “Have you been intimate with your husband in the last few weeks?”

  “M-my husband is away in Scotland at the moment.”

  “Oh, I see.” He frowned, wrote something in his notebook before glancing up again, his gaze impenetrable. “And he was last here when?”

  “Several weeks ago.”

  His brow cleared. “And were you intimate with him then? I ask simply because I wish to know if you might be in the family way.”

  “And—” Julia gulped. “And if I were, would you be obliged to speak of this to anyone?”

  “I see. So you were intimate.”

  She was starting to hate that word! “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Then as my patient, I would be bound to speak of this only to those whom it concerns.”

  Julia shook her head. “I do not want my mother—”

  “She will hear nothing of it from me.” He looked kindly at her. “But you do know such a thing will not be able to remain hidden forever?”

  She nodded, made an attempt to listen as he issued instructions, and made another attempt to smile as he offered quiet congratulations.

  But all the while her mind was ticking, ticking, ticking, with what reason she would give for her illness to her mother, and what her husband would say when he finally returned.

  When next he awoke, it was to awareness that the scent of brine had disappeared, that he lay in a cot-like bed, and could hear English being spoken in cool tones. He forced his eyelids to unfasten, caught a glimpse of a man, two men, neither of whom seemed familiar.

  “Ah, the patient awakes.”

  Thomas willed his vision to focus, to not waver. Who … ?

  The other, shorter man, pushed back into his vision. “Sir? My name is Osgood. You had one of my cards of business on your person.”

  Had he? Well, if the man said so. Thomas nodded. Lightning ripped through his skull.

  “Please don’t move.” The man—Osgood?—drew near, his graying hair gleaming in the candlelight. “You have been quite badly injured, and the doctor says—ah, here he is now.”

  The second man returned into view. Now his vision was clearing Thomas observed he was in a cream-papered room. A smell, like alcohol, but no alcohol he ever wished to sip, had replaced most of the sea scent from before.

  The new stranger, the doctor, murmured something to the other before approaching Thomas, a heavy frown punctuating his brow. “Do you know your name?”

  His mind held a foggy kind of heaviness that permitted no quick answer. He strained to think. His name? Something to do with the weather? Rayne? Yes, that was his name. He tried to utter acquiescence but his throat did not cooperate.

  “Please, do not distress yourself.” He continued speaking, his words a garble of accented English Thomas could barely follow.

  “You were attacked, sir. Which is why you are now here at the infirmary.”

  What? That did not make sense.

  “He is perhaps confused.”

  “It would seem so,” the doctor muttered, a heavy frown causing his eyebrows to jut out alarmingly. “I’m afraid you will need to spend quite some time here before your body mends sufficiently.”

  Again, Thomas tried to speak. Again, he failed.

  “Please, try to rest.” The doctor’s brows plunged and he turned to the older man and said in a lowered voice, “I cannae like what has happened to him. I’m wary about advertising his placement here in case whoever is responsible attempts to complete what they began.”

  Mr. Osgood sighed heavily. “I think that wise, and I assure you that I will do all in my power to ascertain how he came to be carrying my card. Perhaps then we can learn who he is.”

  “I suspect he is an Englishman, that much seems clear from his mutterings at night, and from the cut of his clothes. And with that tan I wonder if he has spent time abroad, somewhere hot.” The doctor wiped his hands upon a towel. “I confess I cannae like the scars on his back, almost like he’s been whipped or tortured once upon a time. But he does not quite hold the aspect of a convict.”

  “Poor lad.”

  “Indeed. He has experienced terrible things. We can only hope his memory returns soon.”

  “And pray that the good Lord above heals his body, and brings his attackers to justice.”

  “Aye. And until then, I think it best to keep both him and his location quiet.” The doctor shook his head. “Such ferocity I have nae seen since the war.”

  Osgood nodded. “I will return to Newhaven again, and see if anyone remembers anything from three nights ago. And I’ll have a word with the night watchman. Perhaps he can help us in some way.”

  Thomas listened, helpless, unable to speak, his body throbbing with pain that only sleep could ease. And so, with his soul desperately clinging to the hope that the solicitor’s prayers would be answered, he closed his eyes and slept.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  THE TREES FLASHING above them lifted twisting branches
to the pale blue sky. Recent storms had played havoc with the park, littering the ground with broken twigs and leaves. On this, the first fine day in what felt like months but was probably only a week, Julia had allowed herself to be coaxed outside to join Catherine on a drive through Hyde Park. Truth be told, she had not required much coaxing, Mother’s overanxiousness in past days proving as stifling as ever, and Julia’s nausea becoming increasingly challenging to hide. Charles was in good hands with Crabbit back at the town house, or so the nurse-maid had insisted. She hoped so, anyway. She loved the little boy, but not his clingy need for her, nor the cries that wormed inside, stirring guilt and unease. To be elsewhere, outside, smelling the freshness in the brisk breeze, was wonderful. She drank in another breath.

  “There,” Catherine said, with a sideways glance at Julia. “That is what I wished to see. It’s been too long since roses have appeared in those cheeks.”

  There was a good reason for that, Julia thought, but didn’t say. She offered a wobbly smile in lieu of reply.

  “Poor thing. You have not been terribly well of late, have you?” Catherine said, as the driver continued their course past the Serpentine. “I am sorry for it. I can imagine being cooped up at home must prove a little dreary at times.”

  Rather, all the time. “I am not used to feeling this way,” she allowed.

  The horses began a slow turn. In the distance a horseman on a brown hack drew nearer.

  Julia peeked across. Blinked. “Why, it’s Mr. Amherst.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Amherst,” she murmured in an undertone, as he caught sight of her and instantly pulled up beside the carriage.

  “Why, Mrs. Hale! Good afternoon.”

  Julia greeted him, a corner of her heart lifting at the respectful regard which filled his eyes. “Good afternoon, Mr. Amherst. May I present my sister-in-law, Lady Winthrop.”

  As he and Catherine exchanged greetings, Julia eyed him surreptitiously. Would he make any more remarks on her appearance today? It was strange how much she had savored his comments from before. Or perhaps not so strange, for it had been a long while since anyone had complimented her looks, after all.

  “I am pleased to see you again.” His smile seemed ingenuous. “Tell me, how have you been faring in these recent days? It appears the weather has not played havoc with your health.”

  She murmured something of her obligation, conscious of Catherine’s wide-eyed look, before quickly enquiring as to Miss Hatherleigh’s whereabouts.

  “Oh, Caro. Well, she has returned to Somerset with her family, although I expect they shall return when the Season begins. Tell me, do you have plans to be here for the Season, Mrs. Hale?”

  “My plans are not yet certain, Mr. Amherst.”

  “We await news of her husband’s return,” Catherine said in a cool tone quite unlike her.

  “Well, I cannot imagine that he would wish to delay returning a second longer than he has to,” he responded gallantly. “I wonder, Mrs. Hale, if I might be so bold as to request an opportunity to visit you while I am in London. I have found there are not as many people in town as I had thought, and I confess that some days are quite lonesome.”

  Well she knew that feeling. “Of course, I do not mind.” She gave her mother’s direction.

  He thanked her, inclined his head to Catherine, smiled his winning smile at Julia, and rode away. Leaving her to face Catherine’s scrutiny.

  “What?”

  “I cannot understand.”

  “What can you not understand?”

  Catherine shook her head. “I thought you were missing your husband. I did not expect to see you engage in a flirtation with another man.”

  Her cheeks heated. “I was not flirting.”

  “No? Merely giving him permission to call upon you?”

  “At my mother’s house.” Julia summoned up a laugh. “Really, Catherine, there is nothing to be worried about. He is friendly, that is all.”

  “I don’t know if that truly is all,” Catherine countered. “But if you say so.”

  Why, when people said that, did it always sound like they did not trust you? But there seemed little sense in protesting her innocence; Catherine would believe what she believed. Her lips twisted. As if Mr. Amherst could be interested anyway. Not when she was a wife, and caring for little Charles, and about to be—

  She lifted a hand to her mouth, willing the nausea away. Forced a smile at Catherine’s concern. Waved away her enquiry as to what was wrong as another carriage pulled into view.

  Catherine instructed the driver to take an alternative route, and soon they had veered from the main drive to one that crossed closer to the Serpentine, whose banks overflowed from recent rain.

  They traveled on for some moments in silence, as Julia wondered what she could say to change the mood induced by the earlier topic of conversation. “You … you seem a little different from what I remember from before.”

  “Do I? Well, time has a way of changing people, I suppose.”

  “I did not expect to see you confront Mother as you did the other day.”

  Catherine’s brow puckered, cleared. “Oh, you mean about her comments regarding Thomas? Well, I cannot imagine you find it easy to have to listen to such criticism all the time. It must be very hard to not let yourself be swayed into … a hardened heart against your husband.”

  Julia swallowed.

  “And having experienced the freedom that comes with choosing to forgive, I can only recommend such an action to others. And I’m afraid poor Lady Harkness seems to be allowing herself to be entangled by animosity’s power, which is never a good thing.”

  “You said allow?”

  “Yes. I believe we give feelings permission to live in our hearts by whether we choose to think upon such things or not. The more we think about certain matters the greater impact they effect, until they can tend to obsess us. Have you ever experienced this?”

  Like when she had lived at home and obsessed over being elsewhere, until she snatched at the first chance to leave—by running away with Thomas? Guilt bade her say, “Yes.”

  “I have, too. In fact, when I was in Bath, I needed my Aunt Drusilla to remind me I had a choice at my disposal.”

  “Was … was that in relation to Jon?”

  Catherine gave a wry smile. “I had loved your brother for a very long time, and it was … very challenging to see his affections engaged by another. I certainly struggled with anger and resentment for quite some time.”

  “And how did you change?”

  “God used Aunt Drusilla to help me see that unforgiveness binds, but forgiving others sets us free. It actually does us more good because our heart is not so cluttered with poisonous thoughts against others. So, I had to ask God to help me, to forgive me, in order to forgive others. I still do. I certainly do not mean to imply that I am never angry or resentful, simply that I am learning to not let such emotion possess me.”

  Was this why Catherine seemed so different, seemed to own a peace Julia had never known?

  “It reminds me of a story Jesus told, about a servant who had done wrong and amassed great debts for his master. He confessed, and the master forgave him. But when a fellow servant confessed of a small debt against this first servant, he had him thrown into prison, forgetting that he had been shown mercy for a much greater sum.” Catherine smiled. “If I remember the many sins for which God has forgiven me, how can I then hold such things against another?”

  Julia’s heart twisted. She was only too good at holding on to offenses.

  “This is why I am concerned for your mother, and wish her to release these emotions so she does not have to bear their weight unnecessarily. It is far better to trust God with our future.”

  Again, Julia felt a touch of conviction. Trust God with her future?

  “I wonder,” Catherine said, with a tilt to her head that gave her the look of a brown robin, “do you think your mother would be conducive to a stay in the country?”

&n
bsp; “Mother much prefers London,” Julia began.

  “Oh, no, I meant you staying in the country.” She smiled. “I don’t mind being in London when Jon is here, but he’s away on business—I believe these storms have made traveling somewhat difficult up north—and I would much prefer to be home in Gloucestershire where one can truly relax, rather than wondering who might take it upon themselves to visit.”

  Julia chuckled. How many times had she felt exactly that? On more than one occasion she had been trapped in the library or the drawing room while Mother’s many society callers engaged her in too-long conversations, or worse, spied Julia, and then spent the next minutes trying to engage her in social inanities, all the while eyeing her with deep looks of speculation. To escape such things … “Sounds like bliss.”

  Catherine’s dark eyes lit. “Well, then, perhaps we should speak to her. I can phrase things in a way that she may think such a plan of greater benefit for me than you, if you think that wise.”

  “Very wise,” Julia agreed. “Perhaps if she was also made aware of the benefits of not having a small crying child in near vicinity she will be more likely to agree.”

  “I remember those days,” Catherine said sympathetically. “It is not easy, is it?”

  “No.” Julia offered a small smile, but Catherine’s gaze, soft with compassion, urged her to look elsewhere, lest the tears prick anew. Really, she was being so emotional these days.

  Her gaze traveled over the parkland, past the sheet of gray-metal water, to the red-bricked Kensington Palace beyond and the huge stone gates that marked the entry to the park. While all this was very pretty, and certainly nicer than the dreariness she associated with Edinburgh, it would be nice to live where trepidation did not loom with every passing carriage as she wondered whom she might meet. Jon’s estate in Gloucestershire might be someplace she’d once decried as dull, but now anywhere seemed preferable to where she was.

  “Have you heard from Thomas recently?”

  Another heart pang. “No, not recently.” Not at all. Had he forgotten that he said he would write? It had been over two weeks; surely he should have written something by now.