The Making of Mrs. Hale

by Carolyn Miller

  Upon his departure, the doctor spoke something soothing, his lyrical tones causing Thomas’s eyes to close, to feign sleep, as he tried to assemble scattered thoughts into some sense of order. So much did not make sense, so much filled him with unease. But at least he was here, knew a sense of protection, could feel an easing in his soul at the recognition of the other men’s concern. It had been so long since he had not had to fight for what was his, for what he needed, he barely recognized this feeling as relief.

  The last time he felt this way had been that morning in Kirkcudbright, when he’d woken to discover Julia beside him, their marriage still undetected. He had watched her, marveling at her innocent beauty, marveling that she had plighted her troth to him, that she could see past all the external to the man he wished to be. With her, he had felt less need to pretend.

  As he fixed his thoughts on her, gradually, steadily, the other worries faded. And he found himself following Hawkesbury’s advice and praying to the God he’d not believed in, the One who had still protected him, that He would heal his broken body, and be with Julia, and give her comfort, hope, and peace.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  THE SOUNDS OF London traffic stole through the drawing room window, only increasing the agitation inside her heart. Mother—still unaware of the cause of Julia’s illness—had listened with all the appearance of amenability to Catherine’s request for Julia to come stay with her, before insisting that Julia stay until she felt more the thing. Catherine, quietly gracious as ever, had conceded, only to be drawn from town to visit her sister in Derbyshire, whose father-in-law had finally succumbed to illness and passed away.

  With Catherine’s absence, every day seemed to only increase the pressure within. Worries about Thomas, young Charles, her mother, her pregnancy, her future wove a nest of restless fears, making her snappish as she itched to leave. Some days she felt as though she might explode from the tension, that lightning might spark from her fingertips. She longed to escape, but apart from Catherine’s offer she had no other place to stay. And until she renewed said invitation—and Julia had a strong suspicion that even if Catherine were not distracted by her sister’s grief she would be too polite to do so anytime soon—then Julia would need to stay.

  Wondering. Hoping. Fearing.

  Was Thomas alive? Had he sorted out the tangled mess? Oh, why hadn’t she heard from him? News had come through from Derbyshire days ago; surely something should have come from Edinburgh by now. Oh, why wasn’t Jon here to help? Before her departure, Catherine had promised to mention Lord Snowstrem’s comments about Thomas’s death to Jon when they reunited at Lord Carmichael’s family estate, but until then, Julia had to keep the secret locked within her heart. Unable to speak of it to anyone, not even Mother. For she knew what her mother would say, none of it good.

  Catherine’s words about trust stole through her mind; she dismissed them. Trusting God seemed so passive, like she had given up and decided to let the universe steer her course. She had spent too many years fighting for what she wanted to give up now. Although—her lips twisted—being stuck in Mother’s house was definitely not what she desired.

  A hawker’s call passed through the window, teasing her restlessness. She felt trapped, imprisoned by circumstances, by her choices, by the decisions of others. The drawing room seemed too small today, the walls too close, the atmosphere leaden like the still-gray skies outside. Today she could understand why Jon preferred the mellow warmth of Winthrop Manor.

  For a moment she imagined what her ideal house would be like. She used to imagine a London town house, but the gossip and speculation so evident in Mama’s cronies had put that idea to rest. They would need to live somewhere where small children could play freely, but she did not think Thomas would like a grand estate; he had come from far less wealthy stock than she. When she had once asked about his family, he’d murmured something about a father in Norfolk, but she sensed from his restraint that there was some degree of estrangement.

  She wondered where his father lived …

  The front door’s heavy knocker sounded. She ignored it, but William’s answer, heard through the opened door, made her pay attention.

  “You mean Miss Julia?”

  She frowned. Wasn’t he supposed to deny entry to her callers, especially when Mother was out? She pushed to her feet, peered through the curtained side window that gave a narrow glimpse of the front steps. The slender fair-haired man was one she did not recognize.

  “… bring a message concerning the major.”

  He did? Her heart thumped. Oh, she knew he could not have forgotten her!

  Another low exchange of murmurs, but she ignored it and hurried through the hall and said to William, “Thank you. I shall speak with Mr…. ?” She raised her brows.

  The pock-scarred man offered a quick smile, his eyes not quite meeting hers.

  She could not account for the ripple down her spine. But what did it matter? She would have news from Thomas at long last. “Mr…. ?”

  “Lieutenant Harrow, at your service, ma’am.” He offered an awkward bow.

  “Well? What is it about Major Hale? Where is he?”

  He cleared his throat. “As to where he is precisely I cannot say, but—”

  “I thought you had come from him.”

  “I regret I have not had that recent pleasure. But I was with him, when we were in Spain.”

  Her breath caught. “You were in prison with him?”

  “And helped him escape.”

  “Oh! You have my deepest gratitude! Thank you so much for all you did.” She smiled. “He did not say too much about the conditions there, and I gather it was not an easy time.”

  “No.”

  “Please,” she gestured inside. “Won’t you come in and have something to eat? Something to drink? It is the least I can do for the man who has done so much for my husband.”

  “Well, I would not say no to a glass of something, if you are sure that it is not too much trouble.”

  “Oh, I am sure. Please, come in.”

  Within minutes he was seated in the drawing room, enjoying a glass of wine, while she peppered him with questions about his time, and hoped Mother’s errands would keep her away from home for just a little while longer. Lieutenant Harrow was not exactly a mine of information, but the little that he did share helped her understand afresh just how awful conditions had been for poor Thomas.

  Eventually, when he had downed the second glass of wine, and the few things he had shared had been repeated several times, she felt it prudent to remind him of his initial purpose. “Forgive me, you said you had a message from my husband?”

  He coughed. “Well, not a message precisely—”

  Her heart fell.

  “I was interested in learning if your husband has … er, is in receipt of payment for services rendered.”

  “Oh! Do you refer to Spain?”

  He nodded.

  “Well, that I could not say. I’m afraid you would need to speak with him.”

  His eyes flashed. “You mean he has not?”

  She drew back, startled at his aggression. “I mean I do not know, and you will need to speak with him.”

  He muttered something under his breath that did not sound entirely complimentary to her husband’s leadership skills. “… leaves me no choice.”

  Julia eyed the bell rope, wondering if she should summon a servant. “Is that all?”

  A flush suffused his freckled cheeks. He cleared his throat, eyeing her in a manner not wholly pleasant. “Not quite all, ma’am. I do have some more information concerning him.”

  “Oh. I thought you said you didn’t know where he was.”

  “And that remains the case.” By now the flush overspreading his countenance had reached the roots of his blond hair. “No, this information pertains more to his time in Spain.”

  “But I don’t understand. Have you not just told me about what happened?”

  “Not quite everything, Mrs. Hale.�
��

  “Well, please don’t keep me in suspense.”

  “Very well.” He coughed again, as if nervous. “I regret to be the bearer of disturbing news, especially to such a respectable young lady as yourself, but I must inform you of an incident that your husband was involved in.”

  She waited, twisting her fingers together to stop the tremors. Why did people always say they hated to share bad news when their countenance suggested anything but? She forced her posture to straighten, to adopt a pose of which her military husband might be proud. “What incident?”

  “Your husband, Mrs. Hale, was involved in a liaison with a Spanish whore, who became pregnant with his child.”

  She stared at him, the words falling around her, like stars dropping from heaven. His words did not make sense. She could not understand. “I beg your pardon?”

  “When we were in Spain, Major Hale got a Spanish whore pregnant. I’m sorry to tell you your husband is an adulterer.”

  Her heart caught on that word. “No,” she whispered. “No, you must be mistaken.” Or lying. Catherine had said Lord Snowstrem lied. This man had to be of similar ilk. She shook her head. “No.”

  “I regret that I am quite certain of it. Magdelena even screamed that Major Hale was the father of her baby when we were trying to flee.”

  Magdelena. Hatred ripped through her soul at that name. How dare she? How dare he? But something softer begged her not to believe—

  “I knew it.” Mother’s voice came from the door. Julia forced herself to look. Mother’s face was glacial. “I always knew him to be the sort to play you false.” She eyed the lieutenant like she might a sewer rat. “Well? Is that it? You’ve obviously accomplished what you came here for. I think it best you now leave.”

  The world had shrunk down to one question: Had Thomas truly done such a thing? Tears filling her eyes, Julia barely noticed as he murmured excuses and left.

  “No, Mama, I cannot believe—”

  “So you keep saying.”

  “He cannot have done such a thing. The lieutenant must be mistaken—”

  “Why is it that everyone else must be mistaken when you refuse to see the truth? Why did you think I did not want you to know the man? He is a rake, has always been a rake, will always be a rake. He is a depraved man, stained with sin.”

  “No, no.” Julia shook her head, willing the past few minutes to be undone. “I refuse—”

  “Refuse all you like, my girl, but it won’t change facts. You should never have trusted him, should never have married him—”

  “What is the point in saying such things? It is done; we are married; it cannot be undone.”

  “Can it not?” Mother said, a militant sparkle in her eyes. “I will speak with our solicitors again. Perhaps now you will consider finally severing this connection once and for all.”

  “Surely you don’t mean—?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid I do. I think it’s high time you sought a divorce.”

  She plunged her head in her hands, as gasping breaths shuddered from her body. He could not have done such a thing. Could he? He would not. Would he? The tears she had so vainly tried to suppress slipped through her fingers to stain her gown, as her mother’s words stole inside her soul. And for the first time, she could find nothing in her heart to disagree.

  The Great North Road

  Nottinghamshire

  “Not long now,” Hawkesbury said with a sympathetic look.

  Thomas nodded his obligation then gritted his teeth, the carriage’s interminable rocking had set his teeth on edge two days ago. But he could not complain; Hawkesbury’s generous offer to return with him to England was one he could not afford to ignore.

  He could neither afford it, nor, truth be told, could he manage without the assistance of a strong back to bear his inability to stand. Hawkesbury’s largesse and continued kindness had again made him wonder about just why the earl was being so generous towards him.

  He’d once broached the question, but all Hawkesbury would say was that as a Christian he would not let the husband of Winthrop’s sister rot in Scotland while he had it in his power to do something. “Good Samaritans need not only come from Samaria.”

  And it seemed that the earl had other motives to ensure Thomas’s removal from Scotland, something Thomas was left to speculate as he overheard the whispers between the solicitor and Lord Hawkesbury. It seemed the McKinley investigation had failed to produce any further leads, and despite Thomas’s ill-health, both Mr. Osgood and the earl had felt it best that Thomas be removed before McKinley could learn of his survival and make another attempt on his life.

  “I will escort you back to London,” the earl had promised, “but I feel it best if it was put about that you were dead.”

  “But Julia—”

  “If these men are as dangerous as I believe, then your wife is far better off believing you are dead for the moment. You would not wish her to encounter them, would you?”

  The thought sent ice into his veins. “No.”

  Lord Hawkesbury offered a smile. “Please know her safety is in my prayers.”

  “Needs to be,” he managed.

  “And yours, too?” This was said with a raised brow.

  “Yes.” Even if he doubted God paid his pathetic prayers much heed.

  God forbid anything terrible happen to her.

  He thought back to his arrival in Edinburgh, when he had first sent a letter to Julia. Had that even made it through? The trip south had revealed just how bad the roads were, and it would not surprise him if his letters had not been received as yet. But still this urgency to return to Julia ate at him. Would she have misinterpreted his latest nonappearance? God, have mercy …

  The journey south had been punctuated by halts, frustratingly delayed by rain showers, as the hired coachman made easy stages and lengthy stops to ensure the horses were kept from being wearied too quickly. In its favor, such mild traveling meant his injuries had less reason to worsen, and despite the varying quality of the inns they stayed in, by the time of their midafternoon arrival each day, his weariness was such that he was more than happy to bed down shortly after their evening meal, and enjoyed a dreamless, if not precisely comfortable, sleep.

  But he couldn’t help wishing that he could somehow get to Julia faster.

  “Ah. It seems we are coming into Newark,” said the earl, peering outside.

  The coachman, who had made no secret of his interest in his passengers, slowed the horses and shouted through the opened window, “We be at Newark, m’lord!”

  Thomas’s lips curved in amusement.

  “I don’t mind telling you, Hale, that I shall be very glad to get out and stretch my legs. I cannot imagine how uncomfortable you must be finding this experience.”

  “I’ve had worse,” Thomas managed. Like the whippings he’d received during their imprisonment in Spain.

  “Hmm. Well, I am hopeful that we might find a decent enough meal in this establishment.”

  Within a minute, they had pulled into a coaching yard and were surrounded by a number of ostlers. The earl helped Thomas inside to a table in the taproom and bespoke two rooms and two meals before disappearing to take care of some matter of business. Presently Thomas was joined in the taproom by the talkative coachman.

  “And how be your leg, sir?”

  “It remains attached.”

  “Well, and I am right glad to hear you say so. I did try me best to avoid the rough parts of the road, but I’m afraid it weren’t as smooth as one would wish, and what with the road washed clear away between Doncaster and Bawtry, I’m afraid I was forced to take a somewhat more circuitous route than I would normally take. I hope his lordship weren’t too displeased with the little delay.”

  Thomas swallowed a smile along with his wine. The “little” delay had added an extra four hours to their journey, so Lord Hawkesbury had muttered, before adding that at least each hour brought them nearer their destination. He now said something to this effect,
which was met with a nod.

  “Yes, his lordship said as much when he paid me.” Mr. Glossop took a long sip of his ale. “Well, and I don’t mind saying this here establishment appears much better than I first feared. I had me doubts, but it seems his lordship knows as good a spot as any. Me, I much prefer Stamford. Sure, and there be a couple of nice turns in that street which makes a less experienced man suffer, but it does have the George, which I don’t mind telling you I think is the best little coaching inn on the North Road, even if it does boast a gallows sign at its entry. D’you know why they do that?”

  Thomas admitted to his ignorance.

  “No? Well, I understand they have the gallows to welcome the honest traveler, and warn the highwayman.” Mr. Glossop nodded sagely. “I don’t mind telling you I think there should be more of that kind of deterrent on our main roads. These highwaymen—well, thank the good Lord above that there be less of them now than there used to be. The stories my da used to tell me! But never mind that. I was telling you about the George, weren’t I? Did you know it was Lord Burghley who first established it? That’s why his coat of arms is above the main door. And its cocking pit was considered the finest in the world. Not that I hold with cocking; seems a waste of a good bird if you ask me.”

  Mr. Glossop continued sharing his opinions freely, a state perhaps not wholly unconnected to the amount of alcohol he imbibed. While Thomas sipped his liquid refreshment, Mr. Glossop continued offering his views concerning comparison of the current establishment with that of the George, remarking upon its cleanliness, the apparent experience of the ostlers, and expressing his mistrust that young Hale would enjoy as comfortable sleep as he had in recent nights.

  After his hasty consumption of a mutton pie he pronounced tolerable, and a pint of ale he said was flat, Mr. Glossop hefted to his feet. “Well, and I do hope your leg improves soon, sir. And I must say it’s been a pleasure to have driven you here. Well, all the best, young Hale.”