The Making of Mrs. Hale

by Carolyn Miller

  Thomas swallowed the revulsion. “Why kill us now?”

  “I hear you cost too much food.”

  He almost laughed. Their rations were meager to say the least, a mere fraction of what he’d had to exist on in his most trying days in wartime India. “I need to get the others.”

  Her fingers pinched his shirt. “Let them die. You must live.” She placed a hand on her stomach. “For you know why?”

  Dear God, no. He pushed her against the wall. “Tell me you are not pregnant,” he whispered close to her ear.

  “You wish for me to lie?”

  Bitterness filled his mouth. He would never forgive himself. If, by some miracle, he did return to Julia, he could never look her in the eyes again. And if she ever found out … he might as well be dead. “How can I know it’s mine?”

  She made a pretense of looking hurt, but he’d seen the way she acted, looking for whatever attention she could get, wherever she could get it. “You cannot know it isn’t.”

  He groaned, the sound louder than he wanted. “I wish I had never met you.”

  “But you did, and you made the most of it.” Her smile grew seductive. “We had a good time, did we not, señor?”

  He shook his head. “I need to get the others.”

  She pouted. “But I do not want them to leave. I only help you.”

  “It’s all of us, or none.”

  “But you are my child’s papa! They are nothing to me.”

  He ignored her, moving rapidly along the corridor back to the cell. If he did die, maybe that would solve all his mistakes. Remorse panged. If only it would not leave poor Julia forever wondering what had happened to him. Surely she must have given up on him by now.

  He bent to shake his cell mates awake. “Get up,” he whispered. He shook Benson harder. “They’re going to kill us.”

  “Leave me alone,” the man mumbled, rolling onto his other side. “I want to die.”

  “No, you don’t.” Thomas gritted his teeth as Benson ignored him, and then turned his attention to his other comrades. “Get up,” he whispered urgently to the young redheaded lieutenant. “We can escape.”

  Harrow opened his eyes. “Is this a dream?”

  “It’s no dream,” Thomas assured him. “We can leave right now.”

  “You’ve said that before.”

  So he had. There’d been lashes and reduced rations for weeks following the previous escape attempt. “We must escape, else we shall surely perish.”

  Mumbling a protest, Harrow stumbled to the door. Thomas clutched Benson by his arm, pulling, dragging him out into the passageway before returning for Smith, whom he hauled back to the exit. He had to hurry. Any second now the guards would be up. When he returned, there was no sign of Magdalena. And the door was closed, locked.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Have you brought us here to die?”

  Heart sinking, Thomas shook the iron bars but they refused to give. Then he noticed the key, inserted in the outside of the lock as if an angel had placed it there. Letting Smith slide ignominiously to the floor, he reached his arm through the iron bars and managed to grasp it, for once thankful for their pitiful rations that made his arm half the diameter he once could boast.

  He heard the key catch as it twisted, then move no farther. “No.” Daylight seeped beyond. Somewhere outside a rooster crowed, as if warning their captors. Their need to escape magnified. He jerked the key, working to unlock the door. “Just open!” A curse fell from his mouth, followed by a prayer borne of desperation. “Dear God, have mercy!”

  Behind them, he could hear the sounds of waking, the tromp of feet upstairs. He wriggled at the lock again. This time there was a plink as the catches loosed their grip and the door opened with a hissing screech. “Come on!”

  The passageway continued a short distance before another—thankfully unlocked—door led to early dawn and outside. The dusty courtyard was dim, barren save for a few scratching chickens and the crowing rooster. Half dragging Smith, they made their way to a low stone wall beside a scraggly pine. It provided limited protection from observation, but gave them precious seconds to regroup, for Thomas to reiterate the plan he’d imagined a hundred times but never dared dream might actually come to pass.

  A shout came from inside. Benson swore. “The guards!”

  Smith sagged, his bristled face paling.

  “We must get to the harbor,” Thomas urged. “Come on.”

  Pulling Smith’s arms over their shoulders, he and Harrow half carried, half tugged Smith past a series of stone buildings, down towards where the tang of sea carried on the chilly breeze. Thank God his memory had not failed him, that the months of incarceration had not made him forget his bearings completely. Thank God the early hour meant few were stirring. He did not think the town’s inhabitants would prove sympathetic to English runaways.

  “Señor!”

  His gaze jerked to the left. The jailer’s daughter, Magdalena, gestured inside a barnlike building.

  From behind, Benson uttered a mild oath. “Is that—?”

  “Yes.” Thomas turned to follow her, but Benson grabbed his free arm, and he lost his hold on Smith, who slipped from Harrow’s grasp and collapsed on the ground with a thud.

  “I don’t trust her,” Benson muttered.

  The sound of shouts and running feet spurred Thomas to action. He plucked Smith from the ground and pushed past Benson to the door. “I don’t think we have a choice.”

  Apparently the others agreed, as they followed him inside the dim room.

  “Señor! I thought you would never come!” She eyed the others and made a dismissive sound, before pointing to Smith. “That one too sick. He never make it.”

  “We should leave him,” Benson agreed.

  “No,” Thomas said. “He’s coming with us.”

  Benson eyed him askance. “It’s a trap. It has to be.”

  “If it’s a trap, I don’t care,” said Harrow. “I’d rather die fighting to escape than give up in there.” He jerked a thumb back in the direction of the prison.

  “But why is she helping us?” Benson’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t understand.”

  Magdalena placed a hand on her belly. “It’s the babe—”

  “We don’t have time for questions,” Thomas interrupted. Heaven prevent them from knowing. Although he suspected his nocturnal visit had not gone unnoticed. God forgive me! Guilt twisted his insides. “Benson, you’re welcome to make your own way to England or we can trust Magdalena here. Seeing as she unlocked the cell door, I’d rather take my chances with her.”

  Harrow eyed Thomas but said nothing, only gave a nod. Smith could say nothing; he seemed barely conscious. Thomas turned from the hesitation filling Benson’s pock-marked face toward the jailer’s daughter. Her eyes were big with fear.

  “The soldiers will be looking for you. Here.” She thrust a hessian sack at Thomas. He pulled out a collection of old clothes. They were enough to replace the tattered garments of one man.

  “What good is this?” Benson swore. “So, you’ll be all right, but the rest of us—”

  He ceased talking as the tramp of feet came nearer. Magdalena hurried to relock the door as they scrambled behind large crates. The door rattled, Thomas’s heart pounded, even as he flung clothes at Benson, Harrow, and Smith: a rough cotton shirt, a pair of nankeen trousers, a dark blue coat. Each could wear but one piece. Would it be enough to allay suspicion? For himself he removed the bloodstained tatters of his shirt for the remaining piece—a tunic miles too big for him, but at least it did not shout the owner was an escapee from prison.

  Magdalena drew near, and in a broken whisper murmured of a beach, a fishing boat, a town closer to the port of Aviles. “Now go.”

  “Gracias.”

  Tears filled her eyes, and she leaned in as if to kiss him. He turned at the last moment, seeing Benson’s look of disgust, the disapprobation of Harrow, as her lips met his bearded cheek.

  He could not
argue with them. His actions were as shameful as they plainly believed. Only now it seemed his actions were the ones responsible for their being free. Or almost free, at least.

  Actions that meant perhaps, one day, should the gods smile upon them, he might be free to see his beloved Julia again. If she ever deigned to see him.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “AND THAT IS what happened.”

  Two pairs of eyes stared at her, one pair hazel-green, one blue, Lord Carmichael’s now shaded—predictably—by anger. “You mean to say he abandoned you?”

  Her eyes filled, as they did every time she thought on him. Which was why she tried not to think on him any more than was absolutely necessary. She glanced down, working to check her emotions as the couple continued to converse in hushed tones.

  “Henry, please. You are distressing her.”

  “Serena, we need to know the truth,” he murmured. “How else can we help if we don’t know all the essentials?”

  Julia swallowed, lifting her head to encounter their concern. She pushed her lips up. “I appreciate your consideration, but really, there is nothing more to say. All I know is that one day he left in the morning and didn’t return. I do not know why. If I did perhaps I wouldn’t be here. But there seems to be only two possibilities.” And either one was anathema to her.

  Serena’s eyes shifted to the infant in Julia’s arms. “And he left you with a little baby.”

  God forgive her. “It is true that I would not have Charles were it not for my husband,” she said in a low voice, not meeting their eyes. For if she had not gone north she would not have met—

  “I imagine he gets his wonderful hair from your mother,” Serena said, interrupting Julia’s inner self-justification. She gave an unsettling, piercing look at the babe, before her face resumed its usual coolness.

  Henry turned to his wife with a small smile. “I don’t believe that can be quite right, my love. I’m sure young Charles did not inherit his hair color from Lady Harkness. I imagine she was far away when that particular event occurred.”

  Julia’s lips twitched despite herself. Her brother’s best friend’s sense of the absurd had always managed to soothe her own inclination to worry. A glance at Serena suggested she found it likewise, the aloof features warming with a flash of amusement, before tranquility returned.

  “Please forgive my husband, Julia. His propensity for levity can outweigh his sense of what is appropriate.”

  Julia managed an uneven smile. “I can scarcely be considered a judge of propriety.”

  “None of us follow society’s expectations all the time, that is true.” Serena exchanged another private look with her husband.

  Uncertainty twisted within. Did Serena mean that in opening their house to Julia that they had flouted social conventions? Did she regret it? “I hope you know how very sorry I am for imposing upon you. I truly do not wish to be a burden—”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Henry is right,” Serena said. “You cannot know how relieved we all are to see you.”

  “We are so glad to have you here, safe at last.” Henry’s look of good humor faded as his eyes sparked. “I cannot think of that blackguard—”

  “Henry,” his wife said reprovingly, taking his hand once more.

  “My love.” He lifted her hand to his lips, exchanging a look with her that made Julia glance elsewhere, her heart writhing in remembrance of when Thomas had done so with her. Back when she thought he loved her. Back before she realized he never had …

  A cleared throat drew her attention back to Lord Carmichael. “Forgive me, Julia. It seems I must submit to my wife’s superior judgment on such matters.”

  “But of course.” Julia glanced at Serena, heartened by the return of the smile now tweaking her lips. Whatever it was that had bothered her seemed to have gone. “A husband should always bow to a wife of superior understanding, should he not?”

  “A wise man would,” she murmured.

  Henry grinned at Julia. “My wife is most fortunate to have married a man of great discernment.”

  “And such a modest man, too,” Serena said, to his crack of laughter.

  Had she simply imagined that earlier moment of strain? It would not be the first time she had misread a relationship. Julia bit her lip, remembering occasions when she had tried to hide marital disharmony behind a façade of good cheer. Why had she never recognized the cracks between them before they splintered into fissures so wide her husband thought his only option was to leave?

  “Please know you are welcome for your own sake as well as Jon’s,” Serena continued, her look giving a greater measure of reassurance that Julia’s presence was not wholly unwanted.

  “That’s right,” Henry said with a nod. “I cannot imagine the old man ever forgiving me should we not insist on you staying until their return.”

  A small smile crept onto her face as she remembered times of banter between her brother and his friend, younger by one day. “I would not wish to be the cause of any dissension.”

  “I’m glad you can appreciate my predicament. You must know, Julia, that I live in daily fear of incurring your brother’s wrath, so I beg you will not think it necessary to depart until his return.”

  Her smile grew tremulous, as she recognized the kindness behind his teasing banter.

  “You have been greatly missed,” Serena said softly.

  The words forced her head down again. That her brother and mother would be glad to see her again she did not question. But whether that translated to forgiveness …

  “They will be extremely happy to see you,” Serena said, thus forging a fresh ball of emotion in her chest.

  “I hope so,” Julia managed to whisper. “I fear I have disappointed them so much.”

  “They will be very relieved,” Henry agreed. “So please, do not worry.”

  She chewed the inside of her bottom lip. Telling someone to not worry was as futile as telling a baby to not cry. Over the past year, worry had become her normal companion; she did not know how to live with peace. Even now, surrounded by luxury, surrounded by assurance and kindness, tension snarled her chest. For so long she had needed to survive by relying on her own wits, her own efforts, that to be blithely told not to worry felt irresponsible, almost like being told to give up. She could not do it. She would not do it, not until everything was settled, finally. And how could that ever happen while her husband remained missing?

  The Bay of Biscay

  Four days later

  The ship tipped and swayed, the roar of water, of tossing seas, filling his ears. A barrel dislodged, slamming into his shoulder with such force he had to bite back a curse. Thomas had never imagined his death at sea, had not realized just how rough the passage could be. Neither had he realized just how long the trip could take. Or just how sick Harrow and Smith would be.

  Another lurching wave sent his stomach spiraling to the floor. One good thing about their escape: the lack of food meant there was less risk of casting up their accounts and soiling their flimsy disguises. Although how much longer they could go without food …

  Rubbing at his throbbing shoulder, he forced himself to refocus on the grumbling men beside him, their position in the ship’s hold deep enough to escape detection. So far.

  As if noticing Thomas’s renewed attention, Benson fixed him with a piercing eye. “I still don’t understand why we must do this.”

  Thomas said nothing; he’d explained enough times as it was.

  “You said we were going to England!”

  “And now we must go by way of France.” Benson’s near nonstop complaining grated away at whatever patience he could lay claim to. Some days he wished the man had chosen to fix his own course home. “Beggars cannot be choosers, especially when they are stowing away.”

  “But, but—”

  “Oh, stubble it, Benson,” Harrow snapped. “D’you want everyone to hear you?”

  Thomas nodded to Harrow, his heart paining with pity. Well he understoo
d the desire to go home; Harrow had a wife and two children to return to. They were probably as desperate to see him as he was to see them. What would that be like? Did Julia long to see him as he did her? Hope flickered. Sputtered. Probably not.

  The scent of brine filled his nostrils. He drew up his knees, splayed his hands across his legs, seeking to give poor Smith a little more room. Poor cove. Some days he’d questioned whether it would have been best for the lad to be left behind; certainly, sailing under such conditions had not helped his health any. He shook his head. None of their escapades had.

  After fleeing the garrison town, they had found the beach with its waiting fishing vessel and just managed to evade capture from the indignant owner and his sons, only recently returned after their night of industry. Thankful for the breeze, and for Benson’s prior boating experience in Dorset, they had somehow managed to find the port that Magdalena had spoken of. Hiding for a few days until he heard of a cargo-laden merchant ship heading to France, they had survived on a few scraps of fish, the wisdom of which he questioned as soon as Harrow started clutching his middle and retching. Turned out there was a good reason why that fish was discarded. He shook his head again. Would he ever stop making mistakes?

  Another barrel rolled across the deck, slamming into the side with a mighty crack. His neck prickled. That had been close. Beside him, Smith mumbled prayers for divine protection. How ridiculous it seemed for a major to be stuck like a rat in a trap, stuck aboard a floating disaster. He would ask God to protect them but he feared he’d used up all his prayers. Besides, it was unlikely God would want to answer his prayers anyway. After all—an echo from long ago whispered—didn’t God hate sinners? He wasn’t good enough for God to pay attention to. Truth be told, he’d never been good enough, not even in his most triumphant moment of victory in India. Perhaps if he was like Jonathan Carlew then God might deign to listen, but Thomas knew his past was filled with too much sin.

  A parade of his misdemeanors passed through his mind. The times he’d skirted round the truth. The women. The lies he’d lived, the men he’d killed. His majority hadn’t been paid for; he’d earned it the hard way, laboring long days under an Indian sun. It was a miracle Jon Carlew had ever considered him much of a friend; they were as unlike in character as chalk from cheese. Not that he had repaid Carlew much in the way of friendship, running off as he had with his sister …