The Making of Mrs. Hale

by Carolyn Miller

  As if sensing her agitation, little Charles, until that moment blissfully asleep, opened his eyes, and stared at Thomas, his gaze every bit as dark as Thomas’s own. The little boy blinked, then screwed up his face in a howl of protest.

  Julia’s efforts to shush him became increasingly frantic, her pats on the boy’s back seemingly more forceful than soothing. Thomas drew near, and once again she stepped back. “I won’t let you take him! I won’t let you—”

  He reached out and grasped the boy, saying with a firm voice, “Charles, stop that now.”

  The baby startled, glancing up at him as if to question who this stranger was who dared raise his voice to him. For a moment, the dark eyes seemed to penetrate his, eliciting a tender tug deep within. Before commencing to cry all the harder.

  “I don’t think we will solve this … dilemma this afternoon,” Jon said. “Perhaps when we are all not so tired we might be able to find a solution.”

  “There is no solution,” Julia said, “except that little Charles lives with me.”

  This was said with a raised chin that Thomas knew from past experience never boded well for her opponent. However, the lack of sleep from last night, combined with the ache now thumping behind his eyes, brooked no further opposition. “Julia, I only want what is best for you, for us, for our marriage. Please believe me.”

  Her glare softened, her shoulders slumping as if the battle had drained her, and she made no protest when the door opened and a middle-aged slouch-shouldered woman walked in and plucked the child from his arms, murmuring something about getting Master Charles back to bed upstairs, all the while shooting him a most interested gaze.

  Jon released an audible breath when the door closed behind her, before saying wearily, “Now I suppose we must give attention to what happens next.”

  Thomas felt his every fiber stand to attention. What would happen next? God help him, he barely knew.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Ten days later

  JULIA LIFTED HER eyes from the silent dinner table. Tonight’s dining companion: her mother, whose arctic glare since Thomas’s arrival last week, punctuated by snapped remarks and icy directives, left Julia in no doubt as to her feelings on the matters that had arisen since that fateful afternoon.

  For herself, Julia could hardly understand such matters, either. One moment, Jon had been vehement in his disdain for Thomas; the next, he had invited him to stay at his house in Berkeley Square, as though they had never been separated by such things as, oh, Thomas running away to Gretna Green with her!

  She lowered her gaze as resentment rankled inside. Yes, she might be behaving like a child, but it was not fair. Why had Thomas been invited to stay with Jon, when she was still stuck here with Mother’s icy disdain? Especially when Julia had been the one first invited to spend time with Jon and Catherine at their London residence. Granted, Thomas had stayed only long enough to recuperate before heading north to Scotland yet again, but still … It did not seem fair.

  When Mother had learned of Jon’s intention she had said some very hard words, but Jon had simply replied that he could not in good conscience leave his injured brother-in-law to fend for himself, not when he had family and friends with the means to support him. Thomas had protested, murmured something about going to an inn, but Jon insisted, even in the teeth of Mother’s very vocal opposition. Since then, the house had been very quiet, as if Mother had used up all her words in anger and had nothing left.

  Julia forced herself to swallow a piece of venison. The taste, the texture, made her stomach lurch. Her husband continued to evoke mixed feelings. Apart from resentment that he could leave and she had to stay, there was the residue of confusion induced by that afternoon’s—upon reflection, somewhat embarrassing—outburst in the study. She still could not quite rationalize her panic concerning Thomas’s questions about Charles. Only that it seemed so wrong to have the one constant of the recent months suddenly ripped away, as if his destiny held no more consequence than hers did. Little Charles was an innocent and, as such, should be protected from life’s cares and turmoil for as long as possible.

  “Well?”

  Julia glanced up to meet her mother’s eyes. “I beg your pardon, Mother. Did you say something?”

  Her mother sniffed. “I suppose you are thinking on that fool husband of yours.”

  Well, at least Mother now acknowledged him as her husband. She bit back a wry smile. As per usual, Jon only had to say something was so, and Mother would eventually follow, albeit with bad grace. “I am

  … hopeful he will return soon.”

  “Don’t expect me to ever welcome him with open arms.”

  “I have no expectation of the sort.”

  “Hmph.”

  That sounded like tacit acceptance at least, a thought Julia hugged to herself.

  “And I do not want to talk about him. He is persona non grata to me. I hope you understand.”

  “Yes, Mother.” Yet for a person she found unworthy of consideration, Mother seemed to be doing a great deal of talking about him. She kept that thought behind her teeth also.

  “The only reason I shall not press for legal action against him is for the sake of that dear sweet boy. I would not wish to have it on my conscience that I was responsible for sending his father to the gallows, even though that is where he belongs.”

  Guilt chased the earlier amusement away. Jon had counseled Thomas and Julia not to reveal Charlie’s true parentage just yet, not until Thomas had time to further investigate Meggie’s wider family.

  Another reason her feelings remained ambivalent. How could she know that Thomas would prove trustworthy in his search? Doubt whispered that he would seek answers to benefit himself. And if he did find Charles’s family, how could she give up her one source of comfort these past months? At least by taking care of him, she had felt she was taking positive steps to her future, and not feeling like she was being dragged along by the whims and notions of everyone else.

  Julia forced herself to cut another piece of venison, to chew it slowly, so she need not be obliged to engage in conversation as her thoughts and worries churned on. If Meggie had spoken truly—and why would she lie?—and little Charles had no further family, then how would she ever explain the true nature of his birth to Mother? To Catherine? To Lord and Lady Carmichael?

  The fork slipped from her fingers, echoing with a loud clatter on the china plate.

  Mother’s head swiveled up, her eyes, not completely without concern, watching Julia curiously.

  Julia forced her facial movements to approximate a look of nonchalance, as she picked up her fork and resumed eating.

  Dear God, what a tangle of deception she had woven with her lie. What would they all say when they learned the truth? She could only hope they would be as understanding—well, perhaps understanding was the wrong word, forgiving perhaps might suit better—as Jon and Thomas had proved.

  She thought back to that moment when Thomas had plucked Charlie from her arms, and then caressed him with a tenderness she had not expected to see. Another reason her feelings remained conflicted. Sometimes she barely recognized the man she’d married.

  The servants returned to clear the remnants of dishes, but even after they left Mother still refused to leave. Julia glanced at her, waiting.

  “I wonder if they have arrived yet.”

  “Jon’s letter suggested that they should have arrived by now.”

  Jon’s business affairs had necessitated his venturing north, to Manchester at least, and he had agreed to take Thomas for part of the way on his journey to Scotland.

  She had begged Thomas not to leave: “You have only just returned! I want us to be together.”

  “I want that, too,” he had whispered. “But until certain matters are resolved, I fear that will prove an impossibility.”

  “Because Mother will not have you in the house?”

  He sighed. “I must speak with McKinley about the missing money.”

  “I
don’t care about the money! I just want to be with you. Please stay,” she’d begged.

  “But I must find out what happened.”

  “Why? I’m sure Mother and Jon will be happy to release my dowry. Well, Jon might be—”

  “No. I do not want to be dependent on such a thing.”

  “But why not?”

  “Because I am your husband, and I want to provide for my wife as I ought, and not let her depend on her family.”

  “Oh, but—”

  “And if I am absent for a little while longer, then that gives your mother time to grow reconciled to how things are.” He had swiftly kissed her. “Believe me, I would not go if I did not feel such a thing necessary, and I certainly will return as quickly as can be.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  She wanted to believe him—she ached to believe him—but the past haunted the present with memories of his broken word. Coupled with this was the knowledge that it was, in part, her fault that he was returning north again. Guilt nudged her. Perhaps she had been a trifle hasty in leaving with matters unresolved. Perhaps she should have tried a little harder to find out from Meggie if she had relatives she could turn to. It fell now to her poor husband to finalize the arrangements she should have settled. Such guilt, mingling with fears and trepidation, had contributed to her nearly refusing to kiss him, but she had overcome her hesitancy and touched her lips to his in a manner he found unsatisfactory, judging from his whispered plea for more. But more she could not do with her mother watching them so avidly. The wild and shameless creature from two weeks ago had shrunk back into timidity, and she had forgotten how to be brave.

  Her mother cleared her throat, returning Julia’s thoughts back to the present. “Perhaps tomorrow we should see how Catherine is getting on.”

  Julia murmured agreement, pleased that her mother had thawed enough to once more engage in trivial musings about their friends and her various social acquaintances, many of whom Julia no longer remembered, nor—she suspected from some of Mother’s comments—cared to renew an acquaintance with. Their conversation had been filled with gossip about the latest news: the anniversary of the death of poor Princess Charlotte and her stillborn son. Julia’s eyes pricked, her heart going out again to the widower. Poor man. Never to know his child. Never to hold his beloved wife again. How desperately devastating for them all.

  “Julia? Are you quite well?”

  “Yes, Mother.” Her mother’s narrowed eyes seemed to demand further explanation. “I was thinking about poor Prince Leopold.”

  “Ah, yes. A sad tragedy.”

  As her mother began a discourse on the terrible trial this had proved for the English monarchy, Julia nodded and tried to appear interested, but soon the welter of dark emotions led her thoughts to return hundreds of miles away. Thank God Thomas was still alive, that he still loved her.

  Now all she could do was wait.

  And hope.

  And pray that Thomas would find the answers he needed—and not the ones she feared.

  The mail coach bumped along the pothole-ridden North Road on Thomas’s return to Edinburgh. He clenched his teeth as the carriage dipped alarmingly to one side. A cracked whip signaled a desperate lurch forward, and they were freed to continue again. Outside, the stark hills and barren landscape dusted in snow made him decidedly thankful he was inside for this particular trip north, and not atop in the cheaper seats as his pecuniary difficulties had previously demanded.

  The long drive had provided much fuel for thought, fuel for reminiscing. Jon’s change of heart seemed truly remarkable. His offer to accompany Thomas for the first half of his journey, generosity in paying for the second half, and recommendation of a good solicitor, had reminded Thomas of when they had first met, five years ago, when circumstances had knit their souls almost like brothers.

  The icy landscape faded, the coughs and sniffles of the other passengers receded, replaced by memories of a warm sun and air redolent with exotic spices.

  He’d first met Jon in India, when the upright, serious gentleman with frank manners and keen eyes had stood out among the weak and dissolute, those emaciated by disease or sickened by greed. Jonathan Carlew had been different—honest, tall, and strong—his blond height making him a good head taller than the natives and even most Englishmen. His thoughtfulness stood out also, among a group of men whose dissipated and debauched natures had led many to seek comfort in whatever they may. Thomas himself was not averse to finding strength from a bottle, his bouts at boxing, or gaming—a man needed some form of distraction from the heat and the mounting death toll from dysentery, diphtheria, and typhoid. He had kept lucky, never succumbing to more than just a mild dose, not forced to endure the lingering ravages of the tropical diseases that blighted so many.

  They’d met in Poona, when Carlew was instructed to go to the military station to retrieve a document for the Company. Carlew had seemed the archetypal clerk the East India Company preferred to employ, carrying out the orders of a superior, usually a family member or someone with title and rank. Thomas had never had either; he had to work his way up from the bottom, earning his rank the hard way through discipline and diligence. He’d certainly never expected favors from anyone.

  When the request was made for a military escort for a viscount to see a mine near Ratnagiri, Thomas had been unsurprised to learn the task had been assigned to him. Most things deemed a waste of time by his superior officers fell on his shoulders. Colonel Fallbright had made no secret of his displeasure that Thomas’s recent promotion, a reward for dealing with a mutiny in Calcutta, had also led to secondment to the Poona garrison. There had been whispers Fallbright sought political advancement, and resented those he deemed less worthy as he sought to ingratiate himself with those of greater power.

  It had proved a pleasant change to accompany Carlew and the viscount, Lord Carmichael, one of Carlew’s university friends—the likes of whom Thomas had never before met. The viscount—Harry to his friends—had proved affable and easygoing, ready for a laugh as well as for a round or ten of cards, a man as much a favorite with the ladies as Thomas tended to be. Indeed, in many ways Carmichael seemed as unlikely a friend for Carlew as he himself must appear. But the trio had bonded over shared wry humor, a willingness to enjoy and not merely endure India’s vast treasure trove of new experiences, and an event he’d felt sure would forge a bond to last a lifetime.

  Thomas had led the small caravan of men on horseback to an area whose hills with black bandings had fascinated the viscount. Such things had made more sense when Carlew revealed the Company’s interest in finding minerals that may be of use in manufactories. Thomas hadn’t minded. He was simply glad to be freed from the regimen that governed his days at the barracks, and glad to be with convivial company, and had done his best to appear friendly, not like those English soldiers whose goal seemed to be to strike fear and intimidation.

  Carmichael learned what he wanted, and partway on their return they had come across a group of villagers, children who could not have been more than eight or ten years of age. They’d been struck by Carlew’s height and fairness, and had laughed and giggled and pointed at them all. Carmichael had been all charm and joviality, and Thomas himself had felt an easing in his spirit for the first time in a long time. For once he did not need to worry about responsibility, he could just relax and enjoy.

  It was while they were resting under the shade of an impressively large mango tree, imbibing the beverages Carmichael had thoughtfully brought along, that it happened. A thunder pounding the earth, a crashing through the trees, it had taken him some moments to understand, although the village children seemed to know exactly what it presaged.

  “Haathi! Haathi!” they’d called.

  An elephant. And from his understanding of a smattering of Indian phrases, the startled exclamations of the locals suggested it was “the wild one,” an elephant known to have terrorized the village before, and destroyed a village not five miles
from here. And from their anxious postures, and the way two village elders propped an ancient firearm towards the beast, he knew that it was not something they had any wish to repeat.

  Thomas drew out his musket, brought along for emergencies. Yelled for his companions to retreat. Then he could see the great gray beast crashing through the trees, and, detecting a note of terror in his heart, he raised his Brown Bess and fired.

  The creature hadn’t stopped. As the children’s screams intensified, he reloaded his weapon, prayed a desperate prayer, and shot again. The elephant buckled at the knees, even as its momentum carried it forward. In a moment as profound as it was strange, the giant beast had seemed to know he was the cause for its injury. Its eyes flashing, locking on his, it desperately tried to surge on. Heart in his mouth, he frantically reloaded and pulled the trigger, aiming between its eyes. With a great roar of pain, the gray beast finally crumpled to the ground, dust puffing up as it collapsed not ten yards away. The earth trembled like his knees.

  When Carlew had finally spoken, it was with a fervent “Thank God!” and in subsequent moments Thomas had an overwhelming sense of God’s protection. He’d always prided himself on his speed at reloading, but to do so that quickly had to have been a miracle.

  A few seconds later, he grew conscious of cheering children, of parents clasping their hands together in gratitude, of Carmichael’s vocal appreciation. His chest had glowed with their praise as he tasted the rare experience of being someone others esteemed. He might not have money, or a title, or connections, but he had some skills deemed worthwhile at least.

  The experience had appeared to impress Fallbright, too. He seemed to regard Thomas in a different light after that, perhaps because Carlew and Carmichael had made sure the Company knew of Thomas’s heroics, and Fallbright was loath to appear lacking in appropriate attentions. Fallbright certainly had not been lacking, inviting Thomas to his inner circle of officers whom he had, until now, looked on with neither envy nor dismay. It was during this time he’d come to know Major Joseph McKinley, who, like Thomas, worked in a unit alongside those controlled by the East India Company, something that usually invited a degree of disdain from those British-trained soldiers. But Thomas had worked hard to ensure the natives were accorded a level of respect, and had prided himself on treating others as his father had so rigidly proclaimed from the pulpit: doing unto others as he would have them do to him.