The Making of Mrs. Hale

by Carolyn Miller

  It wasn’t always possible. Indeed, he and McKinley had once experienced an incident that had severely tested what little sense of honor Thomas knew himself to possess.

  Fallbright had requested them to attend a private meeting with himself and the Resident of Poona, Montstuart Elphinstone. Elphinstone’s fellow Scot, McKinley, had quickly ingratiated himself, and it was only after several glasses of whiskey that he finally learned their mission.

  Elphinstone, caught between representing British interests and those of Indian rights, had sought to end the bloodshed between raiding parties by a group called the Pindari, a guerrilla-type group of marauding native horsemen, made up of dispossessed villagers and disgruntled former soldiers, who sought to bring terror and torture to villages in an attempt to provide for themselves. Fallbright had endorsed both McKinley and Thomas to track these men and preserve Poona from attack “by whatever means necessary.”

  Thomas had raised his brows, yet had remained quiet. A soldier was bound as much by the code of honor as he was by rules and regulations. Officers might use their private judgment as to obeying orders, but would need strong evidence to disobey illegal orders, as was outlined in the Articles of War.

  The next two months had proved a trying time, as he and McKinley tracked those responsible for atrocities worse than anything a rampaging haathi might create. He had been forced to flog two soldiers who had killed a Pindari chief and then cut off his hands, in the gruesome ancient punishment for thieves.

  He’d heard later that McKinley had approved the barbaric punishment, but he’d never believed it. As personal circumstances by that stage had demanded his return home, his decision to resign his commission and return to England had put such matters far from his mind, until he had, most fortuitously, encountered McKinley one day last year at the Black Harp in Edinburgh.

  “I thought you were from Dunbartonshire,” Thomas had said, shaking his hand.

  “And I thought you were from much farther south than that,” McKinley had countered with a smile, their Indian experiences relived over several drams and shared laughter, laughter that seemed so far away now.

  Thomas frowned, the action seeming to cause the middle-aged lady sitting opposite to startle and look away. What had caused McKinley to lie to him? Had the fog of his post-escape exhaustion caused Thomas to somehow misunderstand?

  He drew in a breath, glancing at the pocket-watch he’d been touched to see Julia had salvaged from the mess of their Edinburgh life. He would get answers. One way or another. To both this mystery with McKinley, and that which surrounded the relatives of Julia’s claimed child.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “AND JULIA, HOW are you feeling these days?”

  Julia smiled at Catherine, hiding her surprise at her sister-in-law’s perspicacity. “Quite well, thank you.” Well, she would be if she didn’t feel a degree of nausea all the time. She must have caught a form of the cold that seemed to be stalking so many Londoners, the chilly mid-November temperatures conducive to racking coughs and the casting up of one’s accounts. But she would not admit to such things, else Mother might insist she stay at home, and the past few days had dragged so slowly she felt like she might scream if she did not escape the house.

  “And have you heard from my son?” Mother asked. “He does not write as often as he used to.”

  Catherine blushed, but met Mother’s gaze evenly. “A letter arrived from Jon this morning. His dealings with the manufactories in Manchester seem to have gone well, and he plans to visit Lord Carmichael’s family in the next few days, then return for Christmas.”

  “I’m sure Henry will appreciate Jon’s visit,” Julia said. “It must be such a difficult time for them all.”

  Catherine nodded. “I am glad that Henry and Serena were able to return when they did. Serena’s recent letter suggested it might only be a matter of days until Lord Bevington … is no more.”

  Julia dropped her gaze. Was she feeling overly defensive, or did that sound like Catherine blamed her for their delay in returning north?

  When next she ventured to look up, the warmth lighting Catherine’s eyes soothed away some of the sting. No, perhaps this illness was making her a trifle sensitive. She should not be so quick to believe that everyone was against her.

  “That poor family,” Mother said with a sigh. “I cannot imagine what it must be to lose your husband in such a sad way.”

  Cynical laughter spurted, forcing Julia to swallow her chuckles with an effort, an effort rendered all the more challenging as she met the amusement in Catherine’s eyes. No, Mother had never lost any of her three husbands to lingering illness and malaise of the mind. Instead, while the sudden death of Julia’s father had proved a great shock and had indeed induced great sadness, from the way Mother had always talked, the demise of her first and third husbands had been met with something Julia suspected was rather more like relief.

  Her cough to hide her amusement triggered a wretched wrenching from within. She pressed fingers to her mouth and willed the nausea away.

  “Julia? Are you quite well?”

  “Forgive me. I feel a little out of sorts.” She drew in a deep breath. Attempted a smile. “There. I’m better.” To turn attention away from herself, she said to Catherine, “It must be strange to consider your sister will one day be a countess.”

  “Julia!” Mother said in agonized tones. “One should not speak in such a vulgar manner.”

  “I can hardly think it vulgar to acknowledge what must be. Henry is the heir to his father, and as Serena is his wife it is only natural—”

  “Thank you, Julia. I am well aware of the rules of primogeniture.”

  Catherine said, in a manner not unamused, “I suspect Serena will always care more for her paints than for those responsibilities attached to a grand title.” Her brow clouded. “I’m sure both she and Henry believed they would have more time before the assumption of such duties would be theirs. But she is not the first young lady I’ve known who has stepped into a social sphere they had not always known.”

  “You refer to Lady Hawkesbury?”

  “I do. And although Lavinia has confessed that at times she finds certain social mores a trifle challenging, I don’t believe for a second her husband regrets asking her to be his wife, even if she can be a little unorthodox in some of her ways.”

  Like taking an interest in the development of parish schools, and writing letters that were published in The Times purporting the same. Julia had seen such things printed in the newspapers. It was certainly not the conduct of most countesses.

  “I suppose in light of writing letters to newspapers Serena’s painting can be considered quite tame.”

  Catherine bit her lip, and exchanged a considered look with Mother.

  Julia frowned. What did they know? What did she not?

  “I forget sometimes that you were not privy to all that happened earlier this year,” Catherine said. “Serena’s painting of Henry caused something of a scandal at the Royal Academy exhibition.”

  “She had her painting exhibited at the Royal Academy? How wonderful!”

  “It was a great honor.” Again, that hesitation.

  “And it was a most marvelous picture,” Mother concurred. “Henry looked like he could step from the canvas he seemed so real.”

  Julia’s mind whirred. “But that would mean she painted him before they were married.”

  “Yes. You can see now perhaps that such a thing was not met with universal approbation, especially among those of ill-nature and low minds. But I can assure you there was no hint of impropriety. Serena only ever painted him in this very house, and always in the company of others, so there was no basis for speculation. But I’m afraid some people will always rejoice in evil gossip at the expense of the innocent.”

  “Of course.” Somehow the news of the fair Serena’s scandal made Julia’s own trials seem a little less dramatic, although she was sure that running away to Gretna Green to be married would always labe
l her as one quite beyond the pale. “It is sad that people seem to prefer to focus more on impropriety than on someone’s meritorious deeds.”

  “Impropriety.” Mother sniffed, and sent another look to the ceiling. “When I think of all that I did for you, young lady, the fact that you could have married into nobility, just like Serena and Catherine did, and instead, you squandered your future by settling for a fellow—” She drew in a ragged breath. “But no. I refuse to talk about him. Even if he is a scapegrace—”

  “Lady Harkness!” Catherine’s voice came louder than Julia had ever heard before. She chased it with a smile. “Forgive me, but I cannot help but think such musings are better left unsaid. I’m of the opinion that it would be in everyone’s best interests if we were to offer our support, not our censure, so that Julia and Thomas may know there will always be an open door for them with us. Surely we would not wish for them to feel as though they must flee, simply because we persist in wallowing in what cannot be changed, rather than focusing on the joy of their reunion. I’m persuaded you would not want them to feel as though your dislike must force their departure.”

  “But I do not dislike Julia,” Mother complained.

  Well, that was something at least.

  “But can you not see that your continued criticisms concerning Thomas puts Julia in a very difficult position?” Catherine persisted. “How can she be expected to feel your love if all she hears is your disdain for the man she has chosen as her husband?”

  Mother looked at her daughter-in-law with an expression that mingled guilt and surprise.

  “I am sorry, but I truly think such things must be said.” Then Catherine added, in a softer voice, “I have known what it is to hold onto bitterness and resentment; it is not something I wish for anyone I care about to dwell with. Unforgiveness is a poison that shrivels the heart. It means a person cannot truly live in the present as they’re always thinking about the past.”

  Julia studied her unexpectedly passionate sister-in-law as the words rang around her heart, echoing with truth. How many times had she felt exactly that when she allowed anger and resentment to reside within, at the expense of joy and hope? Was this the reason Catherine so often seemed at peace?

  Catherine drew in a breath, exhaled, smiled. “Now, I wonder if you had seen little Elizabeth’s newest talent. I will have the nurse collect her so you can see just how clever she is.”

  Julia breathed a sigh of relief as Mother, now happily distracted, directed her full attention to Catherine. Julia shot her sister-in-law a look of heartfelt appreciation, which was met with a quick smile.

  Perhaps in Catherine she had truly found an ally at last.

  Edinburgh

  Tracking the Pindari had proved child’s play compared to this. Thomas stared at the mound of earth, which the kirk session clerk had assured was the final resting place for one Margaret McConnell and her husband, Charles. Investigation had elicited nothing more. No relatives. Nobody from either family who had attended either burial. It was all so very sad, so very hopeless, so very final.

  The sight fueled determination that he would not permit the estrangements of the past to remain so. That on his return south he might even pay a visit to his father, and see if he could swallow his insults, and perhaps forgive the man for his misdeeds against his family. Poor Meggie’s demise and complete lack of wider relations had also loosened the lump within his chest that had been there ever since Julia had first admitted the child was not his own. Knowing that little Charlie was in fact nobody’s—save, perhaps, Julia’s—he felt a measure of hope that one day, when he finally untangled this knot of responsibility and obligation, little Charles might regard them as his parents. A future filled with assurance and hope, a family such as he had never known. But that could not happen until he found McKinley, reclaimed his money, and found a house where he and Julia could live.

  An hour later he was back at the dingy flat, exchanging words with Henderson, which swiftly put him in possession of the few remaining articles he cared about. Another chat with Becky, to clarify what exactly she recalled about Julia’s report of McKinley’s visit, and then he was back at the Black Harp, exchanging greetings with the publican, perusing the crowd as he waited for a head to appear.

  There. McKinley strode through the room as if he owned the building, his smiles and shallow charm just as Thomas recalled. He moved into the man’s line of sight, pleased at the look of shock McKinley gave as he recognized him, a look he quickly masked. “Hale! Well, I did not expect to see you again so soon. I thought you had returned to London.”

  “Really?” Why had he thought that? Had he been watching him? Thomas fought to keep his expression neutral. “I would not think my movements warranted much interest.”

  McKinley laughed, a grating sound. “Your movements usually don’t. But when a fellow officer comes in looking a little worse for wear—you don’t mind me saying such things, do you?—then I cannot help but take an interest in his welfare.”

  “I appreciate your interest,” Thomas said, with heavy irony. “I gather that was your ten pounds I found in my coat pocket?”

  Another burst of guttural—guilt-laden?—laughter. “Oh, just a small token.”

  “Was it? Or was it something of the fifty I gave you to give to my wife?”

  McKinley’s eyes flashed. “I thought I had cleared up this misapprehension of yours last time. I gave her the money—”

  “You did not.”

  McKinley drew himself up. “I assure you I did so.”

  Thomas sensed that the bandying of words would not stop for some time, so sought another method of attack. “Tell me, have you ever heard from anyone from our India days? For instance, Colonel Fallbright?”

  The flicker in his eyes, the slight slackening of his mouth, gave evidence to something quite different from his muttered denial.

  Thomas’s mind spun furiously. What did Fallbright and McKinley have against him? Was such a leap in conclusions a leap too far? Or was there something very sinister at work here? Unease rippled through his gut.

  “That is strange,” Thomas eventually said. “I was speaking to him not more than a fortnight ago.”

  “Were you?” McKinley looked around, signaling a man to draw near.

  “Mr. McKinley, is this man bothering you?” The man, possessing a sallow complexion and a wide girth, eyed Thomas like he might a rabid stoat.

  “I believe this man is just leaving.”

  “No,” Thomas said, leaning back in his chair. “This man is not. Not until he is given the remaining forty pounds he is owed.” He watched McKinley’s face carefully, but when the man adopted a similar pose of hauteur, felt a disconcerting niggle that perhaps the direct approach had been overly direct.

  “Then I’m afraid you are doomed for disappointment. I cannot give what is not yours.”

  “What is not mine? You are a liar, sir!”

  McKinley’s eyes narrowed, as he said softly, “Are you certain of that?”

  That sense of internal alarm grew more clamorous. “Can you deny I gave you money for Julia?”

  “I deny nothing.” He lifted his hands in a sign of complaisance.

  “Except that.”

  McKinley looked up at the man still watching them, a frown upon his swarthy face. “Bucknell, do I seem the type of man to want to bring division between a man and his wife?”

  “No indeed, sir.”

  “You must allow that I find such accusations … challenging, to say the least.” His attention returned to Thomas. “I cannot give you what you ask—”

  “Will not, you mean.”

  “Cannot,” McKinley corrected in that too-soft voice, so at odds with his hard countenance, “but I may find it in my heart to make you a small loan, say, in the vicinity of another ten pounds.”

  His chest grew hot as magma. He flexed his fingers. Counted to ten. Then said in his own soft voice, “I will not be silenced by your bribes.”

  The hand extending m
oney to him withdrew. “I do not understand why you feel so strongly about this, Major Hale,” McKinley complained. “Bucknell, here, can see I am only trying to help—”

  “You are trying something, all right, but it certainly isn’t help. What is your scheme, I wonder?”

  “Me? I have no ‘scheme’ as you so delicately put it. I like to consider myself as a fair, generous-minded individual, but I’m afraid your accusations are sorely trying my patience.”

  “As your denials are trying mine.”

  Thomas eyed him, but the smug look in the other man’s eyes was like a shield, not permitting the smallest chink of doubt. Yet Thomas knew he was hiding something. Or was he starting to lose his mind? He had given McKinley the money. Hadn’t he?

  As if conscious of Thomas’s doubts, a queer smile stole across the other man’s face. “I feel it only fair to tell you, Hale, that I do not like to be accused of being a liar.”

  “I am not the only one who knows you did not give Julia what you said you did.”

  “No?” An eyebrow lifted. “You interest me.”

  Should he say something about Becky’s information? Perhaps he should keep her name out of things. He sensed McKinley might take exception to another person’s contradiction of his claims, poor widow though she may be.

  McKinley leaned forward. “Forgive me, I am a busy man. Is there anything else you wish to say?”

  It was like talking to a brick wall. The desperation intensified. Should he challenge the man to a fight? Search his pockets for cash? What should he do?