The Making of Mrs. Hale

by Carolyn Miller

  “Oh, I’m sure he will write soon. I imagine these awful floods have made communication difficult also. After all, if one cannot get through on the mail coach …”

  “Of course,” Julia murmured. Perhaps that was it. Perhaps she need not worry all the time. Really, she was growing almost as tiresome as Catherine’s mother, someone whom Mother had whispered had long-earned the crown of Queen Worrywart, and who certainly did not go out of her way to encourage peace—

  Her musings were cut short by the advance of another carriage.

  “Oh dear.”

  “What is it?”

  “Lord Snowstrem.” Catherine sighed. “I really would have preferred not to have met him.”

  This seemed so out of character for the sweet and mild Catherine that Julia couldn’t help but ask why.

  “He is something of a gossip. Poor Serena and Henry learned earlier this year about the unfortunate consequences of his tongue. I would request the driver to take an alternative route, but it is a narrow road, and the ground is so muddied that such a thing would make it too obvious we hoped to avoid him.”

  Within half a minute their carriage was drawing to one side of the path, as another drew nearer, a carriage containing a rather bulbous individual, with eyes every bit as sharp and penetrating as Julia had ever encountered. She shivered.

  The opposite carriage slowed to a standstill. “Ah, dear Lady Winthrop. ’Tis a wonderful thing to encounter a pair of ladies willing to venture outside in such adverse conditions.”

  “It is a little blustery still. Which is why I think it best to not linger—”

  “Oh, but before you go, you simply must introduce me to your charming companion.”

  Julia felt, rather than heard, Catherine’s sigh. “Of course. Lord Snowstrem, may I present Mrs. Hale.”

  Julia nodded.

  “Mrs. Hale.” He offered her a nod, then a look of speculation. “Now, where have I heard that name before?”

  Julia refused to answer; Catherine said, with an air of desperation, “Forgive me, Lord Snowstrem, but I really must insist—”

  “You’re not married to that soldier fellow, are you?” His eyes widened. “Not the little runaway? But of course! I see it now. You are Carlew—I mean, Lord Winthrop’s sister.”

  As Lord Snowstrem continued talking, eyeing Julia with avid curiosity, looking all the time as if he’d like to clap his hands with glee, Catherine leaned forward to murmur something to the carriage driver. The carriage moved forward with a jerk.

  “Goodbye, my lord,” Catherine said.

  He ignored her, eyes fixed on Julia. “But I heard Major Hale was dead.”

  She gasped, covering her mouth with her gloved hand.

  “What?” His thick lips pulled back in a leering smile. “Never tell me I am the bearer of bad news!”

  The carriage moved away, his face—his gleeful face—replaced with Catherine’s look of concern. “Oh, my dear! You cannot believe such a thing.” She placed a hand on Julia’s arm. “Please, do not even consider it. Buffy Snorestream is known to like to cause trouble, even to the extent of presenting lies as fact.”

  The panic swirling within settled on the absurd name. “Buffy Snorestream?”

  “Oh, forgive me. I should not have said that. I have heard Henry describe him thus, due to his propensity for long-windedness. But truly, forget him.”

  “But he said Thomas was dead!”

  “Well, how would he know that? Let us think about this calmly. If we have received no correspondence from Scotland, then how can one expect someone not even in our circles to have news related to your husband? Truly, I think it best not to concern yourself with him.”

  “But why would he say that if it were not true?”

  “Because he has no great liking for us, you or me.” Catherine’s dark eyes flashed. “He is the type of man to stir up trouble and dissent, and in doing so does the devil’s work. No, the best thing to do is to ignore him. Please—” She gently squeezed Julia’s arm. “Please do not trouble yourself with him. I’m sure he was referring to when the major was missing for that great period. There is no reason to suspect otherwise. If something had recently happened to Thomas, you would be the first to be informed.”

  “But these storms—you said before we have heard no news because the storms have cut road access. What if something has happened and we just don’t know about it yet?”

  “Then how would Lord Snowstrem have heard? I beg you not to worry over this.”

  That was easy for Catherine to say, Julia thought, drawing in a deep breath. But if Thomas were truly gone—she hated to use the word dead—what would that mean? The familiar ball of helplessness seemed to suddenly triple in size. Her lungs were full, she was struggling to breathe.

  “Julia?”

  She waved off Catherine’s concern, focusing on her breathing. In. Out. In. Out—

  The carriage veered, the shifting momentum causing her insides to spasm. She gasped.

  “Julia? What is it?”

  “Nothing,” she murmured, pressing her fingers to her mouth. Oh, how wretched she felt.

  Catherine frowned. “That is not nothing. You are unwell. We shall return immediately.” She gave orders to the driver; the carriage picked up pace.

  The brush of chilled breeze against her face brought a modicum of relief, but still the unsettling feelings continued.

  “I am so sorry. I wish we had not met Lord Snowstrem. We shall return soon, and then you may feel better.”

  “Returning will not fix this,” Julia muttered.

  “But you are pale, and—forgive me—appear to be nauseous. I thought today’s outing might prove of some benefit from the past weeks—” Her eyes widened. “Julia!”

  Julia closed her eyes. She could not look into honest eyes when she did not want to admit the truth to the question she could see forming. Catherine would tell Jon, who would tell Mother, who would—

  “Are you—? Can it be?” Catherine whispered urgently.

  Julia shook her head. Swallowed the sour taste in her mouth.

  “Oh.”

  The voice of disappointment begged the truth to be spoken aloud. She pressed her lips together even more firmly, and opened her eyes to catch sight of a man who appeared to be watching them intently.

  She frowned. Who was that?

  Probably she was mistaken, and he was merely looking somewhere beyond. She turned for one more glance. Ice stole up her spine. The man still watched them keenly.

  She turned to Catherine, and said urgently, “Can you see a man by the great oak over there? Is he still watching us?”

  “Why, yes.”

  Julia turned to look once more, but he had gone. She shivered. The unknown observer coupled with the unnerving meetings with Mr. Amherst and Lord Snowstrem firmed her purpose. The sooner she could convince Mother of the merits of removing from London to the country the better.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “YOU ARE A thankless son! A wound to my soul, a blight on our existence!”

  Thomas said nothing.

  The curse continued. “The Scriptures say that if a man has a stubborn and rebellious son who does not obey his father and mother, who will not listen to them when they discipline him, that his father shall take him to the elders and he shall be stoned to death. God hates sinners! The evil among us must be purged! Is this what you wish?”

  “Charles, please!”

  His father ignored Thomas’s mother, and continued to shake his fist. “Do you know what it is like to have members of the vestry question my judgments, simply because my son is a profligate and a drunkard, and refuses to obey my decrees? Answer me!”

  Thomas lifted his chin. “I am sorry that my actions have brought embarrassment—”

  “Not mere embarrassment! Your actions have called the very nature of my ministry into question! How dare you describe yourself as an unbeliever?”

  “I dare because it is true. I do not believe in the god you do.�
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  His father’s palm connected with Thomas’s cheek, causing his teeth to rattle, and his mother to again cry out in protest.

  Thomas stifled the part that wanted to whimper like a child, instead holding himself tall, looking his father in the eye, in the way he knew his father loathed. How dare his son become a man? How dare Thomas wish for a life nothing like Father had known?

  “You cannot stand there and tell me you wish to leave! What will the parishioners say?”

  He gritted his teeth. Father cared more for his congregation than his only son. It had always been this way. He and his mother and sister had always run a very distant second to whatever the Reverend Charles Hale felt his church needed. Thank whatever gods might be that Jane had married and escaped their father’s influence last year. Since then, she had urged Thomas to finally speak his mind about his wishes for his future—wishes that ran very contrary to their father’s plans.

  “Well? What have you got to say for yourself?”

  Thomas swallowed, but said firmly, “You are right.” Placate the old man.

  “What? You will give up these foolish notions?”

  “I should not stand here and tell you I wish to leave.”

  His father seemed to slump into the hearty sigh. “I knew you would see sense—”

  “I should not have told you I wished to leave,” Thomas continued, eyeing his father steadily, “rather, I should have said that I am leaving.”

  “But, but—”

  “I am sorry, Mother,” he said, turning to her, “but I cannot stay.”

  Her eyes brimmed with tears as she nodded. Oh, well she understood his reasons for leaving.

  “Where will you live? Do not think you will ever be welcomed into this house again!”

  “I have not felt welcomed in it for years.” He took a step back, out of the way of his father’s fist, before quickly turning, gripping his father’s arm as hard as he could. “I am not your whipping boy anymore.”

  “I will pray that God will smite you for your sin!”

  “This is how you treat your flesh and blood? And this represents the oh-so-merciful god you want me to believe in?”

  “Blasphemer! Wastrel! Drunkard!”

  The words fell around him like bullets.

  “You will never amount to anything! I wash my hands of you.”

  Deep sorrow twisted past his anger. Thomas firmed his lips, lips that wanted to tremble when he saw his mother’s piteous tears. He had tried. God—if He existed—must have seen that Thomas had stayed longer than he’d wanted to provide some measure of comfort for his mother. But lately the accusations had grown worse, the threats more real. And the militia were moving on tomorrow, so his chance was never or now. He stepped closer, hugged his mother firmly, caught her scent of lavender, and muttered a goodbye against her hair.

  “I’m so sorry,” she murmured against his chest.

  “As am I. I will write,” he promised.

  “You can write, but she will never read it,” his father said, arms crossed, face hard. “As of now, I have no son.”

  “Goodbye, Father.” Thomas collected his sack of meager belongings and, with a last apologetic look at his mother, walked through the front door and out into the darkness.

  Pain rippled through him. Sorrow. Regrets. Perhaps he should not have succumbed to cards and liquor, but escape at night seemed the only way to cope with his father’s rages. How could his father ask him to believe the way he did, when those beliefs had shaped him into a man Thomas—and his mother and sister—feared? What kind of god demanded such things? How could he believe in such things?

  From somewhere very far away, he heard a rumbling sound, a voice that stole past his memories and begged him to awaken from this slumber.

  “… know this man, I believe?”

  “Ah, yes,” a deeper voice, an English voice, said. “Yes, I believe I do.”

  Thomas pushed open his eyes, to encounter a man whose features caused the faintest stir of recognition. He frowned, struggling to remember. Who … ?

  The man drew closer, his dark hair glinting in the candlelight. “Good afternoon, Major Hale.”

  Hale, or Rayne? His head was foggy, his confusion real. He opened his mouth to speak, but could only emit a sound more croak than voice. His mouth was so, so dry.

  “Now, don’t try to strain yourself, sir,” the doctor said. He helped Thomas to a glass of water, blessed water that slid coolness down his throat and sharpened reason to his brain.

  He mumbled his obligation, and turned to the darker-haired gentleman. Who?

  “He does seem to recognize you, m’lord.”

  “I am pleased. One never likes to think that one might be utterly forgettable.”

  “I’m sure that is not something you would have much experience with, Lord Hawkesbury,” the doctor said in a dry tone.

  “H-hawkesbury?” Thomas rasped.

  A small smile crossed the other man’s face. “I am gratified you remember.”

  “What … ?”

  “What am I doing here?” Lord Hawkesbury asked. “Well, I had a meeting with Mr. Osgood—he has responsibility for arranging matters for me here in Scotland—and through the course of conversation learned about a mysterious Englishman who had been washed up at Newhaven’s port. Naturally, I could not remain idly by, not when Osgood mentioned that this man had his card upon him, yet had never met him in his life.” A smile glinted. “You can imagine my surprise to discover the man to be one who has dined at my house.”

  Dined … ? Oh, now he recalled. Staying with Jon at Winthrop. Visiting the Earl of Hawkesbury’s house in Gloucestershire. Traces of his father’s long ago words twisted his lips. He might not have amounted to much, but he had at least dined at an earl’s house.

  “You remember?”

  Thomas nodded, sending a dull spear of pain down his spine.

  “Now, Mr. Hale—”

  “It is Major Hale, I believe,” said the earl.

  “Major Hale,” the doctor continued, “please forgive me but I must ask …”

  What followed were a litany of questions about Thomas’s limbs, his eyesight, his movement, even the scars upon his back. Lord Hawkesbury quietly withdrew, leaving the doctor to his examination.

  When he had finished his mild interrogation, and Thomas had complied with all his prodding and poking, the doctor sighed. “I’m afraid I dinnae have good news for you.”

  Thomas watched him, conscious of a tightening of breath, a new hammering in his veins. What could have the doctor looking so dour?

  “I cannae like the swelling on your spine. It gives me great worry that your mobility will be affected.”

  “What?”

  “I fear you may have some degree of trouble with walking again.”

  Coldness swept his skin. No.

  Lord Hawkesbury moved into view, his expression grim. This time he was accompanied by the older man Thomas vaguely recognized from the last time he was conscious.

  Politeness bade him to exchange greetings, while desperation bade him to curl into a ball. What would he do? What could he do?

  “It would seem whoever inflicted this upon you was doing their best to ensure you would not live to report such things,” the earl said, his brow lowered. “I hope you know we shall do all we can to ensure you return to health as quickly as possible.”

  Thomas lowered his gaze to hide the sudden burn at the back of his eyes. He swallowed. Nodded. Winced. “I appreciate your help.”

  But how could he help? If the doctor was right and Thomas might not walk properly again, what on earth could the earl do to help? Fear slashed his chest. How on earth could he ever seek to provide for Julia if he could not walk? He drew in an unsteady breath. Forced himself to meet the concerned expressions of the other men, willed his features to not betray his distress.

  “You can be sure we shall also do all in our power to find the perpetrators of this crime. That is why I thought it best to include Mr. Osgood on
ce more, seeing as he has local knowledge that might prove helpful.” Lord Hawkesbury added with a frown, “Hale, have you any recollection of what happened? Anything at all?”

  Thomas pushed his brows together, straining to remember, but the whirl of worries stole every wisp of memory, the fear inside a heavy mist that shrouded all.

  “My lord, I do not wish for him to worsen,” the doctor protested.

  “And I have no wish for the scoundrel who did this to get away with near murder.” Hawkesbury leaned close. “Do you have any idea who might have done this?”

  Thomas closed his eyes, in a vain effort to think clearly. But still the fog refused him. What had he been doing? Where? Dear God, help me! The fog lifted a corner, revealed a figure, released a name.

  “Bucknell,” he rasped.

  “Bucknell.” A frown crossed his forehead. “I shall make enquiries.”

  “Now, sir, I really must insist—”

  “McKin …”

  “What was that?” The earl leaned closer still. “McKin … ?”

  “Ley,” Thomas finally managed to utter, before the effort pushed him back against the pillows.

  “McKinley? No, don’t try to answer. Just blink once if that’s correct.”

  Thomas obeyed.

  Lord Hawkesbury’s brow lowered further. “McKinley. Now that is a name I have heard. How very interesting.”

  “My lord, please.”

  Hawkesbury gave an impatient nod. “Of course. Well, Hale, I want you to do your best to rest while I make enquiry. Rest and pray. Such wickedness shall not prevail.”

  He murmured something further to the doctor and Mr. Osgood before executing a bow and exiting. Mr. Osgood now approached the bed, the wrinkle in his brow suggesting questions still remained. “Forgive me, sir, but I am most curious how you ended up with one of my cards.”

  Thomas forced himself to utter, “Carlew” before relapsing once again.

  The small man’s brows pushed together then cleared. “Ah, you mean Lord Winthrop. He is a friend of yours I gather?”

  Another blink. Well, perhaps he was again.

  “I’ll take that as a yes. Very interesting. Yes, well that makes sense. I am known to specialize in matters concerning Englishmen and their dealings with Scottish lands and business interests. Thank you. I shan’t prevail upon you a moment more, but you can be sure I will send word to Lord Winthrop immediately, although I suspect it might take a while to go through, what with these rains and all. My best wishes for a full and speedy recovery. Good day to you.”