With the departure of his voluble companion, Thomas was freed to glance around the room. Its wood paneled walls and low ceiling seemed synonymous with every other inn he’d stayed in during the past week, Lord Hawkesbury’s generosity stretching to inns of high quality, regardless of whatever the coachman might say. Where Lord Hawkesbury had disappeared to must remain a mystery, as Thomas had neither physical strength nor finances to find out otherwise. He could only hope the reason would become apparent before long.
Another half hour passed before such reason became clear. Hawkesbury reentered the room, with profuse apologies for his delay, and hopes that Thomas had begun his meal without waiting for him. But it was not his apologies that captured Thomas’s attention; rather, it was the man who stood behind him, a man he knew only too well, though he had not spoken to him for nearly two years. A man, like Lord Hawkesbury, whose position in life would always remain far above him, whose position in life was such that Thomas would never have even met him were it not for the leavening effect of a certain Jonathan Carlew in his life.
He tried to push to his feet, but the pain shooting up his spine made him slump back in his chair with a gasp, which drew the other men forward with protests that he should not move.
“Lord Carmichael,” he finally managed, as he shook the black-garbed man’s hand.
His friend’s face twisted. “It’s Bevington now, I’m afraid.”
Meaning his father had died, and Harry had succeeded to the earldom. “I am very sorry. Forgive me.”
“Why?” A spark of the old mischief twinkled in the hazel-green eyes. “You had nothing to do with my father’s death, did you?”
“Of course not. I meant—”
“I know what you meant, Hale.” Lord Carmichael—no, Bevington—pulled up a chair and sat beside the earl. “So, what is this I hear about you being nearly killed in Scotland?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
BETRAYAL.
She had never realized just how powerful that word was, just how poignant that word could be, until the last two days. Yesterday she had kept to her room, searching for a way to approximate her usual demeanor, unable to find one. Today she had managed to go downstairs in an effort to avoid the questions that circled her bedchamber, questions that the memories of his presence only stirred.
How could he have loved her, if he had betrayed his vows by being with another? How could he have looked at her so hungrily, if that truly were the case? How could she not have known, or even suspected? Or had she suspected, in his great long absence, that he might not be faithful?
Catherine’s words about forgiveness were laughable. What did she know? Jon would certainly never have betrayed trust as Thomas had. Her eyes pricked. Thankfully the tears delayed. She had cried so much since learning the news that surely none could still remain. She still felt so fragile, like she might shatter at any moment. She cared for Charles mechanically, but Crabbit seemed to sense her detached state, and had requested Julia to “leave the young scallywag to me, Miss, whilst you have a rest.” So she now sat in the drawing room, pretending to read, which at least held ability to distract her from the nausea, and the sickness in her soul.
The door knocker struck. Julia braced. What would she say to Thomas when he appeared? If he appeared. Maybe he would not wish to have anything more to do with her. Maybe he had been looking for another excuse to leave, once he’d had his fun—
A cleared voice came at the door. “Excuse me, Miss,” the footman said, “but there is a gentleman to see you. A Mr. Amherst.”
“Who—? Oh.” Perhaps he would prove effective distraction from her ruminations. “Please send him in.”
“Very well, Miss,” the footman said, his expression one of curiosity.
She lifted her chin, arranged her skirts, arranged her features into something she hoped looked like she had not spent much of last night in tears.
“Ah, Mr. Amherst, how good to see you.”
He bowed, picked up her hand, and pressed it lightly to his lips. “I hope you will forgive the intrusion, but you did promise I could call should I find myself in the area, and lo and behold, what should happen but I found myself in the area.”
She gestured to a seat, turned to William who remained at the door. “Please inform Cook that we shall have tea.” She turned to Mr. Amherst. “We shall, shan’t we?”
“Indubitably.” He released her hand, and sank into the seat beside her. “My dear Mrs. Hale, I have been hoping to speak with you again. I so enjoyed our little tête-à-tête the other day.”
What little tête-à-tête? Oh, that time in the park. So much had happened since, it now seemed very long ago. Conscious he was looking at her, she fumbled for a reply. What was the correct response? “I’m glad?”
“I’m glad that you are glad, for I would hate to think my presence unwelcome.”
She smiled to hide the fact that his presence was becoming increasingly just what he had feared, as his conversation moved briskly on to chatter about the weather, the Prince Regent, and other news of the natural and social worlds.
Partway through his chatter, the tea was brought in, and Julia was able to distract herself by pouring and then sipping, glad his conversation skills were such that they restricted her to only having to answer with the occasional yes or no. But after a while, the soul-numbing tiredness made his words swim. Inviting him to partake of tea was yet another sad idea. “Really?”
“Indeed.” He paused, his eyes wandering over her face. “Forgive me,” he said in a low voice, “but have I come at a bad time?”
“I … I confess I have not felt terribly well lately.”
“Oh, I am sorry to hear you say so. Perhaps it is best if I leave.”
Politeness bade her to insist he stay, but he shook his head firmly, and pushed to his feet. “I will not. I think it best if you perhaps get some rest, and I shall endeavor to visit when you are feeling more the thing.”
His solicitude brought tears to her eyes. “Thank you, you are very kind.”
“My best wishes for your recovery.” He bowed, and exited, and was gone.
Within a minute, Mother walked into the room. “I did not know you were expecting company. Who was that?” She moved to the window, pulling aside the drape. “A young gentleman caller?”
“That was Mr. Amherst.”
“And who is Mr. Amherst?”
“A … a neighbor of Lord and Lady Aynsley.”
“Lord and Lady Aynsley? The viscount from Somerset?”
“I believe so.”
“Well! And what were you doing with him?”
A blush heated her cheeks. “Nothing! We were only talking. He is simply a gentleman friend.”
“Hmm.” Mother eyed her carefully. “Well, if there is nothing, then I fail to understand the significance of that blush.”
“I … I am rather hot, that is all. This room,” she waved her fingers, fanlike, “feels rather overheated.”
“I notice no change.” Another piercing look. “Well, I suppose a little flirtation cannot hurt. Not when you will be free to do so soon enough.”
“Mother!”
Further discussion was interrupted by yet another knock at the door. William’s enquiry to the visitor was met with a murmured low-pitched male voice. Mother looked at Julia but she could only shake her head.
“A Mr. Macleary to see you, Miss.”
“Macleary?” Julia frowned. “I know no one by that name.”
“Shall I stay?” her mother asked, in a tone that suggested she’d be loath to leave.
“If you like,” Julia said with a shrug. Nobody could say anything worse than what had already been said.
The mustachioed man was ushered in, and Julia was struck by the appearance of his sunburned face, a coppery tan that suggested he, like Thomas, had spent much time on the Subcontinent. She peered at him. He looked not unlike someone she had once met, but who precisely, the recesses of her mind would not release.
He lo
oked at her. “Mrs. Hale?”
Julia nodded. “Mr. Macleary, I believe?”
He offered a small bow. “Forgive me for my intrusion, but I thought it best not to delay.” His voice held traces of a Scottish accent. “I bring word concerning your husband.”
Her heart flickered despite herself. Conscious her mother was watching carefully, Julia bade her expression to smoothness. “Do you, indeed?”
“Aye. And I am extremely sorry to be the one who tells you this, but—”
“I’m afraid we have already heard, sir.”
“Already heard?” His brow knit. “I did not think news traveled that fast from Scotland.”
“From Scotland?”
“Aye. I came as fast as I could, as soon as I heard. I was a great friend of your husband’s, you see, Mrs. Hale.”
She swallowed. “Was?”
He inclined his head, his face adopting a look of sorrow. “Aye, I’m afraid it is my solemn duty to inform you of your husband’s demise.”
What? Her heart stilled.
“I beg your pardon?” Mother asked.
“I regret to say that Major Thomas Hale met with an accident in Edinburgh and, I’m terribly sorry to have to tell you this, is believed to have drowned.”
Her breath caught. “No,” she whispered, as her heart gave a painful throb. No! He could not be dead. She sucked in a deep breath, willing her features to neutrality, as Mother continued.
“You said believed to have drowned. Is there some question?”
“Oh, no question at all,” he said. “Forgive me for the confusion. No, it was confirmed, and in the newspapers.”
No. No, no! Oh, dear God! So Buffy Snorestream had been right; Catherine had been wrong. The all-too-ready tears started to her eyes. How wretched was she? Why did her heart—her poor battered, bruised heart—wrench like she still cared? Why did she wish to flee to her room and release the tears pressing behind her eyes? Thomas had been unfaithful to her. Hadn’t he? Reality still seemed too hard to credit. Was this some nightmarish dream?
“Mr. Macleary, I have no wish to doubt the veracity of your word,” Mother said, “but you must understand that as you are a stranger to us, it is only natural to perhaps wonder as to why you felt it necessary to impart such information to us. In fact, I cannot help but wonder how you were able to ascertain my daughter’s whereabouts.”
“I … I got to know the major when we served in India together. He mentioned you, Mrs. Hale, when we met again in Edinburgh recently. I felt it my duty to report to you what had happened, so you were not left wondering about him.”
Bitterness shafted her chest. Wondering about him. That was all her husband was good for.
“That was very good of you, sir,” Mother finally said.
His mouth twisted in something resembling a smile. “Again, I am sorry that my news is not what you had hoped.”
Julia glanced at her mother, but surprisingly, upon receiving the news she had surely hoped for, Mother appeared more grim than glad.
As for herself … she could feel no spark of gladness that justice had been served to her philandering husband. Instead, her soul seemed weighted with a heaviness unlike anything she’d known. Thomas was dead. Dead! The word was so final, Mr. Macleary seemed so certain. And yet … and yet …
Something about his words twirled uncertainty. Was it shock-induced denial, or something else? “You said newspapers.”
He paused in the act of standing. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Hale?”
“Excuse me, sir, but you said his death was reported in the newspapers.” Julia gazed at him with blurring eyes. “Did you bring one?”
He patted his coat pocket. “Forgive me, but it appears to have been misplaced.” He eyed her with compassion. “I am sorry for your loss, Mrs. Hale.”
Why could she not believe him? What else had he said? “Mr. Macleary, you … you said the news was not what we had hoped.”
“Well, yes.”
She shook her head. “How could you know what we had hoped?”
He paused. “I beg your pardon? I do not understand. I imagine you were uncertain as to his whereabouts, seeing as he had been in Scotland for some weeks.”
“How did you know that?”
Another pause. A flicker in his eyes fueled further doubts.
“The newspapers reported that the, ahem, body, had been in the water for some time.” He hurried past their gasps to add, “I’m sorry to distress you both.”
But for all his expressed sorrow, not much lived in his eyes. “Where did you say you served with him?”
“In India, ma’am.”
“But where?”
“Oh, in a little place on the West coast near Bombay.”
“Was it at Poona?”
He blinked. “Aye, it was. I really must be going now.”
Julia rose unsteadily. “I never heard Thomas mention your name.”
“Well, we were not precisely in the same vicinity all the time.”
“And where did you say you met him in Edinburgh?”
“Oh, here and there.”
She stared narrowly at his wide, thick-lipped face. “I feel like I have seen you somewhere before.”
He gave a small laugh. “I’m always being told that. Must have one of those faces. Now, if you’ll excuse me?”
“It was good of you to come, sir,” Mother said, before escorting him to the door.
He paused with a slight bow. “Please accept my condolences.”
Julia barely acknowledged his departure, as for the second time in three days she struggled to make sense of the world. How could Thomas have died?
Her breath snagged, the action triggering tears.
“Oh, my darling girl,” her mother said, rushing to her side and wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “He is not worth your tears.”
She knew that, but could not seem to stop them anyway.
“There, there.” She offered more ineffectual patting. “I cannot own that I am somewhat relieved we shall not have to seek a divorce after all. Such a lot of muckraking that would have entailed. No, don’t cry, Julia. Please. I know that I have not always spoken well of him, but believe me when I say that I am sorry for your sake that he is gone.”
Gone. Gone! Pain wracked her chest. Had her heart snapped in two? How would she survive? What would happen to her now? To Charles? Dear God! What would happen to her child?
Her sobs escaped in a series of chest-wrenching pains. “Oh, no.”
“What is it?”
Julia wiped ineffectually at her eyes, her cheeks. “He will never know now.”
“Never know what?”
“That he is … was,” she swallowed, “going to be a father.”
“Julia! Do you mean to tell me you are expecting?”
She closed her eyes, unwilling to see the censure in her mother’s eyes, and nodded.
“Oh, my darling girl!” She was clasped in her mother’s arms. “Please do not fear. I will protect you.”
Another sob escaped, triggering a fresh avalanche of emotion. How could Mother ever expect to protect Julia from the bleakness of her future?
Nottinghamshire
“You cannot be serious.”
Thomas had finished retelling his story for what felt like the umpteenth time, conscious that the new Earl of Bevington’s gaze had barely shifted from his face. Next to him, Lord Hawkesbury’s brow wrinkled as if he was puzzling out what to do. And seated beside him sat Jonathan, Lord Winthrop, his grave countenance wearing the familiar frown he had come to associate with Julia’s brother. His arrival at the inn was the reason for the repeated story.
“I’m afraid he is serious,” Lord Hawkesbury finally spoke. “And what’s more, from what Hale tells me, it seems to have some connection to what occurred in Spain.”
“You mean you were truly tortured?”
Thomas met Jon’s gaze. “Yes.”
“If you don’t believe him, I’m sure the scars on his back woul
d be enough to prove his claims,” Lord Hawkesbury interposed. “The doctor at the infirmary in Edinburgh was most perturbed. I cannot imagine Hale put them there willingly.”
“But who would want to do that to you?” Harry said, his face flushed with anger. “Such a man must be a monstrous kind of animal!”
Relief seeped through his chest. Finally, he was being believed.
“You say this man McKinley is the only connection between the two incidents,” said Jon, the inflection at the end of his words giving a hint of a question, which instantly gave rise to defensiveness within. Did his brother-in-law not believe him?
“I would not be at all surprised to learn that this Fallbright character is someone who has been less than honorable in his dealings. There has been word in the London clubs …” Lord Hawkesbury fell silent.
The private room filled with the swirl of speculation and seething anger. Just what had been said in the clubs? But he refused to press the earl to give gossip a helping hand.
“I cannot believe the man refused to pay what you were owed,” said Jon. “I imagine you were not the only one he refused to pay.”
Thomas listed the other men involved, finishing with Smith, “Who, as it happens, lives not too far away in Leicestershire.”
“I think we should make our business to see him at once, and get his side of things.”
“I think it more prudent if we send a man of law who can be shown to have no vested interest in supporting Hale’s claims,” Hawkesbury corrected gently.
“You think this will go to court?” Harry asked.
“I would hope not, but I believe it wise to cover every contingency.” Hawkesbury leaned back in his chair, glanced at Thomas. “For some time now I have been made aware of certain, shall we say, shortcomings in various elements of the War Office. Such things have given rise to speculation that some of the decisions have been more about political maneuvering and point scoring, rather than about what might perhaps be in the nation’s best interests. As matters would have it, on account of my military and political experience, I have recently been given the charge to discover some of the truth of these dealings. And I don’t mind telling you that what I have learned so far makes me very ready to believe the implications of McKinley and Fallbright being involved in something underhand.”
The Making of Mrs. Hale Page 21