The Making of Mrs. Hale

by Carolyn Miller

  His eyes closed, he was aware of how strange he must look, but did not care. He sensed the earl would not judge. Heavenly Father, I am sorry, please forgive and save me. He shuddered out a breath. Show Your mercy, guide and lead me. And please, please protect Julia.

  For a moment, nothing seemed to be any different, save for a dimming of the welter of confusion, a slight easing of the pressure in his heart. And then …

  And then he sensed a slow unfurling of warmth, of something deep, deep within. Love, more profound than anything his parents had offered, purer than anything Julia had shown. Love. Real love. Something strong, something that made him feel assured, secure, like he wasn’t floating driftless in this world, but was anchored deep in life’s purpose. He breathed it in, felt peace lodge. Yes, God loved him.

  Alongside this assurance, he felt somehow cleaner, lighter, like the stains of sin had been washed completely from his soul. The mottled slate of sin was wiped as if new. This felt nothing like what his earthly father had said; he did not feel fear so much as humbled awe, that the God who created the universe could deign to care about one poor lost soul. He inhaled again, exhaled shakily. Smiled.

  When next he looked up it was to see the earl looking at him, a small smile lighting his features. “It feels good, does it not?”

  “Very good.”

  “I would recommend you find yourself a Bible—in fact, I’ll give you mine.”

  “Oh, but—”

  “No, I will get another. I sense that you will need to take this time to discover more about who Jesus Christ is, and what our Savior has done for you.”

  “Our Savior.” Thomas’s smile felt like the first one in years. It seemed so strange that he now shared something in common with this aristocrat. “Thank you, Lord Hawkesbury.”

  “Ah, don’t thank me. I’m nothing but one of the vessels God chooses to use at times.”

  Another moment passed, then the earl continued. “While you were getting matters sorted between yourself and God, I was reminded of something. I do not know if you were aware that when you were in Edinburgh in your barely conscious state you were heard to mutter various things.”

  He talked in his sleep? Fire crept up his neck. “I—no. Forgive me, I did not—”

  “The doctor mentioned that on a number of occasions you mentioned the name Magdelena, but always in a state of panic. It would seem that if she were the woman Winthrop refers to, that she is hardly a creature to arouse your wife’s jealousy, and rather might provoke her compassion.”

  His understanding threatened to unman him. Thomas rested a hand over his eyes. “I cannot even be sure exactly as to what happened. I was half-crazed. We were near starved, my men were dying, getting shot. You cannot know how desperate we all felt.”

  The earl regarded him with something akin to sympathy in his expression.

  “I thought perhaps …” Thomas shook his head. “It was stupid I know, but at the time it seemed the only way we could escape, the only way for the nightmare to be over. She promised it would be so.” He groaned. “I thought myself a fool to believe her, but in the end she did help us flee.” He glanced up, wishing he did not sound so defensive.

  The earl gave a small smile. “It can be very easy to cast judgment when one has not undergone such a trial. I think we always like to imagine that we would do better than what we might actually do, given the reality of our circumstances.”

  Again, the earl’s compassion wrung emotion from within, making it hard to speak. He cleared his throat. “She … she said she was pregnant.”

  An intake of breath. “Ah. That is unfortunate.” Another long moment passed before the earl spoke again. “Who else knows?”

  Thomas shrugged. “Harrow—apparently he’s the one who told Julia. Though I still cannot believe it of him. I would have far more readily believed it of Benson.”

  “This man Benson, is he the one you attended Fallbright’s office with?”

  “When we were given our orders, yes.”

  “And you believe he does not like you?”

  “Not much, no.”

  “Hmm.” The earl’s brow puckered. “You are sure it was this Harrow man and not Benson who spoke to Julia?”

  “That is what Jon said.”

  “I wonder … would either of them wish to further discredit you?”

  “I don’t know.” Thomas finally glanced up. “Why?”

  “I wonder if such allegations of your infidelity,” at the word Thomas winced, “would hurt our campaign.”

  Were Thomas’s marital woes now to be fodder for Hawkesbury’s campaign against Fallbright? “I could not bear for Julia to be shamed any further.”

  “I have no desire for that, either. It just means that we should be a little circumspect in our actions.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “These men, Benson and Harrow. Have you any idea of their direction?” The earl’s smile glinted. “I think it best we find them before any more damage can be done.”

  “You mean—?”

  “I mean it would be best if we found them, and secured against any further damaging allegations. And it might be best to learn more about this Magdalena person. Would you not agree?”

  “Yes, but I cannot think such things will matter to Julia.”

  “They may not. But while there is life, there is hope for forgiveness and understanding. And we do have life, do we not?”

  Thomas dragged in a deep breath that seemed to draw up from his toes. “Yes.”

  While he lived, he would hope. God—his heavenly Father, his Savior Jesus Christ—would somehow have to anchor his soul.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Chatteris, Cambridgeshire

  “BUT JONATHAN, I do not understand the urgency,” Mother complained. “Why did you insist on us leaving in the middle of the night?”

  Julia exchanged a look with Jon but said nothing.

  “And why did you insist we come here to this glorified farmhouse, instead of your manor in Gloucestershire? Such a place is hardly where I envisaged spending my Christmas.”

  Catherine said something soothing, allowing Julia a moment’s respite.

  Well she knew, or at least suspected, why Jon had been so insistent. She shivered, and clutched little Charles closer to her chest. Poor Mr. Amherst had very nearly been killed, and Jon’s anxiety to remove her and Mother from London had been because he was concerned for her safety. But truly, who would want to hurt her?

  Crabbit drew near and offered to take the sleeping boy. Julia pressed a kiss to his brow and released him to her care. The darkness seemed to rush in more deeply.

  “Well, I am for bed. Today has been quite long enough,” said Catherine, casting a look at Jon that didn’t fail to communicate her thoughts on the subject. “Good night.”

  “Quite long enough indeed,” grumbled Mother. “Really, Jonathan, you have been acting in a most peculiar way, coming then going then coming again, dragging us from our beds—”

  “Now, Mother—”

  “Well, I’ll grant you did not exactly drag us from our beds. But it is most inconvenient to be forced to leave one’s home and come to this, this … place.” She looked around the room with an expression of distaste. The drawing room held little of the elegancies with which Mother preferred to surround herself, instead consisting of plain, bare walls and unremarkable, rather less-than-comfortable furnishings. She sniffed. “How long do you expect us to stay here?”

  “As long as is necessary,” he answered, with the patience of a saint.

  “And pray, how long shall that be?”

  “As long as is necessary,” he said, lips tweaked in a small smile.

  Mother gave a reluctant chuckle, lifted her cheek for him to kiss, then following Catherine’s lead, made her way up the stairs, with loud exclamations about her anticipation of the discomfort of the bedchambers, and exhortations that Julia not stay up too late either.

  Jon’s usual gravity, eased for a moment by M
other’s nonsense, returned as he glanced at Julia again. “You do understand why such measures were necessary, don’t you?”

  “You are worried about us.”

  “Lord Hawkesbury felt it best you were removed someplace you could not be traced.”

  “This place belongs to him?”

  “Yes.” He studied her with another deep, long look.

  “What is it?”

  He shook his head. “I should not, perhaps, interfere in matters that do not directly concern me—”

  “Yet your saying so suggests you will nonetheless,” Julia murmured.

  “It concerns your marriage.”

  She sighed. “Really? Have we not discussed your antipathy to Thomas long enough? What more is left to say?”

  “We have not discussed this,” he said grimly. A muscle ticked in his jaw.

  Her heart clenched. Somehow she knew what he was going to say, and she had no desire to speak about such things with her brother. Not now. Not ever. “Really, I’m very tired,” she said, feigning a yawn.

  “I can imagine you would be.” His eyes softened for a moment. “These past few weeks have not been easy for you.”

  “No, they have not. Which is why I would really prefer to go to bed.” She summoned up a smile in an attempt to leaven the mood. “Not all of us are used to staying up through the night to conclude important business matters.”

  His lips flattened as he acknowledged her comment. “I understand your weariness, but there is something I really think we must speak about before you retire.”

  Another heart pang. “Really, Jon, I would prefer we do not—”

  “I know this is hard for you, but we must discuss what you plan to do once this is over.”

  She bit her lip. She would not say it.

  “Julia, I’m asking plainly, do you want to remain married to an adulterer?”

  A gasp escaped. “You have no right to say such things!”

  “As your brother, and someone who loves you very much, and as the executor of your estate I have every right to consider what might be in your best interests. And I cannot see how remaining married to such a man can possibly be beneficial to anyone.”

  “Jon, you do not know what you are talking about.”

  “I most certainly do.” His eyes flashed with arctic fire. “I had a very interesting talk with your husband before I returned to London, and he admitted certain … aspects of his character that were not at all what I want for my little sister to endure.”

  Her chest heated. “You had no right! I need to have that conversation with him, not you. He is my husband, after all.”

  “But every time you see him you seem to forget all your good intentions—and forget yourself as well.”

  “I do not!”

  “I am sorry, Julia, but that is how it seems to others.”

  “How dare you judge me!”

  “I dare because I care about you, and I would rather say something and risk your anger than stand by and watch you tumble into yet more pain.”

  She drew in a shaky breath, willed her voice to not waver. “I appreciate your solicitude, but I have no wish to speak of this with you anymore until I have spoken with him.”

  “But he is an adulterer!”

  The word scratched against her desire for a semblance of self-control. “You do not know that—”

  “He admitted as much himself, Julia.”

  Breath caught, wrenching a sob from deep within. “Perhaps there was a mistake.”

  He gave a short laugh. “How can there be a mistake? No, he is wicked, and I cannot bear for you to have anything more to do with him. Hale has nothing to offer you, nothing! No money, no means of supporting you, no faith, no honor, even. I would much prefer you to part with him and we do what we can to dissolve the marriage once and for all.”

  “But—”

  “No, Julia. Enough is enough. You would do far better to be rid of him. And I will help you. If you decide to part with him then I can speak with the other trustees and ensure your settlements are released once and for all. Your father certainly wanted you to be living in style, not a hovel, and you would definitely have enough funds to enable you to choose whatever house you preferred. Something appropriate for you and Charles. I am sure you would prefer to be out from Mother’s apron strings, would you not?”

  “Well, yes …”

  “I can help you with that. I can help you with everything. But I cannot help you if you are determined to stay attached to that man.”

  She swallowed and looked away. While the idea of her own—nice—place held no small amount of merit, was parting from her husband too high a price to pay?

  “I cannot believe you even need to consider this. He has betrayed you, Julia. Do you forget that? He betrayed your marriage vows. Why do you still hesitate?”

  “I … I don’t know.” But she did, the memory of Catherine’s words about forgiveness like a promise drifting on the wind.

  “Please, let me help you. I can ensure he never speaks to you again.”

  But she had to speak with him! She had to tell him about the life she was carrying, even if she dreaded hearing about his extramarital activities. She had to tell him. Didn’t she?

  “Julia, I love you, and I cannot stand to see him make you miserable anymore.”

  “I know.” She shook her head. “But until I speak with him, I cannot give you an answer.”

  He let out an audible breath, disappointment writ large upon his face. “But you will after you do so?”

  “I will,” she said wearily.

  “Good.”

  “Can I go to bed now?”

  “Of course. I’m sorry to have kept you from your rest.” He gave a small smile. “But not sorry for the chance to speak so honestly to you.”

  She moved to go, but he clasped her in his arms, and she closed her eyes, the weariness that had her almost swaying on her feet finally releasing into tears against his chest. What a coil she had created for herself, what a dilemma she now faced. Should she tell Thomas about his child? Should she leave her broken husband and certain poverty and regain the riches that were her birthright?

  Jon continued to hold her, and she soaked in the comfort of his strong embrace, drawing in a shuddery breath as the whirling questions firmed down to two.

  Did she still love Thomas?

  The second challenge stemmed from this first question’s answer.

  Could she ever find it in her heart to forgive him?

  Whitehall, London

  “Well, it ain’t every day I gets paid to sit and wait while the gentry do what gentry does. I s’pose I’m being paid well, even if I just be keeping my horses still. But I can’t help thinking this ’ere be a trifle smoky, guv’nor.”

  Thomas leaned back against the squabs, wishing the hackney cab driver wasn’t quite so prescient in his observations. He supposed it was not usual for a hackney to be asked to wait outside the offices of the Secretary of State for War and the Colonies while an earl visited inside, but neither had they wanted to lose the chance of learning more about the truth of Fallbright’s and McKinley’s dealings. And even though he felt uncomfortable—this conveyance hardly held the comfort level of the curricle awaiting Lord Hawkesbury’s exit—Thomas was glad to finally be a part of things, instead of feeling cast aside while the others had their sport.

  He peered out the window, scanning the pedestrians, unable to recognize any familiar faces, as the last few days rolled through his mind. His initial moment of euphoria at knowing he was forgiven by God had not abated, had instead become a deep certainty, the more he read the verses Lord Hawkesbury had recommended. It fueled the promise of hope, that the God who had forgiven Thomas so much might extend His loving mercy to somehow work this situation out for their good. For Julia’s good. For Charles.

  His prayers for them had scarcely ceased these past days. Prayers for their safety, for their health, for Julia’s peace of mind, for her trust. Sometimes it seemed he coul
d glimpse a corner of their future, when they would be happy, when he would be as Charles’s father, a provider, a husband loved by his wife. He scarcely dared pray she might forgive him, yet in the light of God’s mercy something whispered he pray this, too. So, he prayed that God might touch her with His grace and mercy, and help her extend that grace to him, too. Such mercy and grace that he found in the Bible readings suggested by the earl fueled hope for today, hope for his future.

  Such hope had only grown with this morning’s news sourced by Hawkesbury’s groom, a curmudgeonly Scot named McHendricks, who had visited the London lodgings of Harrow and Benson upon the earl’s orders. The visit made it plain that Benson had lied and used Harrow’s name, in an apparent effort to gain some form of remuneration, and hurt Thomas by making him question his friendships. From what McHendricks had said, it seemed Benson had been refused admittance to Fallbright, and desperation had bade him seek payment in a more roundabout method. Upon learning of Benson’s deception, Harrow had been horrified, and thus reiterated his support for Thomas, evidenced in a short note which promised “all he could do.” But Harrow’s desire to give Benson his just deserts had been speedily answered by Thomas in the negative, such need for revenge quashed by Thomas’s recent experience of divine forgiveness which bolstered grace and hope.

  This heartening result had only added to Thomas’s relief at Hawkesbury’s other schemes of late, his stratagem worthy of a man who had served under the Duke of Wellington. Jon had withdrawn Charles, Julia, and their mother to a safe locale in Cambridgeshire, thus removing them from any danger. Harry’s recent return to London—ostensibly to deal with various legalities following his father’s death—would ensure that the house in Portman Square could be watched. Hawkesbury himself was this very moment confronting Fallbright regarding Thomas and McKinley. Should that confrontation prove to rattle the colonel’s equanimity, Thomas’s role was to follow Fallbright, a plan of his own devising, now that he was aware of just how devious his former commanding officer had proved.