The Making of Mrs. Hale

by Carolyn Miller

  Shame washed through her. She should have realized something of his injury, but had been so busy feasting on his face. She gently traced a finger over the red ridges, her eyes filling with tears. Who could have done this? Was it punishment for his indiscretion? Or—her mouth dried—had that been something rather more punishment than pleasure also? Is that what the earl had meant, and why he did not treat Thomas with the measure Jon did? Had Jon—and she—judged too harshly?

  As she wrestled with these new thoughts, she noticed a dull bruise, pale purple, crescent shaped, extending from his lower back to one hip. Tears slipped down her cheeks as she remembered the way he had limped, the way he had stood oddly, as if he was afraid to move in case he fell. Was this what he had been recovering from in the Edinburgh infirmary?

  He suddenly shivered, jerking away. “Get away from me. Get away!”

  She drew back, hurt cramping within.

  But … his eyes remained closed. Was this a dream?

  He shuddered, and she could feel the tension emanating from him, yet still she remained unsure. Perhaps she should find another bedchamber—

  “Magdalena.”

  She froze, the hatred caused by that name rekindling.

  “Get away!”

  Was it Magdalena he begged to go away? Oh, what had happened to him in that Spanish cell?

  Gradually his shivers eased, his body resuming the posture of sleep. She lay there, watching him, wondering, questioning, doubting. Was Thomas innocent of his former cellmate’s claims?

  And yet—indignation flared—Thomas had acknowledged he was not completely innocent, that he had done something he bitterly regretted. Surely that meant he knew what he’d done was wrong.

  The stripes on his back reproached her. The heat of anger abated, subsiding into something like sorrow, as memories of what had been said in recent days flashed through her mind. Comments about his courage, about his desperate will to live thwarting those who had done their best to kill him. His determination to see her, to protect her, because he loved her. His brokenness when he finally did see her. His brokenness because he’d nearly died. Again.

  Her Thomas. Her poor Thomas. Her poor Thomas.

  She pressed the softest kiss against his shoulder.

  He stirred, and murmured something she did not hear. She leaned closer, ears straining to catch his broken whisper.

  “Jewel.”

  Her heart caught. The earl was right; he did whisper her name.

  “Jewel, please …” A ragged breath. “Forgive me.”

  Her eyes filled afresh. She could not hold bitterness against him. He was a broken man, a shadow of himself. Whatever he had undergone had the power to reach him in slumber.

  “Jewel, I …”

  “Shhh.” She stroked his hair, like she would little Charles—softly, tenderly, as if the action could bring comfort.

  His whisper came again. “I … love …”

  Her breath halted, her nerves tensing as she waited for his next word.

  “… you.”

  Heart wrung, tears seeping across her skin, she folded her arms around him, and snuggled against his back. And determined she would keep his nightmares at bay.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  SOMEHOW, THE DREAMS that filled his night had eventuated into reality. Julia—Jewel of his heart—holding him in a way he’d scarcely hoped possible. When he’d woken, and seen her pale arm clasped around his torso, it had taken a moment before he realized this was no dream. That the light shafting through the bedchamber was real. That his wife had not only shared her bed but shared her arms. That this Christmas Eve morning had begun with so much promise. Hope lit his heart. Did this mean she would forgive him?

  He’d lain there, reveling in the sound of her soft breathing as a thousand prayers of thankfulness filled his soul. Thank You, God, for Your protection. Thank You, God, for Your mercy. Thank You, God, for Julia. Thank You, God, for all You’ve done.

  When he’d finally sensed her stirring he’d tensed, waiting for her horrified reaction as she realized what she’d done. It hadn’t come. Instead, he heard her good morning, felt her lips brush his shoulder, then the bed dip as she got out, and moved to change.

  He rolled onto his back, ignoring the spasms, and watched as she moved to the window, where the sun caught the gold in her hair. His heart clenched. She was so fair, so lovely.

  “Good morning.”

  Julia glanced back over her shoulder, the curve of her cheek illuminated in the light. She smiled. “It seems so strange to see you there.”

  “Thank you for letting me.”

  She shrugged, the light fading from her face. His spirits sagged. How carefully he must learn to tread, to not let the past dominate the present, to encourage his wife to love, not rancor.

  “Are you hungry?” she finally asked. “I could have some breakfast sent up.”

  Was such solicitude so he could avoid seeing Jon and her mother, or so they could avoid seeing him? “Is that what you think best?”

  She pursed her lips, studying him, then shook her head. “I think it’s time they faced the fact that you are here, and we …”

  His pulse quickened. “And we … ?” Lord, have mercy.

  “I …” She shook her head. “I don’t know what we are.”

  Disappointment crashed against his ribs, causing a physical ache. But love demanded he tread softly, not demand or seek his own way. “We are … whatever you wish us to be,” he finally dared.

  Her chin wobbled, and she turned away, but not before he caught the trembling lips and sparkle of tears.

  His heart wrenched, but he refused to press for clarification. He would be patient, and endeavor to show her that her trust in him was not misplaced.

  BREAKING HIS FAST had rarely felt so challenging. Julia’s mother had given an audible sniff when he entered the dining parlor for luncheon—they were too late for breakfast, it seemed—before treating him as nonexistent. Julia’s brother had eyed him narrowly, but at least had the grace to fling the occasional remark in his direction; perhaps Lord Hawkesbury had had a word in his ear about Thomas’s new faith. Catherine was, as ever, gracious, wishing him the joy of the season with a look that spoke of her sincerity. As for Julia, she seemed to treat him with a mix of pique and shy concern, a mix that deepened his longing for the chance to finally explain things, as desperate hope battled the lash of doubts.

  “It was good to see Hawkesbury yesterday,” Jon said.

  Thomas glanced up from his plate. Judging from Julia’s brother’s mien, that remark had been addressed to him. He swallowed his mouthful of salmon, and murmured, “He has been most obliging.”

  “I should think he has!” snapped Lady Harkness, finally deigning to look at him. “I could scarcely believe my ears when I heard he had personally escorted you from the north.”

  Thomas inclined his head, not daring to say anything that might further incur her wrath.

  She muttered something, and he caught the words “ungrateful wretch.” The words tore at the thin strands of forgiveness he’d felt God had laced across his shame, but though his cheeks burned, he held his tongue. Lord, have mercy …

  “Mother,” Jon said. “I do not know if you were apprised fully of the situation yesterday when Lord Hawkesbury visited. He did have, er”—he glanced quickly at Thomas before his attention returned to his mother—“some rather illuminating things to say.”

  A corner of hope lit within.

  “It would seem that Hale is in line for some sort of commendation from the prime minister.”

  He was?

  “Congratulations,” said Catherine in her quiet way.

  “You appear surprised, Hale. Did you not know of it?”

  “These past few days have been a blur,” he said cautiously. “I find I cannot remember all that has been said.”

  Lady Harkness gave another disapproving sniff.

  “That, coupled with some other, rather more important news, has given food
for thought.”

  “More important news?” Lady Harkness said. “I should think any man should be satisfied with a commendation from the prime minister.”

  “But this news is of far greater significance,” Jon continued, turning back to Thomas. “In fact, it can be said to have eternal significance. Is this not correct?”

  The anger shading his eyes had gone; instead, Thomas thought he saw something approaching approval. Well, not approval, perhaps; more like acquiescence, like he had been forced to concede to a heavenly authority that demanded forgiveness.

  “I … I have much to learn,” Thomas admitted.

  “We all do,” said Jon. “I find I am constantly learning just how much I do not know.”

  “What are you talking about?” demanded Lady Harkness, looking between them.

  Jon offered Thomas a half smile, one seemingly tinged with apology, before turning to his mother. “Do you remember in those first days when we thought Julia lost to us, how you said you found comfort by reading the Scriptures?”

  What?

  She looked a little nonplussed. “Well, perhaps I did …”

  “Lord Hawkesbury reminded me yesterday how we should not underestimate the power of God to transform lives. And I …” He glanced at Catherine. “I was challenged also.”

  “About?” Julia finally spoke.

  Thomas watched her face, as her brother said in his deep tones, “About remembering how much I have been forgiven, and how that should lead me to treat others.”

  Her blue eyes widened, and she slowly turned to face Thomas.

  “Hale,” Jon continued, “I cannot help but be glad for the good news I have learned.”

  He managed to smile past his surprise, to offer a quiet thank you. God was merciful indeed if Julia’s brother was extending forgiveness.

  “Thomas?” Julia wore a slight frown.

  “Mother, Catherine, if you have both finished your meals, I believe we must discuss some of the preparations for tomorrow, then get ready for tonight’s services.”

  “Oh, we should also—” Julia began, looking at Thomas.

  “I believe God will overlook your nonattendance, if you find yourself occupied otherwise.”

  With this decidedly less than subtle diversion, Jon herded a reluctant Lady Harkness and a smiling Catherine away, leaving Julia to face Thomas across the table.

  “What was all that about?” she asked.

  “I … I have some things to tell you.”

  Her eyes shadowed. His heart twisted. Lord, have mercy.

  THE DRAWING ROOM was quiet, the soothing blues and cream a hopeful reflection of his soul. Or at least what he hoped the outcome would be. He’d taken heart at Julia’s compliance, her willingness to sit beside him, his legs suddenly unsteady when earlier he’d tried to stand, before realizing his confessions would take a physical toll and he’d need to be seated.

  His prayers had barely ceased: that Julia would have understanding, that she would forgive him, that those words of hate she had spoken yesterday would remain forever in the past. His heart hurt at the memory, before he reminded himself to let such things go. Love held no wrongs.

  Julia opened her mouth then closed it, sweetly unsure. This was a new Julia; the boldness he had once known her for seemingly far away.

  “What is it?”

  “What”—she gestured to the direction of the dining room—“what was that back there, with you and Jon?”

  Lord, have mercy. He said slowly, “I believe he was referring to a conversation I’d had with Lord Hawkesbury, that Hawkesbury must have shared.”

  Her brows rose, her look one of expectancy.

  “I …” Where to begin? “I cannot remember if I ever told you much about my father.”

  His look of enquiry only drew forth a shake of her head and a murmured, “Only that he wanted nothing to do with you.”

  “He was a church minister, one who believed in a vengeful God who hated sinners.” He offered a small smile. “Therefore, it must have seemed only right that he hated me.”

  She made a small noise of protest.

  “I’m afraid that it is so. His tolerance was never very high, and my desire to accord to his will was always rather low. I suppose he was somewhat justified in thinking me rebellious and wild.”

  Her hand placed on his arm engendered strength, the compassion in her eyes giving hope she might understand.

  “For a long time I resisted any thought of God—why would I want anything to do with someone who hated me?—but after Edinburgh …”

  “After Edinburgh?” she prompted gently.

  “When I … when I met Lord Hawkesbury, and was brought to realize God’s mercy in keeping me alive again, I … was brought to see that perhaps God might not be so harsh and unforgiving as I had believed, that in fact He was quite the opposite.”

  He swallowed. Lord, help her see.

  “I know how much of a disappointment I have proved to you, and that so many things have not happened as you might have liked. You have no idea of the depths of my regret.” Honesty demanded utterance. “There … there have been times when I wished I’d never met you, so I could have saved you from this pain.”

  Her eyes filled, she looked down, biting her lip.

  The rawness sweeping his soul balled hard within his chest. “I know that I have sinned against you, and against God. I have scarcely had the chance to speak with you, but have had many hours alone to think, to speak with God. And I have asked for His forgiveness, and have sensed that He, in His great mercy, has given it.”

  He could sense the slight stiffening, though her hand remained.

  “Not because I deserve it, but because of His great grace. I deserve nothing, I know.”

  His throat cinched, his eyes watered, as his renewed consciousness of the great largesse of God’s grace towards him burned within. He was a sinner, but God had rescued him, pulled him from the mire of his many poor choices, and set his feet upon a Rock, a Rock to whom he would cling, regardless of the outcome with his wife today.

  “And Lord Hawkesbury?”

  “Encouraged me to seek forgiveness from God, and was there when I finally did so. I cannot tell you what peace I have found in knowing such a thing.”

  He dared glance at her. She was looking at her lap, her expression unreadable.

  “I know I have no right to ask, but part of me still dares to hope: Julia, will you somehow find it in your heart to forgive me?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  FORGIVENESS.

  It felt as though all her life had led to this one moment, this one word. The wrestle inside had not abated, had only grown more fierce. She could hold on to this resentment, this bitterness that Catherine had long ago said would poison her heart, or she could do as Thomas requested and forgive.

  But forgive what, she still did not know. Did she even need to know? Or was that another thing she should just leave in the past, as Catherine had suggested? She did not want to live in the past, but neither did she want this specter looming over them, shadowing their future. If they even had a future, that was. Oh, what should she do?

  “I understand,” Thomas said. “I’ve asked too much, too soon. Believe me, I have no wish to cause you pain, but neither do I wish to continue living with what needs to be spoken. If we do not speak of it, it becomes something that will fester between us, that will bring irritation between us, and eventually infect our lives with bitterness.”

  Bitterness. “Like poison.”

  “Exactly so.” His eyes were sorrowful. “Words can never tell you of the depths of my regret, but I am so sorry, more sorry than you can ever know.”

  And he was. She could read it in his eyes. His disillusionment, his agony, the hurt that seemed to weigh his soul like it did hers. She had a choice: to turn away, or to listen. To speak with anger, or hold her peace. To trust her instincts, or trust God.

  She swallowed. Thomas seemed to have found some measure of peace by committing himself to
God. Catherine had. Lavinia, the earl. Jon, too. God, do You care about me, too?

  Something within her seemed to cry yes.

  Her eyes burned; her throat clogged. What do I do?

  Trust Me, that same voice whispered.

  She drew in a deep breath. Very well, she would do things God’s way. “Tell me.”

  With a look filled with gratitude, he began to speak of his time in Spain, his words according much with what his cellmate had said, with some notable differences. Thomas spoke of the jailer’s daughter with loathing—something she’d expected, as no doubt he’d want to reassure her—but the sickness in his face, the way he’d had to pause every so often as though he wanted to retch, these she had not expected.

  Had his actions been ones more about survival than betrayal?

  If so, who was she to add to his obvious pain by deliberately holding on to pride, instead of offering love, offering forgiveness, as she sensed she ought? God, what do I do?

  Catherine’s words from weeks ago stole into memory. Bitterness bound; forgiveness freed. The story of the unforgiving servant, forgiven much but unwilling to forgive. Was she like that servant? How much had she sinned? She wasn’t perfect by any means. She pushed her head into her hands, the choice looming before her. What should she do?

  She somehow knew.

  Swallowing the giant ball of emotion lodged in her throat, she finally dared utter the prayer she knew needed to be prayed.

  God, forgive me. Help me to forgive him. I don’t really want to, but I know I need to. Please help me.

  A litany of sins flashed through her mind: her pride, her lies, her selfishness, her resentment.

  Heavenly Father, I’m so sorry. She swallowed. How can I judge him when I’m a sinner, too?

  Her chest grew tight. She dragged in a deep breath.

  God, forgive me. Please help me to forgive him, to love Thomas as I ought. Moisture burned in her eyes. I don’t know what to say except help me to trust You with all of this, with all our future. Lead me—lead us—into Your plans.