The Making of Mrs. Hale Page 17

  He plunged his hands into his breeches pocket, found the card inscribed with the name of the solicitor Jon had recommended. Purpose firmed. An answer. “If you still refuse to pay, then you force me to seek legal restitution.”

  “Over a matter of forty pounds? Come man, don’t be absurd.”

  “Do you consider honor absurd?” McKinley’s eyes flickered. A hit. “It was fifty pounds,” Thomas said, continuing to watch him carefully. “I thought you said the other ten was a gift.”

  “What you think and what is true appear to be two very different things,” McKinley said with a yawn. “Now, excuse me, but I have many pressing matters to attend to.” He gestured to the man standing behind him. “Bucknell will escort you out.”

  Thomas wrenched his arm away. “This is a public establishment. I need no escort, sir.”

  He pushed to his feet, hating the feeling of being summarily dismissed, yet unable to think what else might be done. Nothing he said seemed to make a whit of difference. He could only hope this Mr. Osgood fellow might have a solution.

  He picked his way through the crowd, unhappily aware that many of them were following his progress with intent speculation, and reached the outside, and the choke of smoke-fogged street. He glanced at the card again, noting the address before returning it to its hiding place deep in his pocket. He would just have to hope that Mr. Osgood was not averse to an evening visitor.

  The streets turned and twisted, a ropelike snarl of back alleys and lanes, as he wended his way across Auld Town to where the address proclaimed Mr. Osgood’s premises in the New.

  A scuffle sounded behind him. He glanced back. No one.

  The uneasy feeling returned, doubling, redoubling. Perhaps he would have been wiser to have sourced a hackney, but these steep streets ill lent themselves to such things, and he could scarce afford it anyway. His pace increased.

  “Oy, Hale.”

  Thomas paused, turned. The man Bucknell stood there, leering. “Yes?”

  “McKinley felt sorry for you. He wanted to make sure you got what you was owed.”

  A knot loosed in his chest. He’d relented, after all? “I am glad he has seen sense and—”

  The flash of knife surprised him, forcing him to block with his arm, even as he tried to twist away. The blade pierced his coat sleeve, elicited a gasp as the steel met skin, ripped into his flesh. Thomas fisted a punch to the man’s abdomen, satisfied as the action caused Bucknell’s grip on the knife to release, and Thomas kicked it across the laneway. Breathing hard, he watched the man gasp for air. Thomas pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it against his wound. “Fighting dirty, is he?”

  Bucknell looked up, the pain contorting his face changing to a smirk. “You could say that.”

  Just then, fire crashed through Thomas’s head from behind, and he slumped to the ground in an agony of stunned pain.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  JULIA WATCHED AS Catherine departed the sitting room to greet her newly arrived guest.

  “Dearest Catherine!”

  The voices in the hall continued, Catherine’s low voice underscoring the higher tones of Lavinia, Countess of Hawkesbury. From the conversation at dinner last week, Julia knew Catherine had been looking forward to seeing her friend again.

  Julia looked back down at her sad attempt at stitchery. She would never master the patience required for such fine detail, patience her sister-in-law possessed in abundance.

  She had welcomed Catherine’s invitation to visit this afternoon—really, these opportunities to escape the icy stillness of Portman Square were something of a godsend—but now felt a mix of trepidation and anticipation. If Julia was to ever make her reentrance into society, it might as well be with people she sensed would regard her with more consideration than contempt. And that had been her experience with the ebullient countess back in Gloucestershire two years ago. But time could change things. She hoped Lavinia’s kindness would be in evidence again today.

  The door reopened, and Lady Hawkesbury entered, her face lighting as she saw Julia.

  “Oh, my dear Julia!”

  Seconds later she was ensconced in a hug so warm, filled with such acceptance, tears started to her eyes.

  “Dear Julia.” Lavinia pulled back, eyes searching her. “How truly wonderful to see you.”

  “I … I hope you don’t mind my being here. Catherine said you would not.” Julia shot her sister-in-law a small smile.

  “Mind? How could I mind such a wondrous thing? You have been in my prayers these many months, and I confess it seems almost miraculous to see you again, looking so fresh and lovely.”

  Julia forced a smile. Flutters of unease in her midsection certainly did not lend themselves to thinking herself in such a generous way. “’Tis kind of you to say so.”

  “Not kind. Merely the truth.” Lavinia turned to Catherine. “Jon and your mother must be so pleased to have you returned!”

  “They are delighted.”

  “And your husband? Where is he?” Lavinia asked, her attention returning to Julia, without the flicker of an eyelash to suggest anything other than polite enquiry.

  “My husband has recently returned to conclude some business matters in Scotland.”

  “By all that is wonderful, so has mine! Well, not returned exactly. Nicholas is merely visiting his solicitor. Apparently, he has a cousin whose idea of estate management does not precisely accord with Nicholas’s intentions, and he feels it best to deal with such matters in a manner less confrontational, shall we say, than that which might more naturally be his bent.”

  A chuckle escaped. “He sounds not unlike Thomas in that way.”

  Lavinia peered at her. “Well, I should imagine they might possess similar qualities. They were both majors in His Majesty’s army, were they not?”

  “My husband served in India.”

  “And did some good work there, so my husband tells me.”

  Surprise curled warmth within. How rare it was to hear her Thomas praised.

  Lavinia smiled, a gesture so full of sincerity and friendliness Julia felt the shackles surrounding her heart loosen a fraction more. “And may I be so bold as to ask when you expect Major Hale’s return?”

  “I am hopeful it is within the next week. It depends on the success of his mission.” Like whether he learned more about little Charlie’s family. Her sagging spirits were surprised at Lavinia’s laughter.

  “Oh, your husband talks like that, too, does he? I declare, sometimes it seems that Nicholas will never forget his army days and fully settle down to married life, and fatherhood, and all that that entails.”

  The door opened, admitting a footman carrying a tray of tea things. Catherine quietly directed him to place it in the corner, then began to pour.

  Lavinia took a sip of tea, complimented Catherine on its superior quality—“but that can hardly be wondered at, seeing as your husband has such superior connections!”—then glanced at Julia again, her head tilted. “I suppose you must have become used to enjoying such things when you were growing up. I imagine the Carlew family never lacked for those products India is renowned for. Tea, and cotton, and silks.” She sighed. “Sometimes I wonder at myself, being interested in the frivolous things my Aunt Patience would never have approved. But I cannot apologize for preferring my tea to be delicious rather than stale.”

  Julia smiled and murmured something of her agreement.

  “I knew you were sensible. Now, Julia—I hope you don’t mind if I call you Julia?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I do not know if you remember that we have a little girl. Grace is a sweet thing, nearly two years of age now. She and young Elizabeth will soon be playmates.”

  “And there is another little person to become a playmate,” Catherine said with a smile at Julia.

  “We …” Julia swallowed. Had Jon told his wife the truth about little Charles? It did not seem so. Conscious two pairs of eyes were studying her, she finished with a rush, �
�… have a little boy. His name is Charles.” There. There was no word of lie in that, was there? Little Charles was in her—their—possession, after all. At least for the moment.

  “Oh! How wonderful! Well, my congratulations to you both.” Lavinia turned to Catherine, and said with a knowing look, “I wonder how long it will be until Elizabeth might have a sibling?”

  Catherine blushed, but said calmly, “And as soon as I saw you, I wondered the same about your little Grace.”

  Lavinia chuckled. “Oh, your powers of discernment are indeed marvelous as ever, dear friend. Yes”—her eyes lit like stars—“we have reason to hope for another addition in the next few months.” She peeked at Julia. “All the more reason for Lord Hawkesbury to conclude his time in Scotland so he can return in plenty of time before the babe’s arrival.”

  “Congratulations,” Julia murmured, fighting the pang of envy. How wonderful it must be to be so secure in their marriage that she could speak so confidently.

  “Thank you!” She beamed, accepting a small pastry from the plate Catherine offered, adding, “And thank you. I find I’m terribly hungry these days, which can make my manners a trifle unseemly at times.”

  Catherine denied this with a smile, and offered the plate to Julia.

  Her stomach protested. “Thank you, no.”

  Lavinia turned to Catherine. “And how long do you think your interesting condition might last for?”

  “Until early summer, perhaps. But we have not told anyone in the family, not even dear Julia.” She shot Julia a look tinged with apology. “And I do not quite know how to share such things with Serena and Henry, especially at this time.”

  “Oh, yes, I heard Lord Bevington is extremely unwell,” said Lavinia, her features soft with sympathy. “He has been in our prayers also.”

  Lavinia seemed to spend a great deal of time praying for people, Julia mused. Her gaze shifted and she caught a different look in Catherine’s eye, as if that wasn’t what she’d meant to imply, before her face blanked to smoothness. The Earl of Bevington’s illness was not why Catherine was reluctant to share news of her pregnancy with her sister. Half-spoken words, recollections of Lord Carmichael’s anxiety about his wife’s reaction to little Charles whirled through her mind, settling into certainty. No wonder Catherine had said nothing. Serena herself had spoken of her fears that she was unable to have children.

  By the time her attention returned to the other ladies, their conversation had moved on to other elements associated with their mutual “interesting” conditions.

  “Yes, this time I feel so much better than I did when I was carrying Grace.” Lavinia glanced at Julia. “Forgive me for being so indelicate, but it’s wonderful to have someone who understands such intimate matters. Don’t you agree?”

  What could she say? Julia could only nod.

  “I have heard it said that the sicker one is the healthier the child will be,” Lavinia continued in a conspiratorial tone, “and that one’s pregnancies differ according to whether one is carrying a boy or a girl.” She touched her midsection. “I am hopeful that my different experience this time means Nicholas might finally have his son.”

  She shared a look with Catherine heavy with meaning, before glancing back at Julia, the corners of her mouth tipping up. “Forgive me if you find this question too bold, but I’m interested in finding out if other ladies suffered more with carrying boys than with girls. Did you suffer overly when you were pregnant with Charles?”

  “I, er …” Julia swallowed.

  “Forgive me. I should not ask such a thing.”

  “No, no,” Julia moved to assure her. She frowned, trying to remember just how Meggie had described her experience. “There were … symptoms of nausea, I recall.”

  “Oh, yes! And such tiredness! I felt completely drained …” Lavinia’s voice faded.

  Catherine murmured, “I craved quite strange foods. And had headaches. And felt … a little sore and tender …” She glanced at Julia. “You were fortunate if you did not experience much in the way of these.”

  “I … did not,” she said, wincing internally at her honesty.

  As the others continued their somewhat surprisingly candid descriptions, Julia blinked. Why, the symptoms they described might well be describing how she had been feeling these past days. The scent of egg from the plate wafted before her, causing a familiar clenching from inside that mingled with a new lightheadedness. She gasped.

  “Julia? What is it?”

  She shook her head, placed a hand to her mouth, and willed the nausea away, even as the previous conversation washed through her consciousness, gaining new meaning.

  Oh, dear God!

  Could she truly be in an interesting condition also?

  The scent of decaying fish and brine assailed his senses, stirring him to wakefulness. Thomas blinked, but his vision remained blurred. All remained indistinct, all remained dim. He tried to move, but couldn’t. Pressure bound him. A staying hand.

  A vague murmur of voices stole into his awareness, deep tones, higher tones, something in a Scottish brogue. A seagull’s caw. The slap of sea.

  He felt a hand touch his scalp, and he closed his eyes against the sheer roar of pain, muttered an oath. But words refused to form. His tongue felt engorged, his nerves splintering into a thousand tiny pinpricks. He turned his head, smelled the scent of something pungent, something damp, something that smelled half dead. His stomach protested and he jerked his head to retch. Almost vomited again at the enormous pain swelling within.

  “Och, the poor wee laddie.”

  A spark of humor pushed past his wretchedness. He’d never been accused of being “wee” these past two dozen years.

  He forced his eyes to open, saw something striped, like an apron, a basket woven of sticks like willow, the bare feet and rolled up trouser legs of a small boy.

  A guttural sound came, then he felt himself being lifted, felt an arm around his shoulders, a small hand pat down his coat and pockets.

  Thomas tried to protest, but only heard the guttural sound again, and realized it must have come from himself.

  The voices overhead and behind him continued in their strange and unfamiliar tongue. His brain could not follow, and he gave it up, closing his eyes against the harsh insistent light.

  Sleep beckoned, unearthly stillness, even as a tiny whisper begged him to remain, to pray. God! He felt his spirit cry. Help me.

  A gabble of heavily accented brogue assailed his ears, words he could have no hope of understanding. He exhaled, and succumbed to the darkness again.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  RAIN PATTERED AGAINST the bedroom window, tapping certainty into her soul. Days had passed and she could not avoid the truth any longer. She would have to see the doctor.

  Julia released a shaky breath. But she could not! Seeing a doctor would mean a doctor must see her—and see parts of her nobody but Thomas had seen in an age—and then the doctor would know she had never birthed a child. She frowned. He would be able to tell that, wouldn’t he? And if he learned the truth, then Mother would also, and then there would be such a to-do about little Charles that she could not bear to think—

  “Oh, good, you are awake.” Mother walked into the bedchamber, without a knock to preface her entry. Really, Julia thought, the sooner she and Thomas could live somewhere else, the better. “I was beginning to wonder if we might ever see you again.”

  “Here I am,” Julia said, offering a pitiful attempt at a smile.

  “I am sorry you have not felt well these past days. I have on several occasions tried to see if you would like a doctor to visit, but each time you have been asleep.”

  Well, Julia’s lips grew heavy with guilt, she’d pretended to be asleep. For how could she agree to be examined when it would confirm what she suspected? How could she disappoint her mother, when her mother’s feelings towards little Charles vacillated according to the pitch of his cries? Some days she seemed to barely tolerate him, while others she
seemed charmed by his full-cheeked smile. What would Mother say when she learned Thomas’s visit weeks ago had resulted in another “consequence”?

  “I do hope you’re feeling a little better now.”

  “A little,” she hedged.

  “Good. For I have Dr. Fairburn downstairs, waiting to see you. No, there is no need to look like that. He’s very well-known, all my friends declare him to be the best. He possesses the bedside manner of a prince!”

  Julia swallowed a hysteria-laden giggle. Judging from the exploits of certain members of the royal family, she certainly hoped this doctor did not wish to emulate them!

  Mother looked at her oddly, shrugged, then called for a servant to send the doctor up.

  Julia eyed her mother with no small degree of trepidation. Would she insist on staying? What could she do to make her leave?

  “Now, please do not worry. I will be here with you. As I said, he’s come highly recommended—ah, doctor, thank you for agreeing to see my daughter Julia.”

  “Miss,” he offered Julia a bow, before casting a look at her mother, as if requesting permission.

  Somehow that look fired grit within. “I am Mrs. Hale,” she said loudly.

  His gaze returned to her. “Oh! Forgive me. I did not realize. I assumed—”

  “I imagine assumptions could prove fatal in your line of work.”

  Dr. Fairburn blinked. The crease in his forehead deepened. He glanced at her mother, as if unsure what to do.

  “Please ignore my daughter’s attempt at levity. She has been unwell these past days and I’m afraid that has put her out of spirits.”

  He inclined his head, then turned to Julia. “You have not been well?”

  Perhaps she could answer with half-truths, as now seemed to be her way. “No, I have not.”

  He took a moment to ask her symptoms, to which she gave vague answers, resulting in his frown. “And have you done anything out of the ordinary, perhaps been someplace unusual? Do you have any idea as to what might have caused this?”

  She had some idea …

  “Perhaps you have eaten something that did not agree with you?”