When We Touch

by Heather Graham

  Her heart sank. She leapt from the bed, realized her state of undress, for she had fallen asleep in the smoking jacket, and turned and fled into the dressing room and bath.

  There, she started to shake. It occurred to her that she might really be accused of murder. Surely, no one would believe such a thing.

  She saw her reflection above the marble sink. She looked ghastly, gaunt and white, and totally disheveled. She lowered her head, realizing that Charles had died. She wasn’t sure if she felt pain, or if she was still in such a realm of shock that it was natural she should feel nothing but a crippling numbness.

  She had to gather herself together, she knew. And yet, it was almost impossible to do so. Either minutes or hours passed in which she just stood there. She dimly heard a knock at the door. Not Arianna this time, since the girl had no intention of knocking. And still, she couldn’t bring herself to call out.

  “My lady?” the door opened. Maggie still couldn’t move.

  She realized that a young woman in a maid’s attire had gingerly entered the room, and now waited just outside the bath, looking in. “Ah, my poor lady!” the woman murmured. She had an accent, that much registered in Maggie’s mind. Irish. She had dark hair, a smattering of freckles, warm brown eyes, and a fresh face. “Come out, please. Lie down. I’ll draw you a bath, get your clothing together . . . I’m so sorry. So, so, sorry!”

  The kindness suddenly shown her brought tears to Maggie’s eyes. “Thank you!” she managed.

  “I’m Fiona, upstairs maid,” she told Maggie. “Come along, now, please, let me help you.”

  Maggie looked down, gritted her teeth, and straightened. “Thank you,” she said again, some dignity back in her voice. “Perhaps that would indeed help.”

  She left the bathroom and allowed Fiona to prepare her a bath with good, hot water. Maggie sank into it, praying for the steam to ease the wracking pain in her head. At length, she was ready to rise. And thankfully, due to the periods of mourning Maggie had already observed, there was a black satin dress among her belongings in the room. She allowed Fiona to help her dress, and then, she was grateful when the girl made quick and efficient work with the wild tangles of her hair. At length, Maggie appeared presentable.

  “Sir James . . . Lord James, I believe it is now, is in the grand salon, my lady,” Fiona told her when she had finished. Stepping back, she surveyed her handiwork. “And Dr. Mayer has left laudanum, should you need it, in the days to come.”

  Maggie nodded. She had to face what was happening. She rose. “Thank you, Fiona.”

  “Aye, my lady. I’ll report back to Mrs. Whitley now.”

  “No,” Maggie said, suddenly determined that she wasn’t going to allow herself to be bullied by a housekeeper—not unless the police hauled her away for murder. “Fiona, I would you like your position changed in the house. You’ll be my personal maid from now on.”

  Fiona looked distressed. “I’m afraid Mrs. Whitley—”

  “Mrs. Whitley is not the mistress of the house,” Maggie said. “I will see that she is informed.”

  “Would you like your things moved back to . . . to the master chamber?”

  “No, I would like the rest of my things brought here. I don’t believe I’ll be staying that long,” she said, and quickly exited the room.

  The great manor house was quiet, terribly so after the excitement of the day gone by. Maggie walked down the stairs, and from the landing at the entry to the massive grand salon. Jamie was there, standing before the fire, looking thoughtful and solemn.

  “Ah, there you are,” he said. “Charles, as you must know, did not make the night.”

  She sat down, shaking.

  “The Queen,” Jamie continued, “has sent word that he should be interred at Westminster. He was very fond of it, always telling her that he preferred the truly ancient stones, despite the artistic talents of Sir Christopher Wren, and the beauty of St. Paul’s. Naturally, this must also be in accordance with your wishes. You were his legal wife.”

  Maggie lifted a hand. She tried to speak, couldn’t, tried again. “I’m sure that the Queen was more privy to certain of his thoughts; whatever you and Her Majesty agree upon is certainly fine with me.”

  “Arrangements will be made for a proper wake . . . tomorrow night.”

  Maggie nodded again. It all seemed surreal.

  “Arianna is now under sedation. Dr. Mayer has kindly agreed to remain here as a guest for the next few days.”

  “Very kind of him.”

  His voice seemed to harden. “Next week, you will have an opportunity to spend time with the solicitors for the estate. Naturally, I’m assuming you’ll want your brother to be present.”

  She waved a hand in the air. “There is no part of the estate that I want; certainly, there were no such agreements made.”

  “Ah, but you do receive a third of the inheritance. Certain assets go to Arianna, and—unless there is the chance of a male heir being born posthumously—the title and properties come to me.”

  She lowered her head. “There is no chance of a posthumous heir.”

  “Well, it might not do to speak so candidly at any other time,” he said flatly. “Arianna is convinced that you . . . did something to her father. She might attempt to go to the courts and see that the marriage is annulled.”

  “What does it matter?”

  “Your family estates could be confiscated, in lieu of goods illegally obtained by false promise,” Jamie said.

  “What?” she gasped.

  “The law can be complex and detailed. Excuse me, due to the circumstances, there are many affairs that I must attend to,” he told her. “Unless, of course, there are certain matters you feel must have your personal touch?”

  He was deferring to her as the wife of the deceased. Laughable, of course. She had been engaged for a month, long enough for legal banns to be cried, and no more. She had no right to the life of a man so important, for so many years, to others.

  “I have no right to infringe upon your handling of affairs,” she said simply.

  “Good. I have sent for your brother. He will be with you soon.”

  “Thank you.”

  They were stiff, so terribly stiff and formal! Impossible to believe that just two nights ago . . . and yet, impossible to believe that the world had changed entirely, so quickly. Charles was dead. She had determined that she would be a martyr to marriage, albeit he had been a dear one . . . until last night. And now he was dead. And his daughter was screaming accusations of murder against her!

  Still, Jamie hesitated. “There is going to be an autopsy,” he told her.

  Frowning, she stared at him.

  “Why?”

  “Sir William wants to make sure that it was his heart, and there were no other factors that brought on his death.”

  “Such as . . . ?”

  “Poison.”

  A chill enveloped her. She stared at him. “Surely, you don’t believe that I . . . ?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I believe. Sir William is beloved of the Queen, as was Charles. There will be an autopsy.”

  Jamie walked out. She heard the sounds of his footsteps receding.

  She rose and fled back to her room. A few moments later, Fiona arrived with a tray of tea and toast. She thanked her, certain she couldn’t begin to eat a bite.

  But the tea she wanted.

  She realized how badly her hands were still shaking when she poured. Fiona had arranged her tray very attractively, with flowers and the morning newspaper.

  She glanced at the headlines and started shaking all over again.

  “Another Murder in Whitechapel!” glared the front page of the paper.

  Of course, the murder in the daily paper had nothing to do with the death of the dearly beloved and esteemed Lord Charles. And still . . .

  Maggie stared at the word and started to laugh, and then she started to cry, and it seemed that hours passed in which she endured her own private hell of denial and . .
.

  Guilt.

  After a while, she cried herself out and sat numbly once again. She paced, thoughts racing through her mind at a terrifying speed, then leaving it empty and cold.

  At last, ready to tear her hair out, she picked up the newspaper.

  Horrible murder of a woman, another Whitechapel mystery.

  Maggie found herself reading the appalling description of the murder.

  . . . lying in a pool of blood . . . throat cut from ear to ear . . . the lower part of the abdomen was completely ripped open and the bowels were protruding . . .

  She set the paper down, feeling a sense of terrible despair. The woman’s name, she noted, had been Annie Chapman. She had been discovered in the early morning hours of the previous day, in the backyard of number 29, Hanbury Street. A poor prostitute, her death was of note because of the ghastly mutilations done to her body—similar to those of the woman named Mary Ann, known as Polly Nichols just nine days earlier on the night of August thirty-first.

  The article went on to describe the mutilations done to the body in gory detail, and then to talk about the life of the woman slain. She was among the worst of the “unfortunates” working London’s East End. Aged forty-two, missing teeth, she had been turned away from a doss house the night before, lacking the money for a bed. She had been “in a state of deep drink,” and had told friends and whoever would listen that she had earned her doss money three times that day, but had spent it, yet she would make it again.

  Poor Annie. The woman had taken pride in one of her garments, a new straw bonnet, trimmed with black velvet. She’d been the mother of five, but hadn’t seen the children in years, nor her husband, William Nichols, who had ceased to pay her six shillings allowance because she had begun to live the life of a prostitute.

  So much for the victim.

  The article went on to lambast the police, society, and even the Queen. It declared that there was a madman loose on the streets, and that he had now struck twice, if he hadn’t also perpetuated previous killings. Because a leather apron had been found near the body, the killer was now being referred to as Leather Apron.

  Once again, the article went on to talk about the deceased. She had held a domestic position in Wandsworth but had absconded with several pounds sterling worth of clothing, which she had probably pawned.

  The article, though condemning of both London itself and the woman, brought nothing but a terrible sadness to Maggie’s heart. She already knew far more than any article could bring to light about the East End.

  Murder in the East End. Never really noted—until now. Now that the bodies of the victims were being so brutally torn assunder.

  Maggie stood, thinking that by tomorrow morning, news of the death of Lord Charles, Viscount Langdon, would be in every paper around the country. And what would those articles say? Tragically, he was murdered by the woman he adored, a young thing, desperate for money, marrying him thus, just the same as any East End prostitute, just demanding much more in the way of payment!

  God, no!

  She hoped the articles would state that he had died from heart failure, and not give details.

  No, the details would await the autopsy.

  She had done nothing to him, and she knew it. The autopsy would prove it.

  A shiver of ice crept down her spine.

  Dead was dead. The prostitute was dead, and Charles was dead. She had done nothing to him, and yet she felt the heavy burden of guilt.

  And yet . . . for all her guilt, Charles had died happily, contemplating the fulfillment of a dream, and he had died in his own bed. While the poor woman in Whitechapel . . .

  How she must have suffered. What terror had she endured, before death had given her peace? And what kind of a horrible animal could perpetuate such a crime?

  Staring at the paper, stunned by the brutality of the murder and the grisly details so carefully chronicled in the paper, Maggie found herself wondering if she should ask Charles if they could perhaps make a donation so that the family of the poor woman might see her properly buried. Then, she felt hysteria rising again. Charles was dead. Sometime, between last night and this morning, he had passed away. He couldn’t agree to help her with anything anymore. But . . .

  Unless she was arrested for murder herself...

  There had been agreements in the marriage contracts. She could help on her own, if she so chose. She swallowed hard. And she began to cry. And she was sorry, so sorry, Charles had been a good man.

  Lecherous.

  No worse than any other of the male of the species!

  A good man, and she was sorry, sorry, sorry, and . . .

  God help her, as honest as her sense of loss and sorrow were, so was another feeling that she tried desperately to bury. One that made her realize a sensation of guilt that ascended all the rest. And what she couldn’t help to feel in a tiny place in her soul—that place which had felt so mortified the night before—was a sensation of...

  Relief.

  * * *

  Justin and Mireau arrived a few hours later, along with a messenger from the Queen, sending her deepest condolences.

  “Do you want to come home now?” Justin asked her rather awkwardly. “Moorhaven reverts to James, you know. Of course, as long as you live—and don’t remarry—you have the right to live here. Charles, of course, made that provision. I just didn’t think . . . Well, I guess it can’t be terribly comfortable for you.”

  “Justin, I can’t wait to escape and come home,” she told her brother. “But . . . I think it only proper that I wait until after the funeral. And the autopsy,” she added bitterly.

  “Yes, yes, you’re right, of course . . . it’s just . . . well, if he’d died a day earlier . . . well, of course, we’d all be grieving, still, but . . .”

  Mireau made a strange noise in his throat. Maggie realized he was staring at her. “What?” she demanded.

  “Nothing, nothing.”

  “Say what’s on your mind, Jacques! Why should you cease to do so now?” Maggie demanded.

  “No.”

  “Mireau!”

  He let out a sigh. “All right, Maggie! If you insist. Did he have the heart attack before, during, or after?”

  “Jacques!” she and Justin exclaimed together.

  Justin put up a hand. “Please, let’s not have this conversation!” He lowered his hand and looked perplexed. “I wonder if . . .”

  “No, both of you—just stop wondering, please!” Maggie said.

  “Well, it may have legal implications,” Justin said. He was studying his sister.

  “I have no intention of discussing my private life with either of you—or anyone else! The debts are paid, Justin, right? No one can take back what was offered to the family as a marriage portion. So . . . whatever happens now, happens.”

  “Maggie, there may well be an inquest,” Justin told her uneasily.

  “He died a natural death,” she said.

  “I’m merely saying that you may be called upon to explain exactly what happened,” Justin told her.

  She stared at her brother and Mireau, who looked at her with a wry grimace. “Maggie, I’ve heard you talk about many subjects usually considered taboo,” he reminded her.

  “I’m your brother,” Justin reminded her.

  She couldn’t find the words to explain why that made the whole conversation all the more uncomfortable. Instead, she sighed with impatience. “I don’t understand what’s so difficult for anyone to understand! We were alone. We were getting ready. And he was anxious. There. Period. That’s it. He suddenly constricted, froze, I guess . . . and lapsed into unconsciousness.”

  “I’m sure it will be all right,” Justin said.

  “Of course,” Mireau agreed.

  Neither of them eased the tempest in her mind a bit.

  * * *

  “Arianna! Let me in.”

  The door flew open and Jamie gazed at the young girl’s tear-stained face. “I thought you might be her,” she said
.

  “Arianna, Maggie didn’t kill your father,” Jamie said.

  “Even Mrs. Whitley believes that she killed him!” Arianna insisted. “That woman married my father, and murdered him, all for money!”

  “Arianna, you know that I inherit the estate.”

  “Ah, but she inherits a fair amount, nonetheless!”

  “You inherit a personal fortune as well. That doesn’t mean that you killed him.”

  “Jamie, what a wretched thing to say!”

  “The point is, people don’t murder people they care about for money. There are people who wouldn’t commit murder under any circumstance.”

  “I am my father’s daughter. I truly loved him, and he was generous to a fault. She didn’t love him.”

  “I believe that she did.”

  “What an absurd lie, Jamie!”

  “Not as she did her first husband, not passionately. . . perhaps not even as a wife should love a husband. But since they first met, they were together frequently. They talked endlessly and shared many views.”

  Jamie entirely understood how Arianna felt, because as the hours had gone on, he had found himself going through many stages of grief. He remembered how Charles had been there for his father when his mother had died, and how he had come for Jamie himself when his father had passed away as well. Walking through his uncle’s library, he had thought of the way that Charles had loved books and learning, and enjoyed contemporary fiction as well as old classics. The shelves were lined with texts that were hundreds of years old, priceless, antiquarian tomes by the likes of da Vinci, Dante, and Dafoe, works on astronomy, geography . . . a half dozen tomes by or about Charles Darwin; poetry by Shelley, Keats, stories by Robert Louis Stevenson, Lord Byron, and even romances by the Brontes and Jane Austen.

  The newspapers he had kept regarding world events were neatly filed in one corner. He kept dozens of journals. He’d read about medical breakthroughs, faraway cultures, military achievements, and even breakthroughs in the pursuit of police work and investigation. He’d been an amazing and well-educated man.

  And like so many others before him, he had been determined on a young and beautiful wife when he had felt the pall of age creeping upon him. Jamie believed he knew, as most would suspect, that the actual realization of nearly possessing his bride had brought on the seizure of his uncle’s heart. There would be scandal, and certainly mockery, to come.