When We Touch

by Heather Graham

  Fiona sighed. “Well, I’m sorry. I haven’t found out anything at all that Lady Maggie has done that was illegal or immoral or even bad. She married for love, and so became a disgrace to her family. I’m afraid that I find that to be rather romantic. And surely, no matter how wealthy she is—and perhaps even overly impressed with her place in society—you must believe as well that she shouldn’t be fleeced out of her riches!”

  “Fiona, you’ve done very well. Perhaps I need to get farther out into the streets myself,” Arianna mused.

  “You know the shops in Coventry Gardens, and about the city, Arianna. You know nothing about the truly mean streets!” Fiona cautioned her.

  “Perhaps I should find out more about them—firsthand.”

  Fiona sighed. “Arianna, you’re scaring me.”

  “Don’t be silly. There’s nothing to be scared about.”

  Fiona rose, nervously casting off the cape, the black satin skirt, and the brocaded black bodice she had been wearing. “Where are my work clothes?” she asked Arianna. “Mrs. Whitley will be looking for me soon enough.”

  Arianna waved a hand in the air. “Oh, don’t worry. My stepmother roused herself enough to tell Mrs. Whitley that you had to answer to her, and only to her.”

  “Did she really?” Fiona mused.

  “Don’t you dare start liking that woman, or feeling the least sorry for her!” Arianna protested.

  “Arianna, I am not an heiress, just a working girl from Dublin.”

  “You know that I’ll see to it that you’re well paid for everything you do for me.”

  Fiona sighed. “I will not do anything illegal or immoral, Arianna. And I beg you to think about the way that you feel. There was an autopsy. Your father died of a heart attack.”

  “Good night, Fiona,” Arianna said.

  “Oh, please! Don’t be angry with me. I am your friend, and I want to help you, and make you feel better.”

  “Of course. Good night; I really must get some sleep.”

  Adjusting her maid’s cap, Fiona nodded. “Good night, Arianna.”

  When Fiona had left, Arianna stoked her fire, set her hands out before the warmth, and shivered still.

  Mesmerists . . .

  Spiritualists . . .

  Hm. It was natural that she might seek out a few. She had just lost her dear father.

  Chapter 11

  The solicitors were Mr. Green and Mr. Green, father and son. Maggie was disturbed to find that she was meeting with them alone—Jamie had spent a half hour with them before the appointed time, and it seemed that he was impatient to be off, leaving her to herself.

  Thankfully, he had gotten through to her the night before. She had done nothing but marry a man who had fervently wanted to marry her, and she was not going to spend any more time moping about, feeling guilty. A strenuous argument with herself had finally convinced her that she wasn’t evil—it had been natural to feel discomfort with such an aging man, and she would have done her best to be a good wife.

  Charles had died. All men died. Age had taken him. She had not.

  And so she had sworn off laudanum, and was completely in her right senses when she sat with the men in her late husband’s library.

  The elder Mr. Green was a severe man with stern gray muttonchops and a balding pate. The son was his exact copy, except that he had a head full of rich brown hair. One day, of course, he would resemble his father completely.

  She was gratified when they first read a letter in Charles’s own hand, speaking of his happiness when he was with her. She sat in silence when they went on to read and then explain the circumstances of his estate. Naturally, James Landgon inherited the title, the lands belonging to the title, Moorhaven and grounds among them. She, however, had a right to consider the property as her address throughout her natural life, lest she should remarry, and then, of course, she must vacate the premises. She was informed as to the accounts set up in her name, the amount of funds she’d have available, and the limitations of what she might use at any given time, since Charles had wanted her inheritance to sustain her through life should she choose not to marry again. Still, each month, she had a generous allowance.

  She listened in appreciation.

  But then they came to the point of her stepdaughter. She was the girl’s legal guardian. Charles had been quite concerned about his girl, bereft of a mother for so very long. He had every intent for the girl to marry, and his nephew, James, was well aware of the particulars. However, she was to reach her eighteenth birthday first, have a season out for balls and teas and solid friendships to be made. Until that time, he asked that Maggie do her best to see that Charles’s beloved Arianna was given advice, love, and guidance.

  She sat stunned. There was no condition in the will; she could walk away and refuse to have anything to do with the girl—other than to dole out allowance and guard her accounts. But in his own hand, Charles had left the plea that she do her best to understand and love the young woman, in his stead.

  When the younger Mr. Green finished speaking, he cleared his throat, looking at her, then his father.

  “Do you understand all the terms, my lady?” the elder Mr. Green inquired.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re not obliged to anything, but . . .” the younger Mr. Green said.

  “But in his own hand, my husband asked that I care for her,” she said.

  “Yes. Of course, you are in complete control of her inheritance, until such time as she reaches her majority.”

  “I understand, yes.”

  She hesitated, barely knowing the men. Then she asked, “Is Arianna aware of the terms of this will?”

  The younger Mr. Green cleared his throat again, looking at his father.

  “We speak with her next,” he said.

  She wondered how to delicately broach the subject of her stepdaughter’s complete and total loathing of her. Then she decided that plain speaking was best.

  “She hates me, and believes that I killed her father. I’m not sure that I would be a proper guardian for her. James is her cousin . . . or second cousin twice removed, and far closer to her affections.”

  “Lord James is aware of the terms of the will.”

  “And?”

  “Charles specifically asked that you be there to guide his daughter.”

  She sighed. Charles had never known that Arianna so despised her.

  “But . . .”

  “Are you refusing, my lady?” the elder Green asked, looking at her sternly.

  “I’m not refusing, I’m explaining that the child detests me.”

  The elder Mr. Green wore a look of total impatience. “She is a child, just that. The child of your late husband. With power comes responsibility, Lady Maggie.”

  Maggie rose, lifting her hands. “I can do my best, gentlemen. But, perhaps, after you’ve spoken with her. . . you’ll see my position. I sincerely thank you for your time.”

  “We’re available, whenever you need us, my lady,” the elder said. Of course they were available, she thought wearily. They might consider her to be a murderess themselves, but they derived a handsome income from handling the affairs of this household. She didn’t begrudge them that, and Charles had trusted them.

  “Thank you. I may well need you soon enough. I’ll see that Arianna is sent to you, if she isn’t awaiting her time as well.”

  With that, Maggie swept from the library.

  Arianna wasn’t outside waiting, but the maid, Fiona, was.

  “Fiona, can you tell Arianna that her father’s solicitors wish to see her? And then, please, consider yourself free for the rest of the day. I have . . . business elsewhere.”

  She left Fiona to deal with Arianna, and Arianna to deal with the solicitors. Right now, if she didn’t escape the house for a time at the very least, she thought that she would die.

  As she started up the stairs to her room, she nearly collided with Jamie. He had a bag in his hands.

  “Ah, Maggie. Clear-eyed at
last!” he said dryly.

  She frowned, looking at his valise. “You’re leaving?”

  “I have my own home.”

  “You’ve just inherited this one.”

  “Yes, well I’m afraid that I have some very pressing business affairs that must be attended to as well. This house remains your home, as you well know. Until such time as you find another husband.”

  “I’m scarcely seeking another husband, Lord James.”

  “Um. Well, I suppose, as matters stand, you certainly don’t need one.”

  “Marriage, Lord James, should scarcely be a matter of need.”

  “Oh?” he said, his tone polite enough, his skepticism more than obvious anyway, considering recent events.

  She flushed, and was annoyed that she did so, and yet, refused to be cowed.

  “I believe that Arianna will need you.”

  “Charles specifically believed that she would need you, Maggie. Therefore, I think that, perhaps, you and Arianna need some time together.”

  “You, too? This is ridiculous, and dangerous. She loathes me.”

  He didn’t reply at first. She gripped the banister, feeling a strange new sense of agony. There was a distance between them, naturally. Charles had died. She knew that she had suffered a terrible sense of guilt and betrayal. He must have known it all the worse. And yet . . .

  That night . . . all magic and seduction to her . . . had just been . . . a moment of undeniable urge for him.

  And now, he wasn’t just the illustrious adventurer who had so nobly and loyally served the Queen. He was Viscount Langdon. Titled, and rich. Every mother in the Ton would be pushing her young and beautiful daughter in his direction. She had been a moment’s fancy, and worse. She was the tainted woman who had married a commoner, been caught in an indecent club, married his great uncle, and possibly contributed to his early demise.

  Not only that, the solicitors had said that Jamie had been well aware of Charles’s intent for his daughter. Did that mean that she was supposed to marry Jamie? Was that why he was so determined that he must not live at the house now?

  “Arianna is young, and at the moment, in a great deal of pain. Somehow, you both must reconcile.”

  “I’m seriously doubtful that we shall ever reconcile.”

  “But you must.”

  “I should leave the house, and you should stay,” she said coolly.

  “Really?” he inquired. “You should take the money—and run?” he added politely.

  “I am saying no such thing!” she told him angrily. “I’m not at all sure that my handling the girl will be good. How can I guide her in any direction when she can’t abide being in the same room with me?”

  “You’ll have to figure it out, won’t you?” he said. “Good day, my lady.”

  He started to move past her on the stairs.

  And for a moment, they were close. So close that she could remember being in his arms, remember his eyes when they were gentle, and suddenly, the agony of it seemed more real than even her long cherished grief for Nathan, and the horror of the days gone by. And she knew that he had come to mean far more to her than even that night of intimacy that had seemed greater than the world itself. She had liked him, what she knew about him, the way that he saw the world, the way that he had seemed, beneath it all, to understand certain things about her.

  And yet he did not, and what she remembered was an illusion, nothing more. For though it seemed that he hesitated for a minute, that he might even look at her and smile with a touch of gentle longing and understanding, he did not.

  He stiffened and continued down the stairs, calling back, “If you need me, send Darby to me. I’ll be at my town house, or within the city at least, for a few months to come.”

  She didn’t wait for him to exit. She suddenly felt that she had to reach the top of the stairs before she burst into wretched tears.

  She had sworn that she would cry no more.

  For the moment, it seemed imperative that she get out of the house herself. She didn’t look back as Jamie left the house, but hurried to her room to collect her cape and reticule.

  * * *

  It seemed amazing to Jamie that so fragile and ordinary a woman should be the queen of such a vast empire.

  And yet, Victoria, for all her simplicity in dress and manner in her own home, looked at him with eyes that were intelligent and wise, even for all her years. Her hair was gray and smoothed sternly back. She was in black, as she was always. Albert was gone so many years now, and still, Queen Victoria lived for her memories of a better time. Her memories of love.

  He had been surprised that she had summoned him, yet glad to come. She met with him in the little sitting room beyond her bedchamber, and with no ceremony or preamble. The tea service set before them was elegant, but the Queen herself was quite down to earth.

  “I apologize for summoning you when the loss of your dear uncle is so recent,” she told him, waving a hand that indicated he must take a seat.

  “Your Majesty, you know that you may summon me at any time, and I am grateful for the love that you gave my uncle. Indeed, his loss is a great one,” Jamie said.

  “To me, as well.”

  “Thank you.”

  “The country has never needed the likes of him more!” Victoria said. Her hand shook slightly with indignation as she moved to pour.

  “Your Majesty, the insurrectionists are opposed by many loyal Englishmen and women—of all classes—who admire you tremendously, and are totally loyal to the Crown,” Jamie assured her.

  Her eyes flashed. “Ah, but surely you are aware that there are those who would happily destroy all that has been forged throughout the years. We are not just a country, Lord James! We are an empire, and all the glory has been gained by those men who have gone out and fought for our glory. So many of whom gave their lives . . . and yet, yet here, we struggle!”

  Since she had taken the throne of England, Victoria had faced her detractors. There had been attacks on her very life. They were living in a new world, and they both new it. The prime minister and the parliament were the true law of the country, and many believed that indeed, the monarchy itself was an anachronism. But it was equally true that, despite the lives of many of the royal household, Victoria herself was loved and esteemed; she was a great figurehead, a grandmother, a woman who, despite her years of mourning and the many times she had shut herself away, remained beloved.

  “Is there something in particular to which you’re referring, Your Majesty?” he asked.

  She waved an elegant little hand at a stack of newspapers on the table by the tea service. “What is happening now is deplorable! There is a maniac at large in the East End. And what is being written . . . well, I understand. You have passed sad days. But there is a madman on the loose who is busy at work in our country . . . chopping up his victims. And there are those who are using the situation to . . . to topple the Crown.”

  “Your Majesty, surely it’s not quite so serious as that?”

  “Read!” she said, and it was a command.

  Jamie looked at her, and then at the stack of papers. He picked them up. The first was a story on the inquest regarding the death of a certain Annie Chapman. Horrid details regarding the mutilation of the body were written out clearly. At the end of the article was a paragraph suggesting that the tragic circumstances of life in the East End were to blame, and then, the article went on to suggest that debauchery in the highest places might also be to blame. He glanced at the Queen who waited patiently and picked up the next article.

  It was much the same.

  There were several of them, and they suggested that the nation itself was responsible.

  He set the papers down. “Your Majesty, there will always be those who seek not news, but sensationalism, and to turn anything written into a treatise on their own beliefs.”

  “The police really have no clues; they arrested a man named Pizer—there’s an article in there about it—and they had to protect t
he man from being butchered by the mob! At the inquest—if you’ll look at that article—he was called as a witness, really so that he could give his alibi, and clear himself. If you keep reading, you will find that some people believe he is an immigrant, and Lord knows, they can create havoc in an area where so many of the residents do come from other countries. They are crying that the man is surely a Jew, and God help us, but we are responsible for the lives and welfare of all our subjects! There will be mob violence if something isn’t done. Descriptions of the fellow have him as a butcher, a short man, a tall man, a rich man, a poor man. And, if you keep reading, you will discover that the police are receiving all kinds of letters, confessions by dozens of disturbed individuals, missives from mystics, clerics, hypnotists, dreamers, and so forth. There are those who suggest that an eyewitness account states the fellow was exceptionally well dressed, a gentleman, nobleman . . . or—well, so far, they have not stated royalty!”

  “I’m sure the police are desperately working as hard as they can,” he said.

  She lifted her royal nose. “Yes. Some of the officers on the force are most exceptional men, doing all that they can. Some are . . . perhaps some of them have gained their appointments through political associations. There are even those out there who believe that these heinous crimes are not being com- mitted by a butcher, but by a Communist! I’ve received copies of a few of the letters the police have received as well!” These she drew from a pocket in her elegantly laced black skirt, along with the monocle she used to read. “Listen. ‘I was in Hyde Park the other day when once again a number of the Communist fellows were raising up their red flag. One said to the other, You jolly well wait. Once there’s a few murders happening here in the West End, and they’ll be screaming like stuck pigs!’ ” The Queen paused to stare at him, making certain that she had his full attention, and that he understood the gravity of the situation. “Here, then, Lord James, another. ‘Someone out there is saying, with these horrors happening, that the police might be brought quite low, and then the government might fall. Lord Salisbury would be forced to resign, Gladstone would come in, and voila—there you have it. The ruin of the greatest Empire on earth certain, and a secular object obtained, again, voila—a republic! ’”