When We Touch (5 page)

When Sister Sara left them alone to talk, Arianna backed away. “You've come to tell me about my father's wedding.”

He hesitated, shaking his head, then sighed. “Yes, I have. It's quite amazing how quickly gossip can travel the English Channel.”

“My father could not come himself?”

“I talked him out of it.”

She stared at him, her eyes widening. “Why would you do that to me, Jamie?”

“I fear for his health all the time, Arianna.”

“Why?
She'll
probably just poison him and he'll die anyway.”

“Arianna. What a terrible thing to say.”

She was speaking so belligerently to hide her hurt, he knew.

“Terrible!” she retorted with a sniff.

“Arianna, I swear, your father wanted to be here, and I was barely able to talk him out of coming. Naturally, you'll see him before the wedding. I'll return for you myself in plenty of time. The bride has said that she wishes to keep it simple, but I imagine there will be a place for you in the ceremony.”

“Don't allow it to happen, Jamie,” she warned him.

“What? The wedding? I can scarcely stop your father.”

“Ah . . . his bride is what? Twenty-two, twenty-three? She must have fallen madly in love with father. What a . . . a slut!”

To his amazement, he found himself defending the woman.
Only before Arianna, because this must hurt her badly.
“She is Lady Maggie, daughter of a baron, hardly a streetwalker. And where did you learn such language? Surely not from the nuns.”

“Probably from you,” she informed him dryly.

He groaned. “Your father would have my throat.”

“Oh, Jamie! I am not so young and totally naive as you may believe. Yes, this is a convent school. And the nuns are certainly all chastity and propriety!” She giggled. “But we do slip out now and then.”

“Slip out where?” he demanded, frowning.

“Don't look so fierce. We go shopping. We see the works of the new, upcoming artists. We sit in cafés and listen to the speeches of young, rebellious, handsome boys. Oh, don't worry, and don't look at me so! We go no further than that, I swear, Jamie.”

“Thank God. If something were ever to happen to you . . .”

“My father will now have a witch of a wife!”

“Arianna, you haven't even met her.”

“I don't need to meet her. I've heard all about her. She married a bobby, and began to spend her days in the East End. Then she thought that she was something of a detective herself, and determined to rid the world of mesmerists. Hardly an open mind there! I've seen some of these people at work. Some are quite amazing. I believe that they do have special powers to speak with the dead, to see the future, and touch the world.”

“And some of them are out to fleece the rich,” Jamie said. It didn't please him that he found himself defending his uncle's intended bride. “Don't judge the woman until you've met her.”

Arianna shook her head. “Jamie, what is to judge? She is a very young woman, about to marry a very old man. Desperate love? I doubt it. It's prostitution, nothing less.”

“Arianna, for years, such marriages have been arranged. This is not really new, or even shocking in the least. She could not marry without her brother's permission.”

“He allowed her to marry the policeman as well?”

“Apparently.”

“Well, then, her brother is as low a creature as she! Oh, Jamie, this is horrible. Truly horrible. At his doddering old age, my father has become infatuated with a tart! Is there nothing at all that you can do?”

“Arianna, I tell you this—I have never seen him so set on any course of action before. He is absolutely determined. Therefore, we must both accept it.”

“Aha! You disapprove as well.”

“My opinion on the matter is unimportant.”

“It's not. Father listens to you. You're the son he never had.”

“Arianna, he wants to marry this woman, and he will. I assure you.”

“Men, you know,” Arianna told him. “They can behave quite disgustingly.”

Jamie refrained from agreeing with her. But yes, he found it all rather disgusting himself. He couldn't forget the moment when his eyes had first locked with Maggie's, when their hands had first touched. She was electric.

A witch, indeed. Tainted, society might say. Yet . . . electric. Sensual in her every movement, no matter how proper her words, dress, or manner. He thought of the feel of her flesh, and despite his devotion to his uncle, his thoughts were crass and carnal.
Such a woman needed a far younger man. Vigorous, passionate, hungry . . .

God help him! Whatever it took, he would bury such thoughts.

Easy. Don't look at her, and don't touch her,
he told himself dryly.

“Arianna, there are cases of deep devotion between young wives and older husbands. And vice versa, for that matter. It's not unheard of, you know, for an aging dowager to marry a much younger man,” he said.

“Only if he really needs the money!” Arianna retorted.

Jamie sighed. “As I said, this will happen.”

“There must be a way to stop it.”

“Indeed. Should I try to convince your father that he is a doddering old fool? That he doesn't know his own mind? Or better still—should I point out the very obvious, that it is a fiscal matter, and that the bride is hardly in love with him? He is not a fool, Arianna. He wants the woman for his wife, and he can afford her, and therefore, he will have her. Nothing that I can say or do will change that. All that will happen is that he will push me away, and I will no longer be there as his confidant, friend, and champion. You must realize as well that any attempt I might make to prevent his marriage would certainly appear very badly. I am next in the line of succession to his titles and estates.”

Arianna stared at him, entirely frustrated.

“Perhaps I can stop the wedding,” she mused.

“Arianna,” he murmured warily. Blunt, even crude speaking had not been such a good idea. But at least she seemed to understand that he would, indeed, alienate her father if he attempted to step in. “You will stay here in school and study until I return for you. And then you will attend his wedding and be pleased with whatever happiness it is that he seeks from this young bride.”

“You will make sure that they make no attempt to have me be a part of that ceremony. In fact, you should inform my father that I have no intention of attending.”

“Arianna, please, be reasonable. Your father expects that the two of you will be friends.”

“Oh, I hardly think so!”

“I'm sure she will make every effort to make it so.”

“Will she? You don't know just how fast rumor flies across the channel, Jamie. I know all about her. She was stunningly beautiful when she had her season, teased every man in the Ton, had her way, and rejected them all and eloped—with a policeman! Then he was killed. Serving the citizens of London, so they said.
She
probably planned it! Realizing that she had, indeed, married a commoner, and that there had been much more in the world for her to snare! She is able to maintain her beauty because she is so very evil. A strange magician is in her employ. He helps her make up her spells, and creates all kinds of incantations. And now, she has her eyes set on my father. She was left a penniless widow to rue her evil ways, and to rectify what she has done, she intends to milk my father dry. God knows, she'll probably kill him as well!”

“Arianna! Her husband did die in public service; he was killed by the murdering madman he was trying to arrest. I assure you, there is no witchcraft going on in the house.” He hesitated. He, too, had heard about the man, Mireau. A friend of her husband, a poet, writer, in need of a patron. Was that all?

Arianna was staring at him. “She did nothing to her husband. I have done extensive research on her past. Don't you think that I would have made certain that all we had heard was truth regarding her first marriage?” he demanded indignantly.

He had, without emotion, given Charles reports on everything he had learned. And every word had only endeared her to the old man more.

“You simply cannot imagine what they say!” Arianna whispered. There were tears in her eyes once again. “I will not go to the wedding!”

He sighed. “As you wish.”

“Oh, Jamie!” She threw herself into his arms. “Why was I not enough for him? I love him so very dearly. I can be his companion, and his helper, there to talk about books, languages, and faraway places.”

He held her tightly, not ready to explain that conversation was not what her father was seeing when he looked at Maggie.

“It will be all right, you will see,” he told her gently.
It would have to be. Charles was, in all other respects, certainly of age, sane, and the master of his own fate. He'd made his decision, and his family must accept it.

After a while, she nodded against his chest, then drew away. He held her shoulders and looked into her dark eyes. “If you really don't want to go to the wedding, I'll see to it that you don't have to go.”

She returned his probing stare, then suddenly shook her head and turned away. “Oh, no. I have decided that you're right—I must go to the wedding. I don't want to be a part of it, but I will attend. You will come back for me yourself?”

“Indeed, Arianna, I swear it.”

She smiled, almost brightening.

“Well, if nothing else, I shall be glad to return home for a while. You are staying the night? You cannot possibly return to the channel and make a crossing now.”

He nodded. He was staying, but he wasn't pleased with the arrangement.

He was afraid to leave Charles alone with the woman.

You'll have to, soon enough, old chap,
he told himself.
She would become Charles's bride, and he'd had to admit, he understood the longings set fire within the man's heart. There was something about her greater than beauty. Something of fire and tempest, scorn, and fury . . . and power. Maybe she was a witch, a puppeteer, jerking them all about by their strings. He found himself imagining the bride when the rites were completed, when the guests had gone, when the lights were low. Her hair, a halo of gold and red, freed from pins, spilling around her face. Her gown would be sheer, and every lithe limb, curve, and hollow would be exposed. . . .

Fury within him nearly burst to the surface.

Stop the wedding?

There had to be a way to stop the pictures in his own mind.

If Charles was seeing only half the visions that came to Jamie's mind, he'd die before he let any man stand between himself and his prize.

“You must be famished. Sister Sara will see to a meal for you, and, of course, a room for the night,” Arianna was saying.

“Yes, thank you, I am quite famished.”

He gritted his teeth.

He loved Charles. Loved him like a father.

But it was wrong. So wrong.

“Well?”

A cloud had obscured his vision. He had to shake his head to see Arianna.

“I said, which would you prefer? Fish, or pheasant? Or perhaps both. The nuns always titter so over your arrival, Jamie. They'll surely give you both.”

He forced a wry smile. “Fowl,” he said.

And yet, she had best love him, and only him, Jamie determined grimly. Charles absolutely deserved no less. She had appeared to recognize that Charles was refined and cultured, that he had once been a soldier, that he had moved in the world of the highest authority of the land, and still did. Surely, she would see all things, and be a good, loyal, and
faithful
wife.

Or else?

She would answer to him, and she would not be pleased to do so.

Chapter 3

In the days that came to pass, Maggie truly came to terms with her decision to marry Charles.

He was an amazing man. His stories about the world, his travels, the Queen's little wars, his service to her, all were quite fascinating. He was modest when talking about himself, eloquent when talking about the Empire, and understanding when she chimed in to say that it was all well and good that they should create an Empire, but shouldn't they be looking to some of the wretched poverty and violence within their own country?

He agreed, and she was delighted to learn that he had several of her own same interests, that he supported rebuilding in the East End, and found some of the situations beneath their very own noses to be intolerable, indeed.

He took her to the Crystal Palace to see a concert, to the theater, where they saw an amazing, frightening version of the play
The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.
They went to the Royal Opera House, where they had seats in the balcony next to those of the Prince of Wales and his wife, Princess Alexandra. They went on walks through St. James Park, and rides out to the country. Equally, he allowed her the private time she had always so cherished, nights with her poetry reading group at the restaurant in the Strand, social time with her small circle of friends, and more. Her “charity” time as she called it.

She had talked to him about some of her activities. Not all. There were a few events she attended that no one knew about except for Mireau. Charles might not know the actual extent of her work in the East End, but she did brush upon it.

As to the séances she attended . . .

Everyone knew about the first one she had gone to. The papers had been filled with news regarding her involvement.

Since then . . .

She didn't dare admit that she was determined as ever to stop some of the charades taking place, when she could.

But she didn't think that she'd ever tell Charles the truth about those nights.

And still, she grew to like him more and more.

He was quite a capable man, as well, having served the Crown in India, and he was equally happy to hop on public hackney cabs, and tell her how London had changed, just in his lifetime. The sewer system begun in the middle of the century had truly improved all their lives, he assured her, and the train had made distances shrink.

He shared her love of reading, and they found they could spend pleasant afternoons together just reading, from the works of William Shakespeare to Dickens, and the American, Mark Twain, and the newer works of men such as Arthur Conan Doyle. They argued Darwin's theories, and every manner of new-ism of the nineteenth century, hypnotism or mesmerism, phrenology, and spiritualism.

She learned, as well, that he had a daughter, beloved, who was in school on the Continent, coming of age that year, and headstrong and rebellious.

“Of course, she has lacked the gentler ways of a mother. I know that you will become such a dear friend to her, and guide her in all things,” Charles told her confidently.

Maggie wondered if it would be quite so easy.

She learned that in his family, he had but his daughter and Sir James, who was actually his great nephew. Charles's cousin, Jamie's father, had served in India, and been knighted, and like his father, the son had gone into the Queen's Service, and helped settle many an uprising in the Empire. He'd left the military, but been knighted as well, and often carried messages of the utmost importance to various ports around the world. Sometimes, Charles admitted, he worried about Jamie. He, too, seemed to have something of a disregard for the expectations of proper society. He'd fought in one too many skirmishes abroad, woke too easily in the night at the least sound, and expected danger behind every tree. When he wasn't carrying messages or carrying out an assignment in a foreign port, Charles was pleased and relieved.

Jamie saw to the family estates, which were numerous, and Charles was sorry that he could not travel to them himself as he had done in his youth. “Young people leave the fields in droves, seeking wealth in the cities,” he said sorrowfully. “But in the north country, and in Scotland, there are still vast acres and we've many tenants raising fine herds of cattle and sheep. We grow what crops we can, as well. Sad to say, I can remember the time of the great famine, striking Ireland like God's own hammer, but affecting us all. A sorrowful time it was, indeed. We must always take care that such hardship doesn't come again.” And he had sighed. “Ah, but the world is changing so radically. Soon, mark you, the horse carriages will be a thing of the past, and I tell you, those machines, those automobiles will be everywhere. Technology and law have given us so much—and such unrest, as well. Radicals out in the streets, protests here and there, the poor invading even the finest neighborhoods, looting and robbing at times. Ah, well... there's still so much to be done in the home country, eh? But as to Jamie, he does well, seeing that the rents are fair, our own stock is properly tended, and all is well. Still, he was saying the other day that he is growing restless, anxious to be about the world again.”

“He is off and about. You said he was bringing news of the wedding to Arianna.”

“Ah, yes, well, that's barely a hop, skip, and a jump for Jamie. France is a ferry ride away, and the little town where Arianna goes to school is just a few miles from the coast.”

Maggie gave him a smile, but heartily hoped that Sir Jamie would be sent to the farthest reaches of darkest Africa when he returned from France.

But Charles was delightful to her brother, and enjoyed the company of Jacques Mireau, as well. He promised to help Jacques with his dreams of a writing career.

Those first days were pleasant, indeed. It was as if she had found a dear mentor. An older man, but a good friend.

All seemed to be comfortable. If not elated, she was content. Though it was coming quickly, the wedding remained in the future. This time before offered her a strange freedom.

But then, Sir James returned.

Apparently, he meant to stay awhile. Unfortunately, he was not being sent about on the Queen's business.

Maggie had never imagined just how completely the term “fly in the ointment” could describe someone.

It wasn't so much that he did anything. Or, for that matter, said anything.

He was just there. With them so frequently.

Watching her. Studying her. And forming his opinion.

And not a good one, at that.

It was the way he looked at her. As if she were a pedigreed dog—or a mutt pretending to have a pedigree! —purchased at a very high price, who would soon turn and bite the hand that fed her.

No, it wasn't in anything that he did.

He was overly polite. Courteous to the extreme. But every time their eyes touched, the contempt within his gaze, to her great distress, was chilling. In turn, she learned to accept his touch of assistance in and out of carriages, up and down stairs, and through crowded streets with an icy venom of her own. They despised one another. Naturally, for the sake of Lord Charles, they would not let on.

Nor did Maggie intend, in any way, to let the man alter her life.

Two weeks into the engagement, with the wedding but another two weeks away, she set out for the East End.

Charles was a staunch supporter of the Salvation Army, and hadn't seemed in the least shocked or horrified to find that she put her time in with the organization at St. Mary's.

It had been on a night out with members of the Ton that she had met Nathan, the husband she had so dearly loved, and lost. They had thought that “slumming” in the East End would be quite a diversion. But a gang of street thugs had set upon their carriage, and Nathan had been the one to come to her rescue when the rest of her party had disappeared.

Through his eyes, she had seen a new world.

Nathan had been the one to tell her that indeed, charitable contributions were desperately needed, but so was a personal touch.

Through him, she had learned so much. In the circles in which she had moved, she had known about the growth of the merchant class, and men who had made fortunes as entrepreneurs, doctors, politicians, writers, and even performers.

She had not seen the fate of those who were not born to family, fortune, or even simple decent income.

Few of the members of the glittering Ton of London ever ventured so far—to a place that was but a stone's throw away from their elegant homes. She'd never have gone herself—if they hadn't done so as a lark.

She had been so ignorant herself of the suffering there, and of the way that matters only became worse, year after year.

Nathan had died on the streets of the East End, trying to wrest a knife from a man gone insane with syphilis. He had killed the fellow before succumbing to his own wounds, and he managed to save the man's starving wife and eight children.

The people of the East End were like rats in a cage, Nathan often said. Too many, too close together. Unwashed, uneducated, and with no real chance of escape. Some had shops and factories, and some worked in those shops and factories. Much work was only occasional. Sometimes a woman could find work as a laundress, or sewing. Sometimes she could not. Men lined up at the crack of dawn for a chance at hard labor. Sometimes they were able to work ten to fourteen hours a day for a few shillings. Sometimes they could not. Sometimes they had an actual address, but even then, they would live with many others in a single room, and their beds would be nothing but straw or old newspapers.

So it was with the man Nathan brought down, and the family left alive.

They had lived together in a one-room tenement. In the buildings, chamber pots were emptied—into the yards—once a week. The stench was abominable. Actual bathrooms or even outhouses were completely lacking, and few of the tenements had inside running water of any kind. Even the gas lamps, prevalent on so many streets, were few and far between.

A commoner, Nathan had still been the son of a knighted soldier, raised in the St. James area. He had served in the military, the Home Guard, and been called one day to quell a riot. From then on, he'd known that he'd wanted to be a policeman. And to help those in such desperate need in the East End.

His dedication had been his demise.

Maggie had managed to arrive before he had drawn his last breath. And with his last words, he had begged her not to hate the man who had killed him. She had come from such privilege; watching him die had taught her such humility. Agony, but humility as well.

And so, in his memory, she had begun to fight for the wretched and poor.

Mireau, bless him, Nathan's friend from college, always accompanied her. He complained, but he came. After Nathan's death, he had become her champion, and constant companion. He was always writing, and managed to have a few pieces picked up by various newspapers. He dreamed, however, of being a novelist.

They set out by cab that day, as they always did, and when they arrived at the church, Maggie, as usual, haggled with the driver. Cabs always tried to double charge for excursions into the East End. Mireau sighed and waited patiently, and Maggie secured the proper price. They entered the church itself and found the young curate, Father Vickers, who worked with Maggie. He was delighted, smiling ear to ear, when he saw her.

“We've just received the most generous donation from Lord Charles, Viscount Langdon! Enough to clothe so many of the abandoned children.” The brightness of his smile faded slightly, then he forced it again. “You're to marry him!”

“Yes, isn't it lovely,” Maggie said.

Father Vickers looked at Mireau, who shrugged.

“Ah, yes, lovely. Well, the women are waiting out in the courtyard. It's a pleasant enough day. The air is not so foul . . .” He shook his head. “Lord, if there were but a way to really get these women off the streets! In certain areas, the police have managed to close down some of the brothels, but I don't think that it's really helped at all. Now more of the fallen are out in the alleys, and . . .” He lowered his voice to a worried whisper, “Maggie, God knows I need the gentle charity of ladies such as yourself, but I fear for you here, as well. There was another ghastly murder just a few days ago, night of the bank holiday.”

She touched his shoulder. “Father Vickers, we both know that murder happens here frequently enough.”

“But not like this. Ah, true, and sad! Jealousies, drunken bar fights, a wife gone mad, a husband in despair, and always, the urging of too much gin! Yes, fights are frequent, and murder, something that happens far too often. But this . . . didn't you see it in the papers?”

Maggie looked at Mireau. “It might have been in the back pages.”

He sighed. “If such a thing had happened to a highborn woman, I can tell you, it would have screamed across every headline in the land!”

“What happened?” Mireau demanded.

“It's all rather indelicate,” Father Vickers said uneasily, looking at Maggie.

“Please, Father, I am about to talk about birth control to women who need such a conversation since their children are seldom legitimate!” Maggie said.

“She was butchered. Not just killed, butchered. Throat slit to where her head was barely attached, and entrails removed. She was barely left as human. This was not a husband killing a woman in a rage.”

“Why, I remember a report of something similar not long ago, a woman was killed by a suspected soldier. I think the reporter said police were also thinking there might be a street gang about that was harassing prostitutes.”

Father Vickers shook his head. “This was not a street gang. And no one murdered this woman for what they might steal from her. It's my opinion that there's a madman on the loose, and you will begin to hear about it. So, Maggie, please, though I need your help desperately, make sure it is always by daylight, and always in good company.”