When We Touch (20 page)

All three men looked at her.

Dr. Mayer was the only one with the sense to talk to her in a manner to improve the situation. He came to her, kneeling before her. “My lady, you are looking gravely ill yourself. Should he need your tender care in the days to come, you must see to your own health. Please, come with me.”

At his gentle behest, Maggie rose at last, and allowed him to lead her out.

Sir William Gull made a sniffing noise in Jamie's direction, but then went on to examine Charles.

And when he was done, he turned to Jamie. “His heart.”

That was quite obvious. Jamie didn't say so.

“He is in a coma. I don't know whether he will survive the night or not. If he does . . . there is a chance that he will pull through. A slim chance. I will stay for the evening. However, if he dies . . . I shall autopsy the body.”

“For what reason?”

“I will see if he has been poisoned.”

“Why should you suspect such a thing?”

“That answer is quite obvious. The lady stands to make quite an inheritance, doesn't she?”

“The title will be mine, Sir William.”

Sir William waved a hand in the air. To him, the answer was quite obvious. Jamie might have said that he would refuse to have an autopsy for his uncle.

But to do so would be foolish. And an autopsy would show the truth.

“I will stay here as well,” Jamie said softly, and took the chair by the hearth himself.

* * *

Maggie awoke in a state of misery. The world was foggy—Dr. Mayer had gotten her to take a dose of laudanum, and so she felt groggy, and her head pounded, but the events of the last evening were far too clear.

She had been sleeping in a guest room and some of her belongings had been hastily brought there the night before. She needed to rise, quickly dress, and prepare herself for the day, sure to be a long one. But she couldn't quite bring herself to rise, her feeling of dread was so great.

As she lay there, trying to force herself to get up, her door suddenly burst open.

Arianna stood there.

“You . . . witch!” she cried. “You've killed him. Murderess!”

And then the girl came flying across the room, throwing herself on top of the bed, flailing away at Maggie.

Arianna wasn't a weakling, and neither was Maggie. She was entangled in the sheets, and unprepared for the assault, but she caught Arianna's flailing arms. “Stop it! Stop it! I did nothing to your father, I swear it!”

“Arianna!”

Jamie was at the door, dark hair in disarray on his forehead, his immaculate wedding attire now wrinkled and the worse for the night he had apparently spent up. The girl didn't seem to hear him. Maggie was left to maintain her desperate fight to keep her stepdaughter from gouging out her eyes.

“Arianna!”

Jamie strode into the room, grappling to draw his cousin from her determined attack.

“She killed him! She killed him. She murdered him for his money!” Arianna cried.

“No!” Maggie protested.

Jamie caught Arianna by her shoulders, dragging her away at last, and into his arms where she burst into a flood of tears. Against Jamie's chest, she sobbed out her accusation again. “She killed him, she killed him, she only married him for his money.”

Jamie's eyes touched Maggie's above Arianna's head. Maggie felt ill, wondering if Jamie believed that was what had happened.

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.

Maggie found herself reading the appalling description of the murder.

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.