When We Touch

by Heather Graham

  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.”

  Famished, yes, she made a man feel that way. As if he had never seen such beauty, as if he would melt if he could not touch it, taste it, dive into it . . .

  He gritted his teeth.

  He loved Charles. Loved him like a father.

  But it was wrong. So wrong.

  Why, particularly? Every word he had said to Arianna was true. Such marriages had taken place since . . . probably since marriage had begun! And yet, in this in-stance . . .

  Was it because he was somewhat smitten himself?

  God help him.

  “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.

  Foul. The world had gone foul.

  It wasn’t right that such an exquisite young woman should be wed to such a very old man! That she should love him . . .

  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 wil
l 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.”

  “Father Vickers, I only come by daylight, and with my dear Mireau. Also, remember, the police have a special place in their hearts for me.”

  “That I know, and still, the police patrol—and frequently—the very places where these murders are occurring. Please, you must bear all this in mind when you are out and about.”

  “Father Vickers, I promise.”

  “The women are gathering, I see. The courtyard will be fine for you?”

  “The courtyard will be fine, certainly,” Maggie told him.

  That day, Maggie was speaking to a group on contraception—not an idea usually condoned by the church. But Father Vickers had spent enough time in the East End to be a very practical man. He had been the one to find out about the large shipment of condoms from France.

  In the past, Maggie had spoken about many details regarding the improvement of life, and at first, her audience had been small. But before she had known she was penniless, she had arranged for bread, cheese, and milk to be served to those who attended her talks, and soon after, Father Vickers had been forced to eject the men who dressed up in women’s clothing and attended just for the food. She understood; the pathetic prostitutes of the East End sold themselves to more pathetic men for as little as a loaf of bread. But she couldn’t feed the thousands of starving, and wanted her contributions to go to the women and children. Wives, so often abandoned, had little recourse but to resort to prostitution.