When We Touch

by Heather Graham

  * * *

  “He saw me!” Fiona said in despair.

  “Hush up!” Arianna told her. “He has no idea of who you are. You are just being silly. Now, come along. This looks like an intriguing pub.”

  “You’ll never get away with this,” Fiona said. “I might, but you won’t!”

  “I always said that if I weren’t my father’s daughter, I would have loved to go on stage,” Arianna said. “You watch me. I can do this.”

  She slipped into the pub, Fiona sighing and following in behind her. They had certainly managed to get fitting clothing. And she had to admit, Arianna, when determined, had her means and ways. They had come to Aldgate, then started walking. They had come in servants’ garb, and made themselves appear as shabby as possible.

  They’d found a woman from whom to rent a room.

  The room was quite terrifying. It smelled like a sty and the floor was thick with rat excrement. But it was a base. And from there, they had easily found peddlers selling the lowest grade of cloth and clothing, and it had been even better that their newly purchased skirts, petticoats, and bodices fit so poorly. A little soot on Fiona’s face, and she had really appeared the part.

  “You,” she’d informed Arianna, “are simply too pretty.”

  “A lovely thing to say,” Arianna had acknowledged. “But not true. So . . . here we go.”

  And they moved out on the streets, and now, into a pub.

  “I’ll never be able to drink this wretched gin!” Fiona said, as they ordered, and took their glasses to a crowded table.

  “So don’t drink it!” Arianna hissed in return.

  “Well, ’e don’t strike in daytime, do ’e, luv?” a woman next to Arianna said loudly. “We makes our money in the day, then!”

  “And drinks it by night!” her companion said, causing her to roar. Then the first woman turned, studying Arianna, and scowling.

  “Eh! ’Ere’s a pretty one fer ye, Maeve. Will ye looky ’ere? Where’d ye come from, luv? I’ve not seen the likes of ye on the streets in a fair while, I can tell ye!”

  The woman had frizzy red hair and a gaunt face. She was long past her prime, and further past whatever looks she might have once had herself.

  To Fiona’s amazement, Arianna was ready with a reply. She scowled fiercely as well. “I had a job in the city, I did. A fair enough one. Only the old buzzard wot hired me thought that I was for the likes o’ him!”

  “Couldn’t ’a been worse than wot ye’ll find on the streets ’ere, deary!” Maeve cackled.

  Arianna made a face. “Didn’t say I wasn’t willing to take his shillings, did I? ’Twas his wife wot threw me out!”

  “Ah!” Both women clucked in sympathy with her.

  “Still, ye are a pretty thing,” the first woman said. “And ’tis dangerous in these parts, now, ’adn’t ye ’eard?” She shivered.

  “I know . . . have you heard of any other work?”

  Maeve made a noise. “Ye’d be seein’ one o’ us two scared enough to be doin’ it off the streets were we to know about it, luv.”

  “You know, I’ve thought about goin’ straight to the police. Sometimes, I’ve kind of a special sight,” Arianna said.

  “Special sight? Wot’s that?” Maeve asked.

  “She’s one of those medium people, you know, wot talk to the dead!” the first woman said. Then her eyes widened and she smiled. “Suppose I find ye a job, one that pays well? I get a cut on it, right?”

  “Certainly!”

  The woman produced a raw, work-worn hand. “I’m known as Red Hannah. My ’air, you know. My friend ’ere is Maeve. Maeve the Slave, some of the boys calls ’er.”

  “ ’Ush it, ’Annah!” Maeve growled, and Hannah grinned. “Don’t know about yer friend ’ere, the silent one,” she said, indicating Fiona, “but there’s word out that there’s a fellow putting together a business. ’E’s one of those spiritualists. ’E’s been around, looking for a girl, and ’e hasn’t liked a one of us, but ’e’d like you, I think. You make sure I take a cut, and I’ll set you up a meetin’.”

  “I swear, you’ll get your cut,” Arianna told her solemnly. “I’m Annie.”

  “Another Annie!” Maeve moaned.

  “ ’Ere, then, this time, say . . . four days from now,” Hannah said, sizing up Arianna again. “Be ’ere, now!”

  “I’ll be here,” Arianna said, then she rose. “It’s gettin’ dark. We’d best be looking for a bed, Janie.”

  Arianna had to jab Fiona, she was looking at her so strangely.

  “Yes, yes! We’d best find a bed.”

  They waved to the two they had just met and hurried out to the streets.

  “This is daft!” Fiona protested.

  “This is perfect!” Arianna countered.

  “And how do we get home?”

  “In a cab, same way we came.”

  “Now we’re filthy, in rags, and it’s very late.”

  “We’ll sneak in through the tree.”

  “I’m not climbing that tree!”

  “You’ll have to,” Arianna told her. “Why, Janie, dear, this is almost fun!”

  Fiona rolled her eyes. It wasn’t fun.

  It was frightening. Terribly, terribly, frightening.

  * * *

  Maggie walked purposely to her stepdaughter’s room. She was tempted to merely slam the door open. She refrained, and knocked. There was no answer.

  She walked down the stairs, sliding her black mourning cap from her head. “Mrs. Whitley!” she called, and the woman came in from the direction of the kitchen.

  “Yes, my lady?”

  “Has Lady Arianna gone out?”

  “I believe she took a sedative, and is resting.”

  “Ah, fine. Well, I shall let her rest. However, in an hour, wake her.”

  “For supper? Then I shall have to quickly get the cook moving. We assumed, my lady, that you were dining out, when you left no orders and didn’t return. I’m afraid a decent meal will take a bit more than an hour.”

  “I don’t want a meal, Mrs. Whitley. I just want Arianna awakened. In an hour. Thank you so very much.”

  She turned and started up the stairs. She wondered how it would look if she fired Mrs. Whitley.

  In her room, she thought about calling for Fiona, but she’d always done for herself, at least, in the last many years she had, and so she discarded the clothing she had worn to Whitechapel, washed, and dressed anew. She went to her desk, pulled the newspaper clipping from her reticule, and read it again, her temper growing.

  Then she smiled and settled in to wait.

  She thought that she would have to go after Arianna, that Mrs. Whitley would arrive—distressed, of course—to say that the young lady simply refused to come.

  But at the appointed hour, Arianna knocked at her door. Maggie bid her to enter, and she came in, looking somewhat flushed and hurried.

  “Good evening,” Maggie said quietly. “Thank you for arriving so promptly.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of being disobedient to—my guardian,” Arianna said, making the last word sound like ogre.

  “How thoughtful of you,” Maggie replied sweetly. “I can see that we are going to get along fabulously well.”

  “Um. I need my allowance.”

  Maggie nodded. “I’ll see that Darby has it for you tomorrow. But really, how could you possibly need money? Didn’t the newspaper pay you?”

  “Of cou—what newspaper?” Arianna said, quickly changing her tune.

  “Arianna, there has been an autopsy. I did nothing to your father. And the article you wrote was inflammatory, to say the least. The paper is barely within the limits of the law. But . . . well, I have friends who wish to write as well. Still, it wouldn’t do for you to have too much spending money on you. Terrible crimes are taking place in the city, but there are still simple thieves out there as well! If you’re going to continue to dabble in the art of writing, I’m afraid I’ll feel entirely obliged to hold back your al
lowance. Yes, let me think, I believe that would be among the duties the Misters Green outlined to me this morning. Does that agree with what they told you?”

  Arianna stood very still for a long moment, staring at her.

  Maggie smiled, then let her smile fade. “I’m sorry. I can’t tell you how truly sorry I am that your father died. I’m even sorry that he left you saddled with me as your guardian, when I know how difficult it must be for you. I wish that there was something I could say that would make you believe that I was innocent of any wrongdoing.”

  “You married him,” Arianna reminded her sharply.

  “And are you aware that he had plans for your marriage?”

  Arianna’s frown showed her that she was not.

  “He wanted you to be a good wife, I believe.”

  “He intended to force me to marry?”

  “I fully intend to leave that matter to Jamie.”

  Arianna smiled. “Interesting.”

  “What?”

  “The way you refer to my cousin. As Jamie.”

  Something in the way she spoke gave Maggie the chills. Was her feeling for the man evident in her voice when she simply spoke his name?

  It wouldn’t be. She vowed that it would not be.

  “Jamie is his name.”

  “Lord James, or Lord Langdon, or Viscount Langdon.”

  “Your father called him Jamie, and thus, so do I. At any rate, I believe it was he your father intended for you. But I don’t wish to press that matter—it will be between the two of you when you reach your majority. Since your father has passed, I’m not sure if it will be the proper season for you to come out, even if the time won’t be until next spring. We can see on that matter. But until that time . . . well, I think there are lessons you might want to take. And your father suggested it might be an excellent thing if you were to learn that we are among the privileged few, and there are those out there who suffer terribly. I do think it’s time that you quit maligning me, and that we learn to work together, no matter what our feelings for one another.”

  Arianna stood tall and still and tried very hard to contain her fury. “There will be no more newspaper items, madam. I am well warned. I will ask Darby about my allowance. I need a bit more time to mourn my father’s passing. How quickly you seem to have gotten over it. If there’s nothing else, I most respectfully crave leave to return to my room.”

  “Please, feel free, return to your room,” Maggie said.

  Arianna left the room. The door slammed in her wake.

  “Ah, that went very well!” Maggie murmured sardonically to herself.

  But she was certain that there would be no more newspaper articles.

  At length, she decided to retire, herself.

  The bottle of laudanum seemed to be watching her, tempting her.

  She ignored it and prepared for bed.

  And lay awake, staring at the darkened ceiling. She would sleep, she told herself. And she would not resort to drugs.

  She tossed and turned, and found that she was more wretched than ever. Thoughts churned in her mind, Fathers Vickers’s words, the fright the women had betrayed that day, and the way that they had run, so quickly, to find solace in gin.

  Jamie.

  Leaving.

  And again, the way that he had looked at her.

  She winced, wondering what on earth was the matter with her. He had never claimed any affection for her. He’d not wanted her to marry Charles. Perhaps, the night before . . . perhaps that had been his way to prove that she shouldn’t marry, and not even the great longing for her that she had imagined.

  Strange, in the days before, he had been in the house, and she had not thought of him so much, other than that he was there. But then, she had been taking the laudanum.

  And she really needed to take it now, if she was ever going to sleep.

  She rose, and walked for the bottle. With it in her hand, she hesitated, and winced, remembering the poor women of the East End. There was a monster loose. And still, they had gone running for their gin.

  She set the bottle down and went back to bed. She swore at herself, for when she wasn’t thinking about the horror that was occurring, her thoughts turned to those of the man. And she remembered, and burned, and was haunted by the memory. She had married, and her husband had just died, and already, it was true, her memories of Charles were receding, while the memory of one night with Jamie was vivid beyond reason....

  At last, she slept. And in the middle of the night, she woke with a scream. She was sweaty and shaky. In her dreams, there had been a figure stalking in the dark. And she had followed, seen when he had attacked, tried to scream, tried to stop him . . .

  And when she had reached the struggling victim at last, she had looked down. In her dream she had been terrified that she would see herself.

  But she did not.

  It was Arianna, Arianna prone on the ground, blood oozing from the bright red gash that slashed across her throat.

  Chapter 13

  The first night, Jamie walked the streets.

  And it was amazing how many others were about as well, no matter what the hour.

  Many women worked late. It wasn’t much of a surprise that at midnight men and women both were crowding the pubs. In a number of places, the gaslights were out. The area was filled with gates, walks, and alleyways.

  In the pubs, they talked about the Whitechapel murderer, and did so with whispers and fear, and he heard the women talking about the fact that they were afraid, and still, what were they to do?

  He heard talk of the many letters sent to the police, so many, already, that they said the coppers were inundated with them.

  And then, as he listened, everyone had a theory. One prostitute wedged by his side at a pub, and suggested, “Why, he might even be a bloke like you, mister!”

  She gave him a smile. Toothless. “Were ye in the mind for a bit o’ fun, eh?”

  And so he had adjusted his collar around his throat and lifted his hands. “I’m out. Just bought my last gin.”

  “Why, there’s time a woman might be thinkin’ that it’s not only the money wots important, my fine fellow. Haven’t seen the likes of you around here, not lately, and that’s a fact!”

  He’d slipped away from the bar, the fear, and the stench.

  At two A.M., the streets were quieter, and still, men and women moved disparately about in the darkness. Mute light continued to burn from some of the houses. Peddlers returned to their homes, their carts banging with their wares.

  By three A.M., laborers were beginning to rise. Men who worked in the slaughterhouses, women who had found jobs in the factories. By five, before the darkness had lifted, the streets began to fill again.

  He could find no fault with the police. He had seen them about constantly, walking their beats. No matter what streets he traveled, there was never a period of more than ten or fifteen minutes that passed in which a constable didn’t follow his tracks.

  He was stopped himself several times, but proved to them that he carried no weapons, and was allowed to pass by.

  Randolph awaited him, doing his part, nursing a gin through the night at the pub, and listening.

  They spoke after they returned to the town house.

  “If this monster were an anarchist,” Randolph told Jamie, “he’d be getting where he wanted to go. The mood in the streets is ugly, indeed, I cannot tell you how ugly.”

  “I’ve seen.”

  “In the pubs, they call for the head of Sir Charles Warren, swearing that he don’t care enough, that if it were a finer class of woman being murdered, they’d have the bloke by now. And the theories! It’s an American, out to sell body parts—after the inquest, you know, the coroner stated that there were clues aplenty, that the police should be looking for this fellow who wanted to buy the body parts. Then, of course, there are the other rumors.”

  “That somehow, even the Royal House is involved?” Jamie asked.

  “Well, they whisper a
bout Eddy, you know. He’d been known to play in some areas of town not reputed to be of his ilk. Have you heard about this girl, this Annie Crook?”

  “Yes, he’s said to have married her. But she was a shop girl,” Jamie reminded Randolph.

  “Shop girls have been known to supplement their incomes, you know,” Randolph said sagely.

  And that was true.

  “And what did you discover?” Randolph asked.

  “That, most probably, if the fellow isn’t discovered, someone else will die,” Jamie said. “I’m going to get some sleep, and you need to do the same. Then, we’ll pay a visit to a few of the fellows walking the beat.”

  Jamie retired to his room, and opted for a very long bath, and a glass of his best port. He soaked in the water and reflected that none of his tension seemed to be easing.

  He closed his eyes. For several seconds, the street scenes filled them. And then drifted away. Not the tension. He could think of nothing but cobalt blue eyes, and how the world itself had disappeared in an awesome feeling of being alive, when she had been at his side. He winced, reminding himself that if Charles were alive, they’d be having deep and lengthy conversations regarding the situation at hand, and that Charles would have something brilliant to say, perhaps an idea that would lead in the right direction. In his steadfast loyalty to the Queen, he would be out himself, no matter what his age or health.

  But Charles was dead.

  And no matter how he tried to mourn, Jamie kept losing his grasp on those memories, for here he was, in the room where she had been with him.

  He jerked up in the tub. She had her wretched sense of passion for the East End!

  There had to be a way to stop her from going there.

  * * *

  “Up!”

  Mireau rubbed his eyes, wondering what rudeness had invaded his sleep. He blinked, and there she was. Maggie, smiling, looking absurdly like a mischievous angel, far too vibrant above him.

  “Up?”

  “We’re going back to the church.”

  He groaned. “Maggie, don’t you think that you added to the drunkeness of the city enough yesterday?”

  “I’ve arranged a large handout of food. Come along.”

  He groaned again and asked, “Does Justin know what you’re doing?”