When We Touch

by Heather Graham

  “Justin isn’t here. It seems my brother has taken up an interest in politics. He does have a seat in the House of Lords, you know.”

  “And they’re in session?”

  “He has a meeting, that’s all I know. Clayton told me. Now, get up!”

  And so he did. Maggie allowed no other recourse. He grumbled as they took another cab.

  When they arrived at the churchyard, Father Vickers was waiting for them. And several pony carts had come. Maggie had not just bought bread for her wayward masses, but bacon as well. The police were poised around the yard, determined on keeping order.

  They watched as the people came, men and women, and at one point, Maggie slipped away to rest a spell in Father Vickers’s room.

  Curious, Mireau followed.

  When he neared the room, he heard a woman talking. It was the younger, pretty creature he had seen in the yard the day before. “I’m trusting you, because there is no other hope,” the woman was saying. “I’m desperate! So desperate. There are already rumors about, and sooner or later, I will be recognized. It’s not Eddy, you must understand. Ah, he tired of my sister, yes. But he was kind; and he would send funds, I think . . . if he remembered. The thing of it is, what if any of what is being said is true? Eddy would hurt no one, but surely there are those, blindly loyal to the Crown, who would seek to hurt the baby. God above us! No one, no one must ever know. She must disappear, and I will do so as well.”

  “But you’re speaking of giving up the child,” Maggie said.

  “And that would be a loss to the poor babe?” the woman said. “And the child was not mine, she was actually Annie’s, but Annie has now escaped to the North, and she hasn’t even sent word to me, she’s so terrified. So that is it, you see; we must all part, and pray for one another. But the babe, if she is kept here . . . she will die.”

  Mireau stood outside the door, rigid with shock. So it was true. Prince Eddy had gotten involved with a Catholic shop girl. He had gone through some kind of a sham wedding with her. She had apparently escaped the city, fearing repercussions not so much from the Crown itself, but from those who might not realize that a scandalous truth might be better than a supposition of evil. And now, Maggie was going to become involved.

  A second later, the pretty young prostitute came through the door. Mireau flattened himself against the wall and waited until she was gone.

  He burst in on Maggie. “And what, pray tell, are we going to do with a baby?”

  “Save it,” she said simply.

  * * *

  Jamie met frustration at every turn. Mrs. Whitley told him that the lady Maggie never chose to disclose her whereabouts to her, and suggested that he talk to her ladyship’s personal maid, Fiona. However, Fiona wasn’t to be found, and neither was Arianna. He didn’t know whether or not to be glad that Arianna was no longer moping in her room, or to worry about her equally.

  Darby said that he had taken the lady to her home in Mayfair, and then been dismissed.

  No one was at Mayfair but Clayton, who said that neither Lord Justin nor the lady Maggie was about. Justin had headed to the government buildings quite early, and Maggie and Mireau had talked about a poetry reading.

  From there, he had Randolph take him to the church, where Father Vickers said that indeed, Maggie had been there, but was no longer. Unable to outguess her, he forced himself to swallow his fear, and look for an old friend on the force, Constable Harry Bartley.

  He found Bartley at the Bow Street station, and since the man had been working around the clock, he was exceptionally pleased to see Jamie, and eager to have a coffee with him. He was equally eager to leave the area, and so they went into a little place in the square mile that actually constituted the City of London. And there, Bartley reminded him of some of the problems facing their desperate search. “Politics!” Bartley told him, and lowered his voice, leaning over his coffee cup. “There’s the City of London, and then there are the Metropolitan Police. The murders have taken place outside the city, and so they fall in the district of the Met fellows. Sir Charles Warren is commissioner, and a fine man, but always wanting to be independent. He fights with Henry Matthews, the home secretary, constantly, and both want to be in control! Now, to complicate it all further, Warren also quarrels with James Monro, head of the CID, or Criminal Investigation Division. Then, there’s the ages-old rivalry with the City Police. There’s another can of worms. The commissioner of the City Police, you know, is Sir James Fraser, but he’s almost retired, always out of town, and so in the city, it’s Lieutenant Colonel Sir Henry Smith in charge, and he’s the assistant commissioner. Now, you see, the City Police don’t have to answer to the home secretary, just the Corporation of the City of London. Sir Henry is determined on catching the bloke, though the murders have not occurred in his territory. Now, actually in charge of the investigation is Detective Inspector Frederick Aberline. You know him?”

  “He’s a good fellow,” Jamie said. “The area of Whitechapel and Bethnal Green was his ground for many years, then he was transferred to Scotland Yard—but sent back to head up this investigation because of his experience with the area.”

  “Aberline is a good fellow, and I can think of no one better for the job. He’s just got so very much red tape to get through. The politics of it all, like I said. There’s a storm brewing on the streets, and I’ve not seen anything like it in all my days. But do you think that they’d all put their differences aside in such a desperate situation? Bah, and they do not, and there you have it!”

  “Anger is growing against Sir Charles Warren,” Jamie commented.

  “Aye, and that’s a fact. Anger is growing against us all, and likely, it will come far worse. There’s a letter that’s come in—well, there’re thousands of letters that have come in—but this one has got the boys at the top squeamish. The fellow wrote to ‘Dear Boss.’ Said that he was ‘down on whores’ and wouldn’t quit ‘ripping’ them till he was caught. He’d wanted to write his letter in blood from his last victim, but it dried up. He says that the next job, he’s going to clip off the lady’s ears and send them to the police officers—just for ‘jollies.’ And he signed it ‘Jack the Ripper.’ ”

  “A name to send a chill down the spine, indeed,” Jamie said. “Do you think that the letter is a hoax? There have been so many others.”

  Bartley grimaced. “Um. There was one recently, must ’ave come from a big fan of Edgar Allan Poe, reading about the Murders in the Rue Morgue. He suggests that there’s a giant ape out there, committing the murders! Trust me, everyone has a theory, and a suggestion. We are dressing some fellows up as prostitutes, sending them out on the streets. Some think all the prostitutes should be fitted with mechanisms in which some kind of trap would spring shut once they were grabbed! Others claim it’s an American killer, a Chinese killer, a Buddhist, an Indian Thuggee out for revenge, a Jew, a Polack—and, of course, a rich man who might have gotten a disease from his play with a prostitute of low class. Then, you know, there were the ritualistic aspects of it. When Annie Chapman was found in the yard, she wasn’t just mutilated. She was . . . arranged. A few cheap rings, some pennies, and two new farthings were neatly laid at her feet. A wee bit of muslin, a paper case, and a comb were aligned by the body as well. So . . . is this madman a religious freak? A Satanist? A totally sane man, with a particular agenda in mind, playing with us all? God knows. I just walk the streets now, trying to keep the ladies of the night from getting their throats slit, even those filled with gin and ready to spit in my face, calling me a big cock and all other names!”

  “If there’s anything you think I should know, you’ll get in touch with me?” Jamie said.

  Bartley nodded. “Eh! I hear we’re nearly related, in a fashion, now.”

  “Oh?”

  “Nathan Lane was my cousin. Married to Lady Maggie Graham, who recently was wed to and widowed by your uncle, Charles. Pardon me! I’d forgotten you’re not just a ‘sir’ anymore! You’re Lord James Langdon.”
/>   “And not a hair on me has changed a bit, Bartley. So, then, you’re acquainted with Lady Maggie?”

  “A true angel!” Bartley said, his smile wistful. “Heard she almost caused a riot the other day.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “She came to the church without food, and decided to give out money. She and her friend were nearly trampled.”

  So Maggie was an angel. She’d be living in heaven all right, if she didn’t change her ways.

  “Ah, but the people here love her!” Bartley said.

  “The problem as I see it is that individuals do give, while the government itself has not determined on a way to deal with the overcrowding and starvation,” Jamie pointed out.

  “Oh, people give money. But Maggie comes here, you see. No matter what her title, her station in life, she walks among the people. She ignores the stench. She risks disease. She talks with them, and can be seen, and touched. That makes her an angel.”

  Bartley’s awe was irritating, and Jamie, to his shame, knew why. His uncle was barely cold. And all he could do was dream about being with his beloved kinsman’s widow himself. Being with her, alone. In shadow or light, alone together, tangled in the sheets.

  He rose abruptly. “Have you seen her—about, being seen and touched today?”

  “No, that I haven’t.” Bartley gave a deep sigh. “Lord James, thank you for the respite. And rest assured, whatever I hear on the streets that you might not, I will bring to your attention with haste.”

  * * *

  “This is insane!” Mireau said.

  “Isn’t she beautiful?” Maggie countered. And the baby was beautiful. Dark curls crowned her head, marble-like eyes stared out at them. She was dressed in rags, and was a year old, perhaps a little less, or a little more. She had a single dimple. Her smile was captivating.

  “She’s beautiful, and this is insane.”

  Maggie shook her head, smiling at him. They were clipping their way rather slowly through the streets of Whitechapel. People were everywhere, at the sides of the roads, in the middle, all nervous, all talking—and few paying much heed to the traffic.

  “I have this strange feeling, Mireau, that saving her is rather part of my destiny.”

  “Maggie, waiting a proper period of mourning, falling in love, marrying a man who is not standing with one foot in the grave already, bearing a child of your own. That would be destiny.”

  “She’s simply beautiful!” Maggie said again.

  “You’ve a stepdaughter who is simply beautiful. Even more beautiful than you are, perhaps. And she is nothing but trouble. Mark my words—this little beauty is already trouble.”

  Maggie glared at him and hugged the baby. The baby giggled, reaching for one of Maggie’s golden locks. Maggie was in rapture, and started when the cab suddenly came to a halt.

  “What . . . ?” she demanded.

  Mireau looked out. And paled to ash.

  “Jamie,” he said quickly.

  “Jamie?”

  “Lord James Langdon! Your great nephew, remember? Viscount Langdon—the new version?”

  “The baby, take the baby!”

  Maggie stuffed the child into his arms, thinking quickly to jump out of the cab and forestall Lord Langdon. For a moment, the wee girl looked up at Mireau as if she were about to let out a horrendous scream.

  “No, no, please!” he whispered. And he started to hum, trying to think of some song from his youth, desperate to keep her quiet. “Please, baby, please, please, please!” he crooned, and amazingly, she looked up at him, almost as if she understood.

  “Lord James!” he heard Maggie saying, and not with pleasure. Oh, brilliant! he thought. Start right off being hostile, Maggie!

  “What are you doing down here?” Jamie asked her, voice deep, resonating, and truly aggravated.

  “Taking in the air?” Maggie suggested. “It’s none of your business what I’m doing!”

  “Oh, isn’t it? Amazing, because I’m trying to protect your wretched life!”

  “It’s my life to do with what I please. Charles is gone; you have no rights over me.”

  “I am head of the Langdon family.”

  “I was born a Graham.”

  “Whatever your intentions down here, Maggie, if you don’t cease these visits, and immediately, I’ll begin to make a few suggestions of my own. Such as that I believe you may well be responsible for the death of Lord Charles. You’ll find that you’re cooling your heels once I make such an accusation.”

  “You wouldn’t!” Maggie gasped, and yet, it seemed that she believed he well might, for there was a touch of fear along with indignation in her voice.

  “Try me, my lady.”

  Mireau couldn’t see her, but he could well imagine Maggie. She must have been standing there, straight as a ramrod, furious, and yet, at a loss. Then she spoke again, quickly. “All right, Lord James, Viscount Langdon. I will get back in my cab, and return to the house, and stay there.”

  “No. You’ll come with me. I’ll see that you’re out of here.”

  Apparently, she chose not to mention that Mireau remained in the cab. From his place deep against the seat, Mireau saw as she turned and stared at him, and now there was naked pleading in the depths of her cobalt eyes. Get her safely away. Let no one know. For the love of God, help me in this, Mireau!

  “Maggie, I mean it!” Jamie continued harshly. “I want you out of here, with me, now!”

  “As you command, my lord!” she responded. “Go on, cabbie!” she cried to the hackney driver, and he saw that she was stepping forward, paying him.

  She gazed in at Mireau, pleadingly, one last time.

  Then she was gone.

  “What in God’s name do I do now?” Mireau said, staring at the baby as the carriage jolted back into action.

  She waved a tiny hand below his nose, eyes staring gravely into his. And he sighed, because he would do something, rack his brain, come up with an idea . . . he had to. He had fallen a little bit in love.

  * * *

  Jamie was evidently furious with her, and she couldn’t quite understand why. He knew that she came down here.

  Maybe she wasn’t properly mourning.

  Or maybe he did blame her for Charles’s death, despite his words to her to get over her self-pity.

  He “helped” her into his carriage with such a firm hand she nearly collided with the door on the opposite side. When he crawled in, he didn’t look at her, but out the windows. His jaw was set in such a lock she was surprised that it didn’t snap. His hands, so large, capable . . . were knotted into fists in his lap.

  “What the hell is the matter with you?” he demanded suddenly and harshly, staring at her, fire in the gray smoke of his gaze.

  “What the hell is the matter with you? You know that I come down here!”

  “Not now! There is a murderer on the loose.”

  She sat back, staring out the window. “There’s often a murderer on the loose in Whitechapel. People have just noticed for a change.”

  “All right, Maggie, let me rephrase. There’s an exceptionally heinous madman on the loose down here, and if a recent letter is to be accepted as from the real fellow, he’s calling himself Jack the Ripper. And he claims that he’s ready to strike again, eager to strike again!”

  “I’m not a prostitute,” Maggie said, and winced inwardly, thinking that, like these women, in actuality, she had been sold. Her price had simply been much higher.

  “And do you think that if you wind up in this madman’s path, it will be any different?”

  She sighed. “Jamie, I’m not your concern.”

  “But you are.”

  “How is that?”

  “You were charged with looking after Arianna. I was charged with looking after you.”

  “Charles is gone. Sadly, we are left with the truth of our lives. I will probably never have any influence over Arianna. And you have none with me.”

  “Then you’ll listen to me because I
’m threatening you.”

  She felt her fingers curl into fists. He was taking her back to Moorhaven, she was certain. And he would remain, trying to make sure that she didn’t leave the house. Well and fine. She could play that game—he couldn’t stay forever.

  But Mireau had the baby!

  “I stand duly threatened,” she said. Then she leaned forward, ready to plead. “Listen, Jamie, I’ll stay out of Whitechapel for a while, I promise. But I can’t abide being at Moorhaven.”

  “You have to abide it. You’re there to watch over Arianna.”

  She sat back, her jaw twisting into a rigid lock.

  The carriage moved on.

  The ride seemed interminable. And still, at last, they came to Moorhaven. She tried to jump out of the carriage before he could assist her. He was faster. They crashed into one another, trying to vacate the conveyance. She forced herself to allow him to go first, to reach for her, help her out.

  “Thank you, Randolph!” she called cheerily to the coachman. “Good day, Viscount,” she said coldly to Jamie.

  She marched into the house and raced up the stairs, swearing to herself as she realized that he was following her.

  The ever annoying Mrs. Whitley must have arrived in the foyer after she had headed up the stairs. She could hear the woman talking to Jamie.

  “Lord Langdon! What a pleasure. Will you be having supper? The house is in such a state of . . . confusion, these days!”

  She didn’t know what Jamie replied. She reached her room, entered, slammed the door, and began to pace. Where was Mireau? How on earth would he hide the baby? What would he do with her?

  She was so deeply entrenched in her worry and thoughts that she was stunned when her door burst open. Jamie had followed her up.

  He stared at her, his fury evident.

  “What?” she cried. “I’m in the house! In my room, going nowhere!”

  “Why are you so astonished that I don’t care to see you killed—and ripped to pieces?”

  “I will not be killed and ripped to pieces!” she protested.

  He strode across the room, tension evident in the set of his shoulders, the length of his stride. And she found that she didn’t move, that she longed for him to accost her, couldn’t wait to fight back, pound her fists against his chest.