When We Touch

by Heather Graham

  Time, Jamie was certain, was of the essence. He ran to the carriage and dragged Mireau from it. “Maggie’s gone.”

  “He came back, then, he’s got her,” Mireau said.

  “Who?” Jamie raged.

  “Alexander. Adrian Alexander. He’s calling himself Jeremiah Heath now.”

  Justin burst forward, reaching for Mireau’s lapels in a fury. “You let her come here! Jesus, I should kill you here and now, on the spot—”

  “Stop it!” Cecilia cried. “She forced him to keep silent. They had Arianna, don’t you see!”

  Perhaps Justin didn’t. Jamie did.

  He’d had his chance. When she’d come that morning. And when he had raged so . . .

  She had decided on her course of action.

  “Justin, take the north, I’ll head east. Mireau . . . you, go south, and Eustace, head down there in a westwardly fashion. Cecilia, tell the police what you can—get them moving as well. Then, take your coachman, please, get Arianna home, and get the doctor for her. Not Sir William Gull! Get Dr. Mayer, and stay with her, please! Stay at Moorhaven.”

  Cecilia nodded, jumping into the carriage. She caught Jamie’s hand briefly. “It was the only way she thought that she could save Arianna!” she said softly.

  “It doesn’t matter now! He has her—we have to find them.”

  “I know, but . . .”

  “What?”

  “You know she loves you,” Cecilia said.

  “All that matters is that I find her now,” he replied, and freed his hand. Time. He had to hurry. He’d seen Adrian Alexander in action before.

  And he believed that the man was capable of anything.

  * * *

  Maggie woke because of the water being thrown on her face.

  For a moment, all she knew was that it was cold and startling. Then she realized that she was lying on a hard stone floor, that her cape and wig had been snatched from her, and that someone powerful and very angry had not just sluiced her face with water, but was then nearly suffocating her, scrubbing away with a vengeance at the theatrical paint she had been wearing.

  Instinct made her fight. Fingers wound into her hair, pulling so hard that tears came to her eyes. Then the hold eased, but as she fought to get the cloth from her face, she became aware of another, far more terrifying sensation.

  There was a knife at her throat.

  She held very still, barely breathing.

  “There, there! I knew you weren’t a stupid girl. You’re not about to scream, are you, Lady Langdon? You’re quite fond of living. Who wouldn’t be, in your position. Funny thing is, I didn’t get who the girl was right off. But, after our little debacle, I naturally tried to discover just who you might be. And when I looked back, I found the newspaper reports, and . . . I honestly didn’t recognize you last night. But then, something warned me . . . some spirit, maybe! So I waited tonight, and watched.”

  It was almost completely dark. Maggie thought that after he knocked her out, he must have dragged her into an empty house or factory. It was damp, and freezing, as well. Only a pale illumination seeped in through broken windows from the streets beyond.

  Alexander seemed to have the eyes of a cat, or else he was accustomed to the darkness and the shadow of the East End. He knew her discomfort as well, knew that he held all the advantages.

  “You thought that you would strike a blow against me tonight, eh? Good heavens, woman, what on earth is wrong with you? Haven’t you heard—there’s a madman out there. Why bother with a spiritualist?”

  He started to laugh. The knife edged closer to her throat. If she took a breath at that second, her flesh would be cut. She remained dead still. Chills swept through her as she remembered how he had come in the night before.

  With his hands wet.

  As if he had just washed them.

  Washed away . . .

  Blood.

  She fought the rising panic within her. Whether this man was actually Jack the Ripper or not didn’t really matter—since his intent was to kill her!

  “You know, though, m’lady, you actually make many an unfortunate in this area look like a saint. Ah, well, perhaps that’s pushing it. They’re whores, wretched whores, wanting their alcohol more than there own silly little lives. If Jackie weren’t taking his knife to the bitches, they’d die soon enough anyway, rotting to pieces from pickling their own innards! But then, that’s the likes of them. And there’s the likes of you. What a high price to be paid for your companionship! But then, not a few pennies, eh? For your favors, you’d have a marriage license, and lots and lots of riches. Then you’re all supplied with a coachman, or several coachmen! And you can buy disguises. And set out to attack people who had no argument with you!”

  Maggie remained very still, tensing only as she heard the police whistles and footsteps that suddenly broke the quiet of the night.

  “Look at the commotion you’ve caused! Alas, pity, I really must get going tonight. There would be no way to do you any true justice . . . but, then again, you’ll help me to slip into the darkness.”

  The knife was suddenly gone. Maggie breathed in and out, desperate to see in the night. Then she gasped out involuntarily as a noose was slipped around her neck. “They’ll have to let you die to take me!” he said cheerfully, and she was dragged up to her feet. She felt the coarse rope around her throat. “Let’s see . . . a doorway or window . . . or the lamppost. The lamppost, and quickly.” He dragged her to a doorway. She struggled to find the reticule she had brought, the braided handle of it held on her person through the black sash that tied around her waist. As he pushed her forward, she struggled to find her little pistol.

  He had a grip of steel. She was tight against his body as he held her, looking out. “One sound and I will gut you like a pig!” he warned.

  Then . . .

  The little square, with the gaslight that was out or broken, was empty again. No sound of footsteps. No shrill of police whistles.

  He forced her out. She kept attempting to slip her hand into the reticule.

  It was difficult, for he dragged her through the street, with the strength of his hold, and with the ever tightening pressure of the rope. She worked her fingers into the bag . . . curled her hand around the pistol. . .

  Then gasped, choking, as he threw the rope over the lamppost, and used his weight and strength to jerk her up.

  She fired . . . quickly, desperately, in the split seconds before she dropped the gun, drawing both hands instinctively to the stricture around her neck.

  She heard a scream . . . police whistles again . . .

  But they were fading. No matter how she tried to slip her fingers beneath the rope and stop it, it was strangling the life from her; she was dying . . .

  “Maggie!” She heard a voice. His voice. Once again.

  Maybe she would always hear it. Maybe there really was such a thing as true spiritualism. Maybe she would hear him, envision him, see and feel and need him, far beyond the grave....

  “Maggie!” It was a shout again.

  Then, she heard a shot crack through the night again. And she was no longer choking, but falling . . .

  Hard upon the cobblestones below her.

  There was no mist, no fog. Rockets seemed to explode before her eyes.

  Then her shoulders were lifted, cradled gently into a lap. “Maggie, oh, my God, Maggie! I’m sorry, I had to shoot the rope . . . I couldn’t wait, you were kicking and strangling. Is anything broken . . . can you move?”

  Jamie. Brows knit in a frown of desperate concern, cradling her on his lap, in his embrace. At first, she couldn’t talk. She moistened her lips, nodded. Croaked, “I’m . . . I’m all right.”

  “Take her!” Jamie said. She was dimly aware of footsteps hurrying toward her. Someone else was there. Her brother. Justin was taking her. Mireau was there, too, at her side.

  “I’ve got to go after him!” Jamie said. And then he was gone.

  “I have her,” Justin said firmly, and
she was lifted into her brother’s arms.

  “Sorry, Lord Graham,” someone with a voice of authority said. “We’ve got to talk to her for a few moments.”

  “I don’t think she can talk right now!” Justin said, outraged.

  “We need her help,” the other man said quietly.

  And so, she was taken first to a police station, and she tried hard, with Mireau’s help. Finally, what seemed like hours later, they were free to leave.

  In the carriage, Justin supported her. And partway home he said to her, “I could actually strangle you myself! Maggie, what were you thinking? You need to be locked away in a tower somewhere. Of course, I am your brother. And I’ve let you play these dangerous games. Well, I didn’t exactly let you.” Then he quit trying to sound so stern. “Maggie, thank God, oh, thank God!” And he hugged her.

  He was still so protective as they made their way into the house at Moorhaven. She was actually able to walk somewhat, with him supporting her, Mireau at her side.

  They came into the grand salon. Mrs. Whitley, Dr. Mayer, and Cecilia came rushing forward.

  “Arianna?” Maggie said, her voice still a bare scratchy whisper.

  “She’ll be fine. She’ll come out of it soon enough,” Dr. Mayer said.

  Maggie was stunned when her brother suddenly gasped. “That’s Arianna?”

  The girl was lying on the settee by the hearth. Pale, stretched out, black hair streaming behind her, porcelain skin as white as the snow, she lay in a state of suspended beauty.

  “Of course,” she murmured, frowning.

  “Arianna!” her brother breathed.

  And then, to Maggie’s chagrin, her brother almost dropped her flat. In fact, she would have fallen if Mireau had not been at her side.

  “Delighted to see that you’ve fared well enough!” Cecilia said dryly.

  Justin was oblivious to having left his sister. Long strides brought him across the room. He fell to his knees at Arianna’s side. “Arianna!” he breathed again.

  “He knows her name,” Mireau commented.

  Justin took the girl’s hand reverently. He stared, fraught with worry, at her still face. Then, delicately, lightly, he kissed her lips.

  The girl stirred. Her eyes very slowly opened. “You!” she breathed.

  “But they’ve met, haven’t they?” Mireau said, confused.

  “They have now,” Cecilia said. “How darling!”

  “Indeed, just adorable.” Maggie grinned, and then the night proved to be just too much, and she sagged into Mireau’s arms in a dead faint.

  * * *

  She awoke much later, sometime the following day. She heard birds, and the sounds of their chirping seemed a miracle. Her eyes opened very slowly. Her throat hurt terribly. In fact, she had pains everywhere. She remembered the cobblestones that had embraced her when she had fallen from the lamppost.

  “Maggie?”

  She turned her head. Even doing so hurt.

  Jamie was there. He was a mess. He had been up all the night, she knew.

  “Maggie . . . I . . . I should give you a sound thrashing!” he said.

  She tried to smile. “I’m not sure it could hurt much worse than what I’m already feeling,” she told him. And he smiled and shook his head, touching her cheek very tenderly. “We didn’t get him. You wounded him . . . you did get him with a shot . . . but he didn’t die. He escaped. We looked all night.”

  “But . . . Arianna is home.”

  He nodded. “Charles would have been very proud of you, you know.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “I’m still ready to thrash you! You should have told me.”

  “I couldn’t tell you . . . I had to get her out first, or you would come there ready to be shot yourself and you both might have died. You hadn’t been there, and actually, I was going to tell you, but—”

  “But I behaved like the biggest ass in the world,” he said ruefully.

  “But . . . it didn’t really matter. Honestly, it didn’t work out quite as I had planned it, but we are all alive, and Arianna is home, and . . . Jamie?” she asked, suddenly wincing in pain. “Do you think that . . . that he might be the killer as well? I tried to tell the police everything he said. And I told them that he’d come to the séance the night before after the murders had occurred, and when he took my hands, his were wet. All wet, as if he’d washed them.”

  “I don’t know, Maggie. I do know that he’s still on the loose out there, somewhere, and that we’ve got to find him.” He leaned forward, kissing her forehead. For a moment he paused there, and she felt him trembling. “You’re all right,” he said softly. “Dr. Mayer says that, amazingly, you’ve not got a single broken bone. You’ll not feel great for a few days, but . . .”

  He sat back again. “I’ve got to change. I’ve got to have a bath, change . . . get some sleep myself. You, rest. If you even think about getting out of that bed, leaving this room—I will beat you to within an inch of your life!”

  She tried not to smile. He’d saved her life. He’d never hurt her, and she knew it.

  But she hadn’t the strength to argue. Not then.

  And so she nodded, and her eyes closed again.

  The next time she awoke, it was to Arianna’s face. The girl sat by her side, watching her so anxiously. And when her eyes opened, Arianna cried out, “Oh, Maggie!”

  The hug that she gave her hurt. Maggie managed not to cry out. It was far too precious a hug to refuse.

  * * *

  Three days later, her throat no longer hurt, her voice seemed just fine, and even the little aches and pains that had plagued her had subsided.

  She hadn’t seen Jamie again, and she was concerned, except that her brother had taken up residence at the house, and told her that Jamie had asked about her, but that he was busy. He had gotten Mireau to write some articles and see that they were sent to the paper; they were calming articles, saying as how the entire community must learn to fight terror together.

  Hearing this, Maggie decided that she could aid the cause, and she got Mireau to sit with her while she had him write up her version of her particular story, claiming that the police, along with Lord James, had certainly saved her life, that they were a city with a massive population, learning to fight crime. She made certain to stand up for Prince Eddy, pointing out clearly that he had been in Scotland during the murders, and she had urged other men and women of any financial prosperity to help those who were so in need. She made sure that the byline was that of a fictitious member of the Salvation Army, and therefore, she didn’t add any of the scandal of her own life to what was written.

  The days ahead were hard, though—horrible. The entire city indeed lived in fear. A piece of kidney, proved to be human, was delivered to Mr. Lusk, head of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee, and the police and the citizens had to grimly accept the fact that it might well have been taken from one of the victims.

  The story was printed, and Maggie was glad to see that there were people who talked about it, and rather than drag down the monarchy or continue to ridicule such hardworking fellows as Abberline, they began to form their own watch committees.

  And to add aid to those in the East End.

  A week after the night when she had gone to Hennesy’s house and possibly had her own encounter with the madman, Jamie came to the house. He was in a tense and dire mood, and she was surprised when he said that he wasn’t ordering her about, but if she cared anything for him, she would go away for a while.

  “Where?”

  “Go visit Clayton’s sisters. Visit the baby,” he told her.

  Mireau was there, and she glared at him furiously. He lifted his hands helplessly. “He . . . has a way of making me say things!” Mireau said.

  “Just for a while, Maggie, please. Just for a while. Alexander is a madman, whether he is the East End fiend or not, and he wants you dead. I can’t worry about you and do the things I should be doing.”

  She wanted to argue. She didn’
t. She had to admit that she wasn’t feeling her usual strength as yet. Except that she didn’t want to be away from him. First, everything had been so volatile, and then, when she had finally discovered a taste of real tenderness . . .

  “All right,” she told him.

  So she went up to the woods, and met Clayton’s sisters, and spent time playing with the absolutely precious little girl called Ally.

  Arianna came for the first week, which made Justin come, too. They were waiting, of course—her period of mourning for her father was long from over, but as she told Maggie, Justin was her prince in shining armor, and she wanted to be with him more than anything in the world.

  Cecilia came to visit as well, bringing with her news from London. Sir Charles Warren had buckled to pressure and resigned.

  Actually, he resigned again, and then again, but the whole of the police departments were in a state of flux. Maggie’s cousin Tristan had joined with the Metropolitan police, and was very pleased to be working.

  Cecilia announced that she had done some investigating, since they really didn’t know much about their little Ally.

  “There is definitely a woman named Annie Crook now escaped somewhere to the North. She had been in and out of many of the relief houses. She is not supposed to be a prostitute, but, well, women make their money where they can! And she has borne a few children. One whose name is Alice, but that baby is with her, alive and unharmed. Whether this is a woman with whom Eddy had an affair . . . I do think that our Ally is his child. Annie Crook may have had several, or maybe she isn’t even the mother.”

  “It doesn’t matter now,” Maggie told her. “Ally belongs here, in this lovely cottage, being raised by gentlewomen who adore her. You’re not supposed to know who she is, or that she’s here. Mireau can’t keep a secret!”

  Cecilia was offended at that. “Maggie! I would go to my grave with the secret! After all we’ve been through together!”

  And, of course, she was right.

  “No one must ever know about her, though. Really, truly,” Maggie reminded Cecilia.

  “Of course!”

  And they progressed to talk about other matters.