Page 66 of When We Touch

And try as he might, no matter what emotion brewed in his heart regarding Charles, he knew that she had done nothing to purposely bring this on.

She started to tremble again. “She thinks . . . Mrs. Whitley . . . thinks that I did something to him!” She was both outraged, and like a child, scared.

“It’s his heart, Maggie. The doctors will tell them that.”

She buried her face in her hands. “Maybe I did do this . . . but . . . but . . . he . . . oh, God! I might have done it, but he . . . oh, God!”

Jamie loved Charles. He had done so all his life, and with all of his being. But he understood exactly what had happened.

Charles had gotten what he wanted. And it had been too much.

Mrs. Whitley returned with two snifters of brandy. She was too good a housekeeper to blatantly state her disapproval of the new Lady Langdon, but it was evident. Jamie ignored her, steered Maggie to a wing-backed chair by the hearth, and forced a snifter into her hands. “Drink it.”

Mrs. Whitley was back at the bedside. A tremendous sob shook her frame.

“Mrs. Whitley, the doctors are coming. Cold cloths might well soothe his forehead.”

“Aye, yes, yes, yes!”

And she was gone again, returning shortly. Maggie looked like a statue, a wax figurine, holding the snifter in her hands, staring at Charles, not moving. Mrs. Whitley returned with the cold cloths. He began to administer them to his uncle’s forehead.

At last, Randolph returned with Dr. Mayer. Approximately thirty-five, Mayer had studied at the best schools in London, and in the United States. He was not the Queen’s Royal Physician; he was far superior, Jamie thought.

Mayer entered the room with his black bag in hand, gazing at Maggie in the chair, and surely, despite himself and his total professionalism, pausing for a moment. Jamie was up, walking across the room to greet him quickly.

“Can you tell me the circumstances, please?” Mayer asked, striding to the bedside, searching out a pulse, then opening his patient’s closed lids to study the eyes beneath.

“He was married today,” Jamie said.

“Yes, of course . . . I’ve heard,” Mayer murmured, then glanced at Jamie. “Sorry . . . there has been talk around the city.”

Jamie gazed at Maggie again. “Forgive my manners. Dr. Mayer, the new Lady Langdon.”

“Lady Langdon,” Mayer said politely. He sighed, looking from his patient to Jamie, and then Maggie. “I don’t mean to be indelicate here, but . . .”

Maggie swallowed hard, closing her eyes for a moment, then looking at Mayer. “We had retired for the evening. He was fine, talking . . .” Her cheeks colored a bloodred shade of crimson. “Preparing for . . . bed. And then . . . he just . . . went out.”

Mayer nodded, and turned back to his patient, administering all that he could. He produced a syringe of something, and gave Charles a shot, then waited.

A moment later, another man entered the room.

Sir William Gull.

He was adored by the Queen because, once, years before, in 1871, he was credited with saving the Prince of Wales when he was stricken with typhoid fever. But many years had passed since then. Gull was old. And he was slow on the one side, and a certain contortion now marred his features. He, like Maggie, lived in London’s very exclusive Mayfair section, and it was reported that he was worth a small fortune through his association with the Queen. To his credit, he was loyal to Victoria to a fault, and surely, would have died on her behalf, if ever so required.

Right now, he appeared totally indignant that another physician was already in the room.

“What is happening here?” he demanded, and sounded entirely autocratic.

“Heart attack, I’m afraid,” Dr. Mayer said.

Gull glared at the man, who stepped back as he came forward. Mayer informed Gull of his findings, of his treatment.

Gull listened, irritated, the one side of his face seeming to take on a sinister sneer.

“You could not await my arrival?” Gull said to Jamie.

“My uncle’s condition seems dire, sir. I sent both men out for the sake of expediency.”