Page 68 of When We Touch

Arianna stood there.

“You . . . witch!” she cried. “You’ve killed him. Murderess!”

And then the girl came flying across the room, throwing herself on top of the bed, flailing away at Maggie.

Arianna wasn’t a weakling, and neither was Maggie. She was entangled in the sheets, and unprepared for the assault, but she caught Arianna’s flailing arms. “Stop it! Stop it! I did nothing to your father, I swear it!”

“Arianna!”

Jamie was at the door, dark hair in disarray on his forehead, his immaculate wedding attire now wrinkled and the worse for the night he had apparently spent up. The girl didn’t seem to hear him. Maggie was left to maintain her desperate fight to keep her stepdaughter from gouging out her eyes.

“Arianna!”

Jamie strode into the room, grappling to draw his cousin from her determined attack.

“She killed him! She killed him. She murdered him for his money!” Arianna cried.

“No!” Maggie protested.

Jamie caught Arianna by her shoulders, dragging her away at last, and into his arms where she burst into a flood of tears. Against Jamie’s chest, she sobbed out her accusation again. “She killed him, she killed him, she only married him for his money.”

Jamie’s eyes touched Maggie’s above Arianna’s head. Maggie felt ill, wondering if Jamie believed that was what had happened.

Her heart sank. She leapt from the bed, realized her state of undress, for she had fallen asleep in the smoking jacket, and turned and fled into the dressing room and bath.

There, she started to shake. It occurred to her that she might really be accused of murder. Surely, no one would believe such a thing.

She saw her reflection above the marble sink. She looked ghastly, gaunt and white, and totally disheveled. She lowered her head, realizing that Charles had died. She wasn’t sure if she felt pain, or if she was still in such a realm of shock that it was natural she should feel nothing but a crippling numbness.

She had to gather herself together, she knew. And yet, it was almost impossible to do so. Either minutes or hours passed in which she just stood there. She dimly heard a knock at the door. Not Arianna this time, since the girl had no intention of knocking. And still, she couldn’t bring herself to call out.

“My lady?” the door opened. Maggie still couldn’t move.

She realized that a young woman in a maid’s attire had gingerly entered the room, and now waited just outside the bath, looking in. “Ah, my poor lady!” the woman murmured. She had an accent, that much registered in Maggie’s mind. Irish. She had dark hair, a smattering of freckles, warm brown eyes, and a fresh face. “Come out, please. Lie down. I’ll draw you a bath, get your clothing together . . . I’m so sorry. So, so, sorry!”

The kindness suddenly shown her brought tears to Maggie’s eyes. “Thank you!” she managed.

“I’m Fiona, upstairs maid,” she told Maggie. “Come along, now, please, let me help you.”

Maggie looked down, gritted her teeth, and straightened. “Thank you,” she said again, some dignity back in her voice. “Perhaps that would indeed help.”

She left the bathroom and allowed Fiona to prepare her a bath with good, hot water. Maggie sank into it, praying for the steam to ease the wracking pain in her head. At length, she was ready to rise. And thankfully, due to the periods of mourning Maggie had already observed, there was a black satin dress among her belongings in the room. She allowed Fiona to help her dress, and then, she was grateful when the girl made quick and efficient work with the wild tangles of her hair. At length, Maggie appeared presentable.

“Sir James . . . Lord James, I believe it is now, is in the grand salon, my lady,” Fiona told her when she had finished. Stepping back, she surveyed her handiwork. “And Dr. Mayer has left laudanum, should you need it, in the days to come.”

Maggie nodded. She had to face what was happening. She rose. “Thank you, Fiona.”

“Aye, my lady. I’ll report back to Mrs. Whitley now.”

“No,” Maggie said, suddenly determined that she wasn’t going to allow herself to be bullied by a housekeeper—not unless the police hauled her away for murder. “Fiona, I would you like your position changed in the house. You’ll be my personal maid from now on.”

Fiona looked distressed. “I’m afraid Mrs. Whitley—”

“Mrs. Whitley is not the mistress of the house,” Maggie said. “I will see that she is informed.”

“Would you like your things moved back to . . . to the master chamber?”

“No, I would like the rest of my things brought here. I don’t believe I’ll be staying that long,” she said, and quickly exited the room.