Page 54 of When We Touch

She was quiet most of the trip to Moorhaven. And when she arrived, she asked Darby if he would get Lord Charles so that she could speak with him.

Darby returned. Charles was distressed. It was bad luck to see his bride before the wedding. Maggie sent back the message that she didn’t believe in luck; she wanted to talk to him in the chapel where they would be married, and it was important.

Charles came, his concern apparent in the frown that wrinkled his forehead.

She was standing in the aisle, feet from the altar, when he came to her. She turned and he took her hands. “My dear, have you decided that you cannot marry such an old buzzard? If so, I will understand.”

She shook her head. “I want to make sure that you want me, that you know the woman you’re marrying.”

“From the first time I saw you, years ago, you were a dream. And when it came to me that such a dream might be realized, I knew all that I needed to know,” he told her.

She shook her head. “But you don’t really know me. Not even after this time we’ve spent together.”

He arched a white brow. “I know, Maggie, that after your husband’s death, you spent months in the deepest grief. I know that you heard of a medium who could speak with the dead, and that you attended a séance, and found out that the man was a charlatan, who looked into the history of those he would entertain, and found out little facts and the like to make himself look credible. I know that your brother was worried, and managed to feed the man false information, and that you were hurt and horrified when you discovered the treachery. I knew a year ago when you debunked a Madam Sara; please, dear, it was in the papers, and I believe that you realized then that you’d been foolish to allow your name into the news, because it would hinder your efforts if you tried again to find the truth. I know, and I understand. I know about your forays into Whitechapel, of course—I knew that financial charity was not enough for you, that you had to see how the money was being spent. I know these things, and I admire them. I was not looking for a meek little maid to do as I said, my dear.”

She smiled, touching his face. His very dear face.

“And I know how you have fought for social reform, and that you have always believed that privilege comes with responsibility. I know that you did service in India, that you have lived your years in the most incredibly admirable fashion.”

“Then what is it?”

“Charles, I loved my husband with all my heart.”

“I know.”

“But . . . what if I weren’t exactly a pillar of virtue? What if . . . what if there had been someone else . . . since my marriage.”

He lowered his head, then he looked at her, a very small smile on his lips. “Is it over?”

“It never really began.”

“We’re not married until we come into this chapel today, and say our vows. Your life before that moment means nothing to me. Naturally, what comes after . . . and there is nothing that you have done that could keep me from wanting to bind my life to yours. Unless you feel that you cannot bear to live with me. I do freely give you the opportunity to escape.”

She shook her head. “I’m trying to give you the opportunity to escape.”

“I am hopelessly wrapped in the chains of my own heart, my dear. I could only turn away if you were to say that you couldn’t bear the sight of me.” He brought her hands to his lips and kissed them tenderly. Something inside her heart shuddered, but there was another place within her where she knew just how truly fine a human being she would wed. She knew, too, from his eyes, from the passion in his voice, that he truly loved her.

And she could not hurt him. Nor, by any sense of right and wrong, could she renege when such arrangements for the welfare of her family had already been made.

She stroked back his rich white hair. “Charles, thank you. If you don’t mind, I’d like to make a little peace with God.”

“I will leave you. And when we meet again, rest assured, it will be the fulfillment of my dreams, and I don’t care in the least how many men there were before in your life, for we’ll begin life anew together.”

He didn’t kiss her. He smiled, dropped her hands, turned and left.

When he was gone, Maggie fell to her knees, asking for forgiveness.

And she hated herself because the most vile thoughts still came to mind to haunt her. Was this right? How could it be? Jamie would still be in her life, he was Charles’s great nephew, his heir—unless this marriage brought forth a son, and God help her, but that idea made her shudder. Memories of the night gone by were too vivid in her mind, and she knew that she could never go back, that she would always wonder. . . .

And yet, Jamie didn’t share his great uncle’s belief that her worldly pursuits were in the least intelligent. He was quick to her rescue, but because of Charles. And he had felt that same desperate pull she had known herself, and they had spent a night together, but what did that mean? A moment’s pleasure, and nothing more.

The Christ figure from the crucifix above the altar, carved hundreds of years ago, stared down at her with reproach.

“I will be a good wife to Charles, I swear it. I will be all that he wants!” she said, and she knew that she was pleading, seeking redemption for her sins. She suddenly felt that they had been many.

At last, she crossed herself, rose, and left the chapel. It was time to dress for her wedding.

As she left the chapel, she reflected that she might have told Charles that his daughter despised her, as well.