Page 58 of When We Touch

There was a moment when she felt a small seizure of panic, as she wondered if the Prince of Wales himself might recognize her as being the woman at the table so near his own the night before. But he gave no sign, and Princess Alexandra was as sweet and courteous as one could hope.

The royals moved on to the house, where the reception would take place, and then, Charles wanted photographs with just himself and Maggie; then the wedding party, Justin and Jamie, then her family, including Angus, the sons, and the wives. Then his family, Jamie and his daughter.

Except that Arianna was not to be found.

He threatened no violence, and yet Maggie realized that she would not want to be his daughter, facing his displeasure.

“Jamie, then, if you will, with my new lady wife!” Charles said, beaming.

And so, she was stood beside Jamie, and in those terrible moments, he looked at her, and she felt as if she wanted to crawl beneath the earth and die. And though he was far too well-mannered and schooled in the mores of their society to make any outward show of his displeasure, she felt the way that he touched her as they stood for the camera. As if he had been forced to pick up dung in the streets, as if he could barely stand it until he could release her. It was as if he had touched something filthy beyond comprehension.

“My turn!” Mireau called happily.

She felt almost giddy with relief as her dear friend came to stand beside her, his warmth real, his friendship and loyalty always unconditional.

At last, the photo sessions came to an end. They moved on to the house where an orchestra played, and a grand march began for their entry. Then, the first wedding dance, a waltz, and she was pleased to discover that she could fall into step with her new husband beautifully, and despite the tremors that had taken hold of her somewhere during it all, she could move about the floor without being an incredible embarrassment to Charles.

A magnificent dinner had been planned, and she had to marvel at the elegance and grace with which everything moved. Champagne was served, and she drank liberally, knowing she would need the fortitude for the hours to come. She met friends of Charles, and others she knew through her brother. She was walked around on her uncle’s arm to speak with various people, all members of the elite, friends from his club, those he would consider to be the right people for her to nurture in her new life.

Each of her cousins and their wives greeted her warmly, watching her with a new esteem. Seriously, the boys were not so bad. Tristan told her that he had been studying some of the latest reports on work regarding investigations in France, and though he hadn’t told his father yet, he was seriously considering police work himself. She encouraged him, and he admitted sheepishly that he hadn’t yet admitted it to his wife.

“There is nothing wrong with honest work, Tristan,” she told him.

“Easy for you to say.”

“I’ll support you, whatever you choose. So will Justin—and Charles!”

Tristan nodded, grinning slowly. “I may well need your support, and you just might find that I’m forced to seek a bed within your walls.”

“Tristan, the world has changed, and I believe that the rest of our family will have to figure that out soon.”

He moved closer to her, speaking softly. “Indeed! It’s actually getting quite frightening. There are so many people who feel that royalty and nobility alike take such advantage of their situation—the insurrectionists are often in the streets. The royals are often booed on the streets. Not Her Majesty, the Queen, of course . . . but there are others . . .”

She knew that he referred to the Prince of Wales, and his son, Eddy.

She looked to the group and noted that they were in deep conversation with her uncle, Charles, her brother, and a few other guests.

A few moments later, the threesome, followed by their “escorts,” came to her side, wishing her well, saying their good-byes. The Prince of Wales assessed her rather openly, as if amused by the night ahead for Lord Charles. Eddy, whom she had met often enough in social circles, was simply pleasant. Princess Alexandra was lovely, and exceptionally sweet, apparently pleased in the company of her husband and son, and Maggie found herself wondering how the woman put up with her husband’s behavior, and all that was constantly whispered.

But then, perhaps it was worth it all to her, for one day, she would be queen of the greatest empire in the world.

A trade-off . . .

Just as she had made her own trade-off, Maggie thought, and it was not a pleasant image in her mind.

When the royals departed, the discussion turned openly to the Crown, the state of the country, the shortcomings of the home secretary and the prime minister, and how it seemed that they were moving ever closer to disaster because way too many immigrants from other European countries found their way to English shores.

She stood with Charles, listening to Lady Marian give a tirade on how they wouldn’t need to worry about the dreadful conditions in the East End if they could just keep the riff-raff from spilling across the channel. “Why, most of them just believe that they can come here and live off the charity of the land—or worse! Stealing their incomes from those who have been born to class or even those gentlemen who had created such fine businesses!”

“Oh, come, Marian!” Charles said. “We’ve come a long way from the days of the Regency. Remember, we’ve our modern police forces now, and those fellows do extraordinary work. Imagine life before the Police Act of 1829.”

“Pish-posh!” Marian said. “Now we’ve police! And we’ve decided that horrible criminals deserve the decency of private executions, and we’ve turned prisons into places of solitude and comfort.”

“We’re trying to truly reach an age of enlightenment,” Mireau said quietly. “Sadly, despite our incredible technological achievements, there are still those who don’t mind making a living off the suffering of others. Those who charge massive rents for slum living conditions are criminals, as sure as petty thieves are.”

“It’s only the charity of the rich that keeps those poor devils in the slums alive!” Lady Marian said. “The wealthy are the ones seeing to the very livelihoods of the poor! And if punishments were sterner, we’d find there would be more law and order!”

“Oh, come, Marian!” Sir Roger argued, slipping into the group. He winked at Mireau, who looked quite taken aback. The Duchess had looked at him as she might her old bath water. Roger was attempting to lighten the moment. “What? Would you bring back the chopping block and axe?”