Page 71 of When We Touch

And yet . . . for all her guilt, Charles had died happily, contemplating the fulfillment of a dream, and he had died in his own bed. While the poor woman in Whitechapel . . .

How she must have suffered. What terror had she endured, before death had given her peace? And what kind of a horrible animal could perpetuate such a crime?

Staring at the paper, stunned by the brutality of the murder and the grisly details so carefully chronicled in the paper, Maggie found herself wondering if she should ask Charles if they could perhaps make a donation so that the family of the poor woman might see her properly buried. Then, she felt hysteria rising again. Charles was dead. Sometime, between last night and this morning, he had passed away. He couldn’t agree to help her with anything anymore. But . . .

Unless she was arrested for murder herself...

There had been agreements in the marriage contracts. She could help on her own, if she so chose. She swallowed hard. And she began to cry. And she was sorry, so sorry, Charles had been a good man.

Lecherous.

No worse than any other of the male of the species!

A good man, and she was sorry, sorry, sorry, and . . .

God help her, as honest as her sense of loss and sorrow were, so was another feeling that she tried desperately to bury. One that made her realize a sensation of guilt that ascended all the rest. And what she couldn’t help to feel in a tiny place in her soul—that place which had felt so mortified the night before—was a sensation of...

Relief.

* * *

Justin and Mireau arrived a few hours later, along with a messenger from the Queen, sending her deepest condolences.

“Do you want to come home now?” Justin asked her rather awkwardly. “Moorhaven reverts to James, you know. Of course, as long as you live—and don’t remarry—you have the right to live here. Charles, of course, made that provision. I just didn’t think . . . Well, I guess it can’t be terribly comfortable for you.”

“Justin, I can’t wait to escape and come home,” she told her brother. “But . . . I think it only proper that I wait until after the funeral. And the autopsy,” she added bitterly.

“Yes, yes, you’re right, of course . . . it’s just . . . well, if he’d died a day earlier . . . well, of course, we’d all be grieving, still, but . . .”

Mireau made a strange noise in his throat. Maggie realized he was staring at her. “What?” she demanded.

“Nothing, nothing.”

“Say what’s on your mind, Jacques! Why should you cease to do so now?” Maggie demanded.

“No.”

“Mireau!”

He let out a sigh. “All right, Maggie! If you insist. Did he have the heart attack before, during, or after?”

“Jacques!” she and Justin exclaimed together.

Justin put up a hand. “Please, let’s not have this conversation!” He lowered his hand and looked perplexed. “I wonder if . . .”

“No, both of you—just stop wondering, please!” Maggie said.

“Well, it may have legal implications,” Justin said. He was studying his sister.

“I have no intention of discussing my private life with either of you—or anyone else! The debts are paid, Justin, right? No one can take back what was offered to the family as a marriage portion. So . . . whatever happens now, happens.”

“Maggie, there may well be an inquest,” Justin told her uneasily.

“He died a natural death,” she said.

“I’m merely saying that you may be called upon to explain exactly what happened,” Justin told her.

She stared at her brother and Mireau, who looked at her with a wry grimace. “Maggie, I’ve heard you talk about many subjects usually considered taboo,” he reminded her.