Page 76 of When We Touch

When her father was waked in the grand salon, Arianna appeared, then managed to slip away, feeling ill. She refused to speak with Jamie, or anyone at all. Maggie kept her vigil, not retiring until the last of those who came to pay their respects had left.

Then came the solemn day of the funeral.

Once again, Arianna avoided a conversation with anyone, lifting a gloved black hand to stave off sympathy from any well-wisher. She was, in fact, so completely immersed in black that, if Maggie didn’t know her stepdaughter was the one joining her and Jamie, she wouldn’t have recognized the girl.

She expected the ice and silence she received from Charles’s daughter. Thanks to the laudanum, she didn’t care. Arianna was welcome to be as headstrong and wretched as she chose. For her part, Maggie determined not to fight the girl. It was all difficult enough.

Jamie, however, seemed irritated. But even he seemed to feel he had to give Arianna time to accept the situation in her own way.

There were other factors that might have upset Maggie more at the time.

There were whispers that stopped when she passed, and began again as soon as she was assumed to be beyond earshot. There were those who found it all amusing—the poor dear old fellow had gotten far too excited over such a young bride and . . . well, such things happened. There were others who mused that it was quite amazing that she’d managed to wed the old boy, and then have him drop dead so conveniently. Perhaps she hadn’t poisoned him but still . . .

The Queen herself, surrounded by royals, nobles, and servants, attended the actual funeral service at Westminster; she arrived to a moment’s high fanfare at the stroke of twelve, when the archbishop was to begin the service, and naturally, time was arranged for her to depart. There was a tear in her eye as she listened, and Maggie was heartened to realize that the Queen really had considered Charles a very dear friend. It was said that since her very good friend, Mr. Brown—rumored at times to be more than a friend—had died in ’83, she had depended heavily at times on her friendship with Charles.

The Queen didn’t, however, stop to speak with Maggie or the family; she gave Maggie a very royal nod before she departed, and Maggie assumed that was her way of expressing sympathy. Later, when the rites were long over and Charles’s coffin was taken away to join others in the catacombs for his eternal rest, Justin told his sister softly that she should be very grateful for the Queen’s appearance, and her acknowledgment. Victoria, by her appearance, had not just shown her grief for an old and dear friend; she had shown her support for Maggie, and that would influence the society throughout London, indeed, through all of the country and beyond. Maggie was vaguely grateful, but still in her blessed, drugged fog.

She was correct in every way; she painstakingly made certain of that fact, and that she kept a cool distance from Charles’s family.

She spent no intimate moments with Jamie, but did stand with him and Arianna at the reception following the funeral, and thanked all those who attended, many of whom had just been there for the wedding. Eventually, it was all over.

Except that it was not.

That night, both her brother and Mireau planned to return to the house in Mayfair. She was eager to leave, herself, eager to leave Jamie and Arianna to one another, and yet, the attorneys were coming sometime soon, and, according to Jamie, she had to meet with them.

That night, however, she asked Fiona to see that she was brought her supper in the room, along with a pot of strong tea—and a bottle of stronger whiskey.

Fiona faithfully followed her every wish, as she always did.

Except that she must have been worried about Maggie and the laudanum and the liquor, because Maggie had barely chewed a few mouthfuls of some meat concoction and enjoyed two cups of whiskey-laced tea before there was a knock on the door.

“Please, I don’t wish to be disturbed!” she called out.

And was ignored.

Jamie entered the room.

“Good God, what on earth are you doing?” he demanded.

“Dining?”

“You barely touched the plate. And it smells like a distillery in here.”

She arched a brow. “Drowning my sorrows?” she suggested.

He walked over to her tray, picked up the bottle of fine, single malt Scots whiskey, and threw it angrily into the fire. She leapt up from the winged-back chair at the hearth in protest.

“What on earth are you doing?” she demanded.

“Growing impatient.”

“With what?”

“You!”

“I’m not really your concern. You said that I had to stay to see the solicitor. After that, I’ll be out of your hair.”

“What? Are you trying to prove Arianna right?”