Page 82 of When We Touch

Fiona sighed. “I will not do anything illegal or immoral, Arianna. And I beg you to think about the way that you feel. There was an autopsy. Your father died of a heart attack.”

“Good night, Fiona,” Arianna said.

“Oh, please! Don’t be angry with me. I am your friend, and I want to help you, and make you feel better.”

“Of course. Good night; I really must get some sleep.”

Adjusting her maid’s cap, Fiona nodded. “Good night, Arianna.”

When Fiona had left, Arianna stoked her fire, set her hands out before the warmth, and shivered still.

Mesmerists . . .

Spiritualists . . .

Hm. It was natural that she might seek out a few. She had just lost her dear father.

Chapter 11

The solicitors were Mr. Green and Mr. Green, father and son. Maggie was disturbed to find that she was meeting with them alone—Jamie had spent a half hour with them before the appointed time, and it seemed that he was impatient to be off, leaving her to herself.

Thankfully, he had gotten through to her the night before. She had done nothing but marry a man who had fervently wanted to marry her, and she was not going to spend any more time moping about, feeling guilty. A strenuous argument with herself had finally convinced her that she wasn’t evil—it had been natural to feel discomfort with such an aging man, and she would have done her best to be a good wife.

Charles had died. All men died. Age had taken him. She had not.

And so she had sworn off laudanum, and was completely in her right senses when she sat with the men in her late husband’s library.

The elder Mr. Green was a severe man with stern gray muttonchops and a balding pate. The son was his exact copy, except that he had a head full of rich brown hair. One day, of course, he would resemble his father completely.

She was gratified when they first read a letter in Charles’s own hand, speaking of his happiness when he was with her. She sat in silence when they went on to read and then explain the circumstances of his estate. Naturally, James Landgon inherited the title, the lands belonging to the title, Moorhaven and grounds among them. She, however, had a right to consider the property as her address throughout her natural life, lest she should remarry, and then, of course, she must vacate the premises. She was informed as to the accounts set up in her name, the amount of funds she’d have available, and the limitations of what she might use at any given time, since Charles had wanted her inheritance to sustain her through life should she choose not to marry again. Still, each month, she had a generous allowance.

She listened in appreciation.

But then they came to the point of her stepdaughter. She was the girl’s legal guardian. Charles had been quite concerned about his girl, bereft of a mother for so very long. He had every intent for the girl to marry, and his nephew, James, was well aware of the particulars. However, she was to reach her eighteenth birthday first, have a season out for balls and teas and solid friendships to be made. Until that time, he asked that Maggie do her best to see that Charles’s beloved Arianna was given advice, love, and guidance.

She sat stunned. There was no condition in the will; she could walk away and refuse to have anything to do with the girl—other than to dole out allowance and guard her accounts. But in his own hand, Charles had left the plea that she do her best to understand and love the young woman, in his stead.

When the younger Mr. Green finished speaking, he cleared his throat, looking at her, then his father.

“Do you understand all the terms, my lady?” the elder Mr. Green inquired.

“Yes.”

“You’re not obliged to anything, but . . .” the younger Mr. Green said.

“But in his own hand, my husband asked that I care for her,” she said.

“Yes. Of course, you are in complete control of her inheritance, until such time as she reaches her majority.”

“I understand, yes.”

She hesitated, barely knowing the men. Then she asked, “Is Arianna aware of the terms of this will?”

The younger Mr. Green cleared his throat again, looking at his father.

“We speak with her next,” he said.

She wondered how to delicately broach the subject of her stepdaughter’s complete and total loathing of her. Then she decided that plain speaking was best.