Page 114 of When We Touch

Cecilia was quicker. She let her voice rise. “What is it, what is it? Are you daft man? How can you ask her such a thing when you know how she’s suffering, poor lass! Ever since her dear Frank died of that awful fever . . . there, there, lass!”

Maggie raised her head just slightly, sniffling. “You don’t understand, you can’t understand . . . we’d argued that day! He died, and I was never able to say that I was sorry . . . never able to tell him just how much I did love him!”

Cecilia pulled her into her arms, rocking with her. “Don’t sit there like a useless bum!” she charged Mireau. “Can’t you see, the poor dear needs another gin?”

“Right. Righto,” Mireau said, rising, and heading for the bar.

“Have you ever seen that fellow before?” Maggie asked Fiona, her head resting against Cecilia’s shoulder so she could continue to rock and moan while getting a good look at the man.

“No,” Fiona said. “Wait! Yes . . . maybe. Yes, I think that he was in here the day that Arianna met with that Jeremiah man.”

Maggie nodded imperceptibly and let out another moan. Her heart jumped as the fellow approached Mireau as he stood, asking the bartender for another gin.

Mireau turned to him, and he either was startled at first, or was joining in on the act. He took the gin, listened to the fellow, nodded gravely, and then set a hand on his shoulder and indicated the table where they sat. The fellow came along with Mireau.

“This fellow says his name is John,” Mireau said.

Maggie sniffed, giving him a curt nod and no more.

“Hello, John,” Cecilia said. She gave the words an appreciative sound. “Sorry, me old auntie is not up to herself this evening.”

Old auntie? Maggie thought that Cecilia was enjoying herself.

“She’s not usually so rude. There’s Flossy there,” she said, indicating Fiona, who blinked once and nodded, extending a hand.

“Pleasure,” Fiona said.

“Don’t mean to be intrudin’ on yer grief, mum,” John said. “But I couldn’t help but hear.”

Maggie waved a hand in the air.

John lowered his voice and leaned low to the table. “Frankly, you don’t look much like you belong in these parts.”

“We’ll belong here soon enough. Uncle Frank kept us all eating,” Cecilia said with a sigh. “Still, we’ve a few pretty little things left to pawn—not on us, of course!” she added sternly. She looked at him furtively, as if realizing she should be suspicious.

“Y’needn’t be afraid o’ me!” John told her. “I didn’t think ta meet ya for evil gain. I heard the moan, and the sorrow from the poor woman and thought as I knew how maybe you could make it all a bit better.”

“It was the argument, you see!” Cecilia whispered to John. “If they hadn’t argued . . . but they were quite a couple. After so many years, still in love like young folk!”

“Has she ever thought about reachin’ her lost man, eh?” John suggested.

“Reaching him? Why he’s cold in his grave!” Cecilia said, lowering her voice to a whisper once again.

“No, you don’t ken wot I’m sayin’!” John told her, giving her a sad and rueful smile. “There’s those out there can sometimes break through the barriers . . . of life and death.”

“Posh!” Cecilia waved a hand in the air.

“Spiritualists, ye’ve not heard o’ them? Ye must be living in a dark cave, mum!” John said.

“I know about them,” Mireau volunteered. And he sniffed. “Fakes!”

“No, no, not the real ones.”

“Where do you find a real one?” Mireau asked skeptically.

“Not in the fine manors!” John said. “Not silly rich folk, thinking they can light a candle and talk to ghosts! But there is a man . . . and his daughter. Beautiful lass. He goes to folks’ homes, when he hears about such a distress.”

“We have no home where we can invite such a man,” Cecilia said. “No more. And like as not, he’s a fake as well.”