Page 11 of Every Hour until Then (Timeless #5)

11

London, England September 22, 1888

The carriage was dark and cold as I rode to the West End with Father and Mother a week after my conversation with Papa and Mama at Café Royal, and two weeks since I’d seen Austen in the garden. We drove through Green Park, near Buckingham Palace, and onto the Strand toward our destination.

“Do you think this is wise?” Mother asked Father as she looked out the window at the dark street.

“You’ve had these tickets for an age,” Father said in a dry tone.

“But I purchased them before—before—” She floundered. “Before all this madness. You know what they’re saying, don’t you?”

My parents sat stiff on their seats across from one another, both dressed in their fine evening clothes. Mother wore glittering diamonds at her ears and throat. She swallowed several times as she looked out the window, while Father sat stoic and undeterred.

“I’ve heard all the rumors,” Father said. “And it’s nonsense.”

“But they’ve said that Mr. Mansfield’s transformation from a doctor to a monster is uncanny.”

“Mansfield is an actor, hired to portray both Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,” Father said with little emotion. “If he wasn’t good at transforming from one character to another, he wouldn’t have been hired.”

I sat quietly beside Mother in a Worth gown, watching the street pass, my own trepidation about seeing the play and being out at night making me silent. The story of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde had taken the world by storm and the play had been a smash hit on Broadway and the West End. But many people were starting to worry that perhaps the story had inspired Jack the Ripper—or worse, that Mr. Mansfield, the actor in the show, was Jack himself.

The Strand was brighter as we passed Trafalgar Square and made our way to the Lyceum Theatre. Everywhere we went all anyone could talk about were the murders that had taken place in Whitechapel. Several suspects had been questioned and let go, including a man referred to as Leather Apron because of the garment he wore. Many of the prostitutes had claimed that he’d been extorting money out of them. And because he was a Jewish man, who some thought was a butcher, he would have access to knives. It turned out that his name was John Pizer and he was a bootmaker. After giving his alibis for the two murders, he was released in mid-September. But that only fueled more fear in the general population. Why couldn’t the police find the murderer?

“What if the killer is one of us?” Mother asked in a choked voice. “What if he is a physician, like Dr. Jekyll? Might we know him, Bernard? Might we be seated next to him at the theatre tonight?”

“Good gracious, Agatha,” Father said, clearly having enough of her fear as he glanced at me and then back at her. “The killer is a madman in Whitechapel, like I’ve told you. Probably a poor immigrant chap, as they all suspect. If he came to this end of town, we’d all recognize him in a moment. He’d stand out like a sore thumb. You have nothing to worry about.”

“I hope you’re right, but don’t you think it’s odd that Polly Nichols and Ann—”

“That’s enough.” Father’s voice was thunderous, making both Mother and me jump.

The carriage ride was silent the remainder of the way, and I wished I could be anywhere but there. I’d done as much research in 1888 as I could without drawing attention from my parents. I’d even had our driver take me to Fleet Street on the pretense of getting new stationery printed so I could inquire after William Nichols, Polly’s ex-husband. I had discovered that he was no longer working at his former place of employment, and his employer was unwilling to give out his new address because he’d been bombarded by the press since Polly’s murder. I continued to volunteer at Toynbee Hall, asking anyone and everyone I met if they knew Mary Jane Kelly, but no one knew her. And I discreetly asked around about the Freemasons, but no one seemed to have any new information for me. And, if they did, they kept it to themselves.

The carriage came to a stop outside the Lyceum, but it was oddly quiet on the street.

Father sat forward and looked through the window at the closed doors of the popular theatre. He pounded on the ceiling of the carriage with his walking stick, and our footman jumped off the vehicle to come to the window.

“See why everything is so quiet,” Father said to the young man. “And be quick about it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, what could be the matter?” Mother asked as she, too, looked out at the empty street. “There should be dozens and dozens of people going into the theatre tonight. Where is everyone?”

When the footman returned, he had stunning news. “The play has been closed due to the Whitechapel murders, sir. Attendance was down, and the police have been receiving so many letters of concern that Mr. Mansfield has postponed the show until further notice.”

Relief washed over me. The book had terrified me enough as it was, and it was so intricately linked to the night Mary had disappeared that I hadn’t finished it, nor had I relished the thought of seeing the show.

“Where would you like to go, sir?” the coachman asked as he, too, came to the window.

Father glanced at Mother and asked, “Would you like to go to Café Royal for a late supper?”

“I just want to go home,” Mother said, putting her forehead into her hand. “I don’t feel safe out here, and I’m starting to get a headache.”

Father sighed and said to the coachman, “Take us home.”

“Very good, sir.”

Soon, we were on our way back to 11 Wilton Crescent, though I wasn’t sad to return to the safety of our home. Even though I knew that the next murder wouldn’t happen until the 30th of this month, I still didn’t like feeling exposed. Perhaps Jack the Ripper was someone close to our family. Someone my father knew as a Freemason.

Someone who I might interact with frequently.

As soon as we entered the house, Mother went to her room and Father went to his study. I wouldn’t see them for the rest of the evening.

Duffy was in my room tidying up after helping me prepare for the theatre. But the moment I entered, she looked relieved.

“It’s happy I am to see you,” she said without even asking why I had come home so early. “Mr. Baird was here looking for you right after you left.”

My heart skipped a beat with relief and joy. “Mr. Baird has returned?”

“Aye. The scullery maid, Bessy, said that he was so fine and dandy when he left, they thought he was going to woo a bride. But the prospective bride must had spurned him, because he hasn’t shaved in weeks and he’s back to his old ornery ways.”

“Did Bessy say where he’d gone?”

“No one knows.”

I didn’t care. All I wanted was to see Austen again, to ask him what had happened in the garden. I’d replayed his passionate speech a hundred times over in my head since that night, and every time I thought about it, my heart yearned for more. Yet what good could come from giving in to my desire?

The uncertainty in my heart was crippling. My conversation with Mama and Papa at Café Royal had replayed in my head as often as Austen’s speech in the garden. What if God’s plans were different than mine? I never took the time to stop and ask Him what He wanted. I just assumed that if I wanted something, then God did, too. But I was starting to see that this type of thinking could be dangerous. I had free will, but that didn’t mean that I wanted to be out of God’s will.

I left my room without another word and raced down the steps, the thick petticoats of my heavy skirts feeling cumbersome. I might not be sure about which path I would choose, but there was one thing I knew for certain. I needed to see Austen. I could not pretend like nothing happened and leave things as they were. We were drawing closer to November 9th, and one way or the other, I would have to face the possibility of leaving 1888. I couldn’t do it without fixing the rift between us—or exploring the option of staying.

And I would do it properly this time. I would treat Austen as the man he had become and no longer the child that he had been. I would go to his front door.

Taking a deep breath, I left our house and walked down the three short steps and turned left to get to his. I stopped in front of number 12 Wilton Crescent and knocked, waiting for Brinley to answer the door. Thankfully, it didn’t take long.

“Miss Kathryn,” he said, his eyebrows raised.

“Is Mr. Baird at home?”

“Yes, of course. Please come in.”

I entered the house, and Brinley led me to the parlor before he left to tell Austen I was there. It felt like an eternity before there was a noise at the door.

I turned, and my breath stilled as my gaze met Austen’s. His hair was disheveled, and he had a shadow of a beard on his cheeks, but I’d never seen him look so handsome or attractive—or so desperately in love. Now that I recognized that look in his eyes, I realized I’d seen it countless times. I wanted to run to him, to throw myself into his arms and give in to the ache that had been building inside me, but there were so many things I still didn’t understand.

“Is it true you came from Italy to convince me to love you?” I asked, just above a whisper.

He didn’t have to answer because I saw the truth in his eyes.

I rushed across the room and entered his embrace.

He put his arms around me, holding me with a sense of urgency that took my breath away.

“I’ve been such a fool,” he whispered close to my ear.

I held him tighter, needing the reassurance of his love and friendship more than anything else. “So have I,” I said, pulling back to look at his dear face.

It would have been so much easier if he was in 1938 so that my choice could be simple. I didn’t want to lose Austen—not now and not in the future.

The longing in his eyes soon changed, and he pulled away, his face growing serious. “I went to your house earlier tonight to tell you that I hired a private investigator to find Mary. And I just received word that he found her, Kate.”

I blinked several times, hope filling my heart. “You found Mary? Where? Is she safe?”

He was quiet for a moment as he studied me, sadness filling his face. “She is going by the name of Marie Jeanette Kelly, and she lives at 13 Miller’s Court.”

It felt as if a fist landed in my gut and all the air was knocked out of my lungs. The hope I’d held that she was not Jack’s victim bled away, and dread filled its place.

“I’m so sorry, Kate.”

“I want to go to her immediately.”

“It’s too late. I’ll take you there tomor—”

“I’m going now, Austen, whether you’re with me or not.”

He pressed his lips together. “Fine. But you must change. I won’t take you there looking so—so elegant.”

His compliment would have pleased me if I wasn’t reeling with the truth.

History claimed my sister would be Jack the Ripper’s last victim.

For the first time in my life, I hated history. And I wouldn’t let it win, no matter what it cost me.

It felt as if my entire world had shifted in an instant. I had known it was a possibility that Mary was Jack’s last victim, but now that I knew it was true, everything was different.

As the carriage turned onto Commercial Street, the filth and stench of London’s East End clawed at my throat. If I had thought being in the glittering West End at night was terrifying, it was nothing compared to entering Whitechapel after dark, especially knowing Jack the Ripper might be stalking the streets.

Austen had been silent since we entered the carriage, but now he asked, “What will you do?”

“I don’t know.” It was the truth. Plain and simple. “I can’t be rash or foolish. Papa warned me not to change history before it’s necessary because it could cause so many other problems.” I pressed my lips together as I thought about my sister’s life. “I still don’t know if she’ll be a random victim or if she’s part of a Freemason plot.”

“What Freemason plot?” he asked with a frown.

We still hadn’t spoken about his parents’ involvement with the Freemasons, or why they had been in Jerusalem with my parents in 1874. But he had made it clear in the garden, speaking to Mr. Maybrick, that he had no interest in joining the brotherhood.

“One of the curators I work with in 1938 believes that the Freemasons are responsible for covering up Jack’s murders.” I quickly told him Calan’s theory as the carriage rolled along Commercial Street. “If Mary’s death is supposed to be random, then I could simply force her to leave the morning of the intended murder.” I paused, feeling overwhelmed with all that was against me. “But if it’s linked to Freemasonry, then things are different. What if Jack has plans to kill her, no matter where I take her? Can I protect her from him?”

“I don’t know the answers to those questions. But I do know the Freemasons are dangerous. That’s why I’ve refused to join them. If they’re involved, then this thing is much bigger than we can imagine.”

“I need to know who Jack the Ripper is, Austen. If I can learn his identity and find out if he’s linked to the Freemasons, then maybe I can unearth the connection between the women.”

“How would that help Mary?”

“If he’s not a Freemason, and just a random madman, I would have the assurance that if I send her somewhere else, she would be safe from him. But if he is a Freemason and I need to reveal his identity to put him behind bars, to keep her safe, I would do that.”

“The Freemasons are powerful.”

“They don’t scare me.”

“They should.”

The way he said those two words made me turn to him. “What do you know about them, Austen? Mr. Maybrick made it sound like you know more than you let on.”

“The less you know, the better. Please believe me when I tell you that. Nothing good would come to you if you knew what I know about the Freemasons.”

“But I want to save my sister.”

“What I know wouldn’t help. If it would, I’d tell you.”

I believed him. And even though it was hard to not know, I would trust him.

As we drew closer to Miller’s Court, there was something else that was gnawing at my thoughts. “I can understand why the authorities were trying to cover up the identity of Jack, if he was a Freemason, but what compelled him to go on the killing spree? What was his objective? Was it simple insanity, or was he trying to accomplish something?”

“I wish I had answers for you, Kate.”

I took a deep breath and then said, “The next two murders will happen on the same night. One will be in a highly public place, and Jack will loiter around the scene of the crime for at least half an hour before he kills Elizabeth Stride. It will happen around one in the morning on September 30th. Lots of people saw him.”

Realization dawned in Austen’s gaze, and he began to shake his head.

“Please,” I said. “We can dress in shabby clothes and find a place to hide. It’ll be dark and raining, so we can stay hidden.”

“It’s a ludicrous idea. What if we run into the killer? What if we change history somehow? Would I forfeit my life if I knowingly change history?”

“I—I don’t know.” I’d never wondered. I had always known that time-crossers forfeited their lives in the path they changed, but what about non-time-crossers? Did the same rule apply to them?

“Not to mention your safety in other regards,” he continued. “It’s insane to go there now, and the only reason I’m taking you is because we know that Mary lives at Miller’s Court and she’s someone we can trust. But to just loiter in Whitechapel, knowing Jack the Ripper is somewhere in that area—it’s out of the question.”

“I will go, Austen. Whether you’re with me or not.”

His face was grim. “You have always vexed me, Kathryn Kelly, but never more so than now.”

“I’ve never been as desperate as I am now.”

We stared at each other for a moment, and then he growled and said, “Fine. I’ll take you.”

I smiled, though I didn’t feel relieved or even happy. Just grateful that I didn’t have to go alone.

When we arrived at Miller’s Court, Miles opened the door for us and Austen stepped out, then offered me his hand.

It was firm as I exited the carriage. I wanted to cling to it, but I let go as we walked down the passageway to the back of Miller’s Court, conscious once again that I didn’t fit in here and neither did Mary.

I’d changed into the plainest gown I owned and wore a dark bonnet with a wide brim to cover my face. But I still felt like I was drawing unwanted attention. Even though I didn’t see anyone, it felt as if there were eyes everywhere.

I knocked on number thirteen, relieved and anxious and desperate to finally see Mary again.

“Who is it?” came a small, feminine voice on the other side of the door.

My heart squeezed at the sound, and tears stung my eyes. “Mary, my love. It’s me. Kathryn.”

The door creaked open, and Mary stood before me, a shell of the woman she’d once been. Tears of shock and joy filled her eyes as she fell into my embrace. “Kathryn.”

I clung to Mary with desperation, horrified at how thin and careworn she looked. There was a stench about her that was appalling, though she probably didn’t notice. The thought of a warm bath and clean clothes was a luxury in Whitechapel. I wanted to take her away with me at that very instant—but a voice of reason spoke from behind me.

“Perhaps we had better go inside before we’re seen,” Austen said as he touched my lower back.

Mary pulled away from me and glanced at Austen, fear and uncertainty in her gaze.

“Hello, Mary.”

She nodded at him and then said, “Come in,” as she opened her door wider, allowing me to see her foul living conditions. The fact that she could afford her own room was a miracle. Jack’s other victims were all homeless, living on the streets, prostituting themselves for doss money to have a shared bed in a boardinghouse.

Mary glanced behind us toward the courtyard, as if she was looking for something—or someone.

Her home was smaller than I imagined, only about twelve feet square, with a single bed, three small tables, and a chair. A picture of a forlorn woman sitting near the seaside hung above the fireplace, and there were two irregular sized windows looking toward the yard. Three of the walls were made of brick, but a fourth was made of wood and looked like it was a partition that separated this room from the rest of the larger house.

Mary closed the door again and then looked out the window, clearly worried. “I don’t know how long you can stay before Joseph returns.”

“Joseph?” I frowned. “Who is Joseph?”

Embarrassment and shame colored Mary’s cheeks as she went to the small fireplace and moved a tea kettle off the flames. “Joseph is my—my man.”

I’d forgotten about Joseph Barnett. He was the man who would give testimony about Mary after the murder. A murder I wouldn’t let happen. “Your man?”

She turned to me, her eyes pleading with me to understand. “If you don’t have a man to protect you in Whitechapel, then you’re forced to have several men.”

My stomach turned, but not because of Mary’s decisions. She was simply trying to survive the unthinkable. Everything about her current life contradicted the one she used to lead, but she had no choice.

She stood before me, her hands clasped in front of her dirty apron, and she couldn’t meet my gaze. She had aged in the past eleven months. She’d always been pretty, but now she looked gaunt and haggard. Her red hair, so much like mine, was thin and dirty. Her dress was worn and hung on her frame. And her green eyes had lost their shine.

“Don’t look at me like that, Kathryn,” she whispered. “I don’t want your pity.”

I glanced at Austen, but he wasn’t looking at me or Mary. He was looking at his feet, probably to spare Mary from embarrassment and shame.

“How did you find me?” she asked.

I couldn’t tell her the truth because Mary didn’t know I was a time-crosser.

“I hired someone to look for you,” Austen said.

Fear tightened the edges of her eyes. “You cannot tell anyone where I’m at.”

“We won’t,” Austen assured her. “The man who found you is someone I trust with my life.”

“If a hired man could find me, then I’m not safe.”

“You’re safe for now,” I said to Mary, taking her hand in mine. “I promise you.” I swallowed and looked at the small, uncomfortable room. “What happened? Why did you leave without telling me? Did Father force you out? He and Mother refuse to speak of you or allow me to speak of you.”

Mary shook her head and pulled her hand away. “It doesn’t matter. This is my life now. I’m getting along as best I can.”

“It does matter. You left without warning, Mary. And look at where you’re living. None of this makes sense. You’re from a genteel family. We love you. We want you to come home.”

“I know you thought you were coming to help me,” Mary said, her voice tightening. “But you’re putting me in more danger, Kathryn. You’re right. I left without warning, but not because Father forced me to leave.”

I stared at her, speechless.

“I chose to leave, to come here—”

“You chose this?” I asked, unable to believe such a thing. “Then why can’t I say your name? Why hasn’t Father searched for you?”

She looked as if she was going to speak, but then she shook her head. “It’s best if you leave—right now, before Joseph returns. He doesn’t know anything about my past, and I want to keep it that way. It’s safer for all of us if he believes I’m Marie Jeanette.”

“I’m not going anywhere until I understand why you left home.”

“You need to go. Now.” She put her small hand on my back and nudged me toward the door. “Don’t come back here, Kathryn. Joseph is already upset with me because I’ve been letting friends stay here at night. It’s too dangerous for them to be on the streets with a murderer on the loose.”

“About that—” I wanted to tell her to be careful, but Austen reached out and put his hand on my arm to stop me. He shook his head, as if warning me not to say too much.

“Mary, please,” I said as I tried to pause.

She opened the door, more tears in her eyes. “If you want to keep me safe, please don’t come back. For your sake and for mine.”

“I’ll send money,” I told her.

“I don’t need—or want—anything from you. No one must know about you. I can’t risk that they’ll find out who you are—or who I am.”

“I don’t understand any of this,” I said. “Please, help me understand.”

She put her hand on my cheek, and I felt like the younger sister for the first time. “Good-bye, Kathryn.”

Austen put his hand on the small of my back. “We should leave. We don’t want to put Mary in a difficult position.”

I wrapped her in another embrace and whispered, “Please be careful.”

She nodded and then pulled back, anxious for me to leave.

When we stepped outside, Mary closed the door behind us, and I leaned into Austen as he led me down the passageway. A curtain moved aside from one of the other rooms, and an old woman peered out at us.

“I don’t understand,” I said again as Austen led me to his carriage. “None of this makes sense.”

“I don’t understand it, either, but we have to honor her wishes.”

“She said that Father didn’t force her to leave. Why would she abandon the comfort and safety of our home? Why would he let her go?”

“Perhaps it was more dangerous for her to live at home than it is for her to live here.” Austen helped me into his carriage and then tapped on the roof to let Miles know we were ready to head back to Wilton Crescent.

“That can’t possibly be true.”

“I’m sorry, Kate,” he said as he put his arm around me and held me close. “I wish you had more answers. But that doesn’t mean that you can’t save her. We must be patient.”

I didn’t want to be patient. I just wanted to save my sister.