Page 13 of Every Hour until Then (Timeless #5)

13

London, England September 29, 1888

It had been raining all day, just as I knew it would from reports I’d read in my other path. My feet and hands were so cold, I could do nothing to get them warm, though I suspected it was more from my nerves and less from the weather.

“Are you certain you’re ill?” Mother asked as she entered my bedroom one more time before she and Father left for a ball at Devonshire House. “I really hate for you to miss the ball. The duke’s son will be there tonight.”

“Spencer Cavendish is over fifty years old,” I protested.

“And a bachelor. It’s rumored that he’s looking for a wife, and a young one at that. He needs an heir.”

I pulled the covers closer to my chin, truly feeling ill—not only from the fear of going to Whitechapel tonight and seeing Jack the Ripper, but from the thought of marrying a man older than my father.

“I do not feel well enough to attend the ball,” I told her. “Please give my regards to the duke and duchess.”

Mother was wearing a beautiful blue ball gown with sapphire earrings and a matching necklace. She was lovely. I almost envied her passion for society. I didn’t mind a party or two, and I enjoyed things like the house party that the Astors hosted at Cliveden, but balls, especially in 1888, were another thing entirely. They were so exhausting.

“I’ll have Duffy bring you some ginger tea and honey.” Mother shook her head in disappointment. “If this infernal rain would stop, perhaps you would feel better.”

She left the room with the train of her gown sweeping soundlessly across the carpeted floor. I stayed in bed for another half hour, accepted the tea that Duffy brought for me, and then told her she needn’t check on me for the rest of the evening.

When the house was quiet, I slipped out from the covers and removed a pile of clothing from under the bed. I’d been collecting them for the past week, asking Duffy if there were any discarded items that the staff might want to donate to Toynbee Hall. She’d asked the servants in the neighboring homes, and they’d brought several things to me. I’d gone through them and created an outfit that I hoped would disguise me in Whitechapel. After I was done with them, I’d see that they were donated to those in need.

Within ten minutes, I was dressed in a worn gown with a tattered jacket and a shabby bonnet. I hoped it would be enough to keep me warm, though I doubted it. Once it was wet, I would be colder than ever. I shivered just thinking about it.

The clock in the hall struck eleven times, which meant that Austen would be waiting in his carriage out front. We would get to Berner Street around eleven thirty and then wait for Jack and Elizabeth to appear.

I turned out the light in my room and then tiptoed through the hall, down the stairs, and into the front entry. Thankfully, the staff were probably in bed and my parents weren’t expected back until close to sunrise, so I could leave without notice.

The rain fell at a steady cadence as I left my house. Austen’s carriage was waiting just as he promised, and when I appeared, he stepped out of the vehicle and sprinted toward me with an umbrella.

“Thank you,” I said quietly as he put his hand on the small of my back and led me to the carriage. Miles offered his hand for me to climb in, and Austen followed.

“I cannot stress enough the foolishness of this errand,” Austen said without a proper greeting. “I pray you and I do not live to regret it.”

“Good evening, Austen,” I said as I sat next to him, pressed close in the tight carriage. “I hope you’re well tonight.”

“I don’t know how you expect to identify this man in the darkness. No doubt he prowls about on nights such as this because he knows it’s impossible to see him.”

“There will be some light from the businesses and homes nearby.”

“Your optimism is unfounded, Miss Kelly.”

I sighed. When he used my last name, it was never a good thing.

The sound of the horse’s hooves against cobblestone was the only noise that filled the carriage as we traveled across London to the East End. The damp, cold air seeped into my bones, and I longed to press against Austen for warmth, but it would be foolish. The more I touched him, the more I longed for his touch. The more time I spent with him, the more I wanted to be in his company. I still thought of his impassioned speech in the garden the night of my parents’ ball, and I often wondered what might have happened if I had encouraged him—if I would encourage him now.

If I didn’t need to sacrifice this life for Mary, would Austen and I be planning a wedding even now?

The tension between us suggested that perhaps we would.

“Miles will drop us off several blocks away from Berner Street and return for us later,” Austen finally said as we neared Whitechapel. “You must stay close at all times, and do not question me. If I say run, run. If I say hide, hide. Do you understand?”

“Of course.”

“We cannot change history in any way. You cannot try to be a hero.”

“I’m well aware.” I started to feel irritated at his tone, as if I were a child and didn’t understand the dire circumstances of our errand.

“We are there to observe,” he continued, “and if you don’t get the view you want, then you have to accept it.”

I finally turned to him. “I’m not foolish, Mr. Baird.”

“I’ve never thought you were foolish.” He studied me in the darkness, his voice softening. “I do not wish for you to be disappointed, Kate, that is all.”

His words warmed me, and I leaned back in the seat, allowing our shoulders to brush. “Thank you for coming with me.”

“This goes against my better judgment, but I know how much it means to you.”

He didn’t move away from me as we turned onto Commercial Road and then a smaller lane where the carriage came to a stop.

Austen stepped out of the carriage and helped me alight. The street was darker than I anticipated, and the rain was falling faster, but Austen opened his umbrella and held it over my head. My heart pounded hard, and my palms were sweating, despite how cold they were. Thankfully, there was no one within sight to see the two of us leaving a gentleman’s carriage.

“I’ll return here at 1:30 to collect you,” Miles said. “The copper on this beat comes by every thirty-five minutes, and his last round will be at 1:20. If you’re not back by 1:50, I will leave and then return.”

“We should be here by 1:30,” Austen assured him.

Miles nodded and then clicked his tongue as he prodded the horse to move.

“How does Miles know the police officer’s schedule?” I asked Austen.

He didn’t answer, but wrapped my hand around the crook of his elbow and held the umbrella over us as he directed me toward Commercial Street.

“Is Miles not concerned about what we’re doing in Whitechapel at this hour?” I persisted.

“Miles has been with me for many years,” Austen said. “He doesn’t ask questions.”

“That’s a bit disconcerting. Do you two often find yourself in situations such as this one? Should I be worried?”

He drew me closer and sighed. “You, on the other hand, ask a lot of questions.”

“Because you don’t give me enough answers.”

“Perhaps that’s by design.”

“Where were you those two weeks after my mother’s party, Austen? Your staff doesn’t even know where you go.”

He was quiet for so long, I wasn’t sure he would answer, but he finally said, “I have a little cottage near Loch Lomond. I go there when I don’t want to be disturbed.”

“I remember the cottage,” I said, though I hadn’t thought of his Scottish getaway in a long time. It took almost an entire day of travel to get there. “You used to go there with your parents.”

“It’s the only place I feel like I can think properly.”

I let the discussion go because I knew why he’d gone there after our conversation in the garden. He needed space and time away from me.

Though it was now half past eleven, the activity on Commercial Road was surprisingly busy. Pubs and lodging houses lined the street with grocers’ and coffee houses still open. In the glow of the lights from doors and windows, I saw that Austen had also dressed a little shabbier than usual, and he had a shadow of a beard on his face. He wore a flatcap and a wool jacket that looked worn. But regardless of his clothes, he was still handsome, and when his gaze caught mine, it caused my pulse to skitter in a way that was new and unfamiliar.

As we passed rough-looking men on the street, I was thankful for Austen, who had a commanding and possessive presence about him. The other men looked at me, but none approached. Though it didn’t stop women from calling out to him or using suggestive language as we passed by.

Soon, we came to the corner of Commercial Road and Berner Street. Dutfield’s Yard would be on the right, about a hundred yards from the corner.

“Elizabeth Stride is supposedly an attractive woman,” I whispered to Austen as we turned onto Berner Street and walked slowly. “She was seen with at least three different clients the night she was killed. The first was around eleven o’clock, somewhere here on Berner Street. The second was at quarter to twelve near 58 Berner Street. And the third is supposedly Jack, who was seen with Elizabeth around 12:35 and 12:45 by two separate individuals here on the corner. Then, according to contemporary eyewitness accounts, though the police never took official statements, they were seen by a fruit seller—” I paused as we passed a grocer on the right. The building was dark, but there was a half window on the main level with an oil lamp burning, displaying fruit and sweetmeats. “There, a man named Matthew Packer said that a man and woman, the woman meeting Elizabeth Stride’s description, purchased grapes from him at quarter past twelve. Then, they stood across the street for some time in the rain eating them.”

“Why didn’t the police take his testimony?” Austen asked as we passed the fruit seller, who was standing at his window. He nodded at us as we walked past.

“Because he got a good look at Jack,” I whispered, “and the chief of police, Sir Charles Warren, couldn’t have an eyewitness to the murderer. If he did, and Jack was caught, then people might connect him to Freemasonry.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“It makes sense. Eyewitnesses will claim that Elizabeth had grapes clutched in her hands the night of the murder, and two private detectives later open a grate in Dutfield’s Yard and will find grape stalks that were washed into the drain from all this rain. But if the police can deny that there were grapes involved, which they do, then they won’t have to call on Matthew Packer or get his testimony.”

The hem of my worn skirt was heavy with rain and mud as we walked along Berner Street, passing the gated entrance into Dutfield’s Yard near the International Working Men’s Educational Club. Music seeped from the building, and several windows were filled with lights. The gate to the yard was open.

I shivered, thinking that Elizabeth would soon be killed there.

A woman and a man exited the alley coming from the yard. I paused and Austen stopped, looking in the direction I was staring.

“That’s her,” I whispered. “And one of the men she was seen with that night—this night.”

Austen walked me closer to the building on the opposite side of the street from Dutfield’s Yard, and we stopped again.

“She must know it’s a quiet place to bring her clients,” I whispered.

The man and woman parted ways. I knew it was Elizabeth because the reports had said that she was wearing a black skirt, a black jacket, a black crepe bonnet, and a red posy in her lapel. Even in the darkness, the red flower stood out.

She walked to the end of the street and stood on the corner, probably waiting to find another client.

Every muscle in my body was tense. I wanted to call out to her, tell her to find a safe place to sleep for the night. In about an hour, she would be dead. Her life snuffed out by a madman.

Austen’s muscles tightened around my hand, and when I looked up at him, he shook his head. “It’s not your place to stop this from happening.”

“It seems like—like a sin,” I whispered, trying to control my emotions. “To know that something horrible is about to happen and not be able to stop it.”

“It’s the burden that all time-crossers bear,” he said. “You told me stories about your mama in Salem. I’m sure it was hard to watch as the accusers and magistrates put innocent people in jail.”

I thought of Mama and all she’d endured. I couldn’t imagine the horrors. “I don’t give her enough credit,” I said softly. “Sometimes I feel like I’m the only one who has had to endure this weight, but others have had to face more difficult situations than this one.”

“I hope you take comfort in knowing you’re not alone, Kate.” He was watching me as he spoke. “God gives us encouragement from those who have gone before us. Sometimes it’s the only reason I can find for suffering. That perhaps my experiences with suffering will help someone else down the road.”

I placed my free hand on his forearm. “You’ve suffered more than most, Austen. I hope there have been people in your life to ease your suffering.”

“Some who don’t even know how much they’ve eased it. Like you.”

“Me?”

“Does it surprise you?”

“Indeed. I thought I made your life more unbearable.”

He smiled. “That’s what I wanted you to believe.” He motioned to a coffee house down the street. “Let’s get some hot coffee to warm up. We’ll come back in about a half hour to see if we can spot Jack.”

I let him guide me toward a coffee shop, pleased that I had brought Austen comfort.

Thirty minutes later, we were back on Berner Street. This time, we stood under the alcove of a door across the street from the gate at Dutfield’s Yard. Austen had closed the umbrella and laid it next to the building, not wanting to attract attention.

I was shaking from the cold and from my nerves, despite the warm coffee we’d just drank. Thankfully, the alcove offered a respite from the rain, though the damp air was still uncomfortable.

“Your hands are like ice,” Austen said as he took my hands between his and rubbed them gently. “I hope you don’t get sick.”

I loved the feel of his hands engulfing mine. And I suddenly realized how close we were standing. Berner Street in Whitechapel was the furthest thing from a romantic setting I’d ever experienced, but I was beginning to see that no matter where Austen and I were together, the air felt electrified and tense.

He lifted his penetrating gaze as he rubbed my hands, and though we’d looked into each other’s eyes countless times, things were different.

A couple walked down Berner Street, drawing my attention away from Austen, and my body went stiff.

“There,” I whispered.

It was Elizabeth again. She was still wearing the black skirt and jacket, and I could see the red posy in her lapel. The man at her side was medium height, wearing a peaked cap and an oversized jacket, and he was carrying some sort of package.

Was I looking at Jack the Ripper? The shiver that ran up my spine this time was from terror and fascination.

We were so far away, it was impossible to make out either of their features in the darkness and rain. I couldn’t see the color of his hair or what his face looked like. All I knew was his height and approximate build, but there were thousands of men who shared the same description.

The couple stopped at the grocer’s and spoke to the proprietor for a few minutes. They accepted a handful of grapes and then crossed the street—not far from where we were standing, though they would struggle to see us in the alcove.

I held my breath as I tried to listen to their muffled conversation. I couldn’t make out their words, but I heard the low hum of their voices and Elizabeth’s laugh now and again.

Many people said that Jack had to be charming. It was the only way he could convince women to go into dark alleys with him while a murderer was on the loose. From the sound of Elizabeth’s voice, this man was doing a good job convincing her he was safe. He was also dressed well—not as shabby as many of the men in Whitechapel, but not like a dandy, either.

Austen stood just as still and stiff beside me, holding my hand.

The couple began to move in our direction, something I hadn’t anticipated. If they walked past us, they would see us standing there, and if they looked close enough, they’d be able to see our faces. The last thing I wanted was for Jack the Ripper to get a good look at either of us. If he was someone prominent or a person that one of us might recognize, then it went without saying that he might know us, too, and we’d be in danger.

As the couple moved closer, I sensed that Austen was thinking the same thing, and without warning, he turned so his back was toward the street and he was standing face to face with me.

My breath caught as I looked up at him. He placed his hands on either side of my face and lowered his lips to mine, hovering for just a moment, as if allowing me to say no.

But I didn’t say no. Instead, I grasped his forearms and lifted myself just enough for his mouth to meet mine.

His lips were soft, and his kiss was achingly tender. He seemed on the brink of pulling away, so I slipped my hands up to his face, inviting his unexpected kiss.

He paused for only a heartbeat, and then he wrapped his arms around me, pulling me close as he deepened the kiss. This was no longer a kiss to temporarily distract the passersby.

This was a kiss years in the making.

Everything began to fade. The rain, the smell of the street, the fear of Jack the Ripper. All I could feel was Austen. All I could think about was his lips upon mine, his arms wrapped around me, and my body pressed against his.

And I wanted more of it.

He slipped his hand up to the back of my head and drew me closer, his chest rising and falling against mine. His other hand pressed against my low back as my arms went around his neck. He was warm and gentle, yet I sensed something powerful and raw just beyond my reach.

He was restraining himself.

I recalled the words he’d said in the garden. He wanted to kiss me until the madness inside of him subsided and he could think clearly for the first time in fourteen years.

As I responded to his kiss, I suddenly understood the madness he spoke about. The deep yearning that enveloped me and over powered all my senses. Yet it wasn’t subsiding as we kissed. It was only growing with intensity.

When he finally pulled away, he was breathing heavily, and his body was trembling. Or was it mine?

“Kate,” he whispered my name on a ragged breath, half apology, half question.

I slowly lowered my hands and tried to take a step back, but the wall was behind me and there was nowhere to go.

He took a few more breaths and then straightened.

We stood that way for several heartbeats, and then I realized there were no more footsteps nearby. The emergency had passed. The couple was just entering the gate leading to Dutfield’s Yard.

“I think we’re safe,” I whispered.

“Are we?” Austen asked, but he wasn’t looking at the gate.

I swallowed the rush of emotions cascading through me, and I shivered again.

Austen moved to my side, his chest rising and falling.

All I could hear was our breath and the tapping of the rain. Elizabeth’s laughter had faded and would never be heard again. The sudden and overpowering knowledge that she was being murdered while we stood there and waited pressed upon my chest, chasing away all thoughts of Austen’s kiss.

“She’s—right now—” I leaned into him, and he put his arm around me as if he might shield me from this horror, as well. He held me in his arms, and this time there was no passion, no urgency—just comfort.

My emotions had swung from wonder to terror in the blink of an eye, and tears threatened to choke me.

A two-wheeled cart approached from Commercial Road with a single horse and driver.

It would be Louis Diemschutz, the steward of the International Working Men’s Educational Club. He was also a peddler and would be coming back for the night.

He turned into the gated yard, and I pressed my face into Austen’s chest, knowing that there was no way out of the yard but through this one entrance. Elizabeth was now dead, and Jack would soon escape.

Austen placed a kiss on the top of my head as we waited in the terrible silence.

A minute passed, and then the man in the peaked cap emerged.

My heart pounded at the sight of him. The monster that would capture the attention of the world—and get away with murder—was across the street from us.

He was not running, but he moved at a fast pace, slipping something inside his inner jacket. As he hurried past on the opposite side of the road, he suddenly stopped and looked in our direction. His face was shadowed under the brim of his hat.

I was still in Austen’s arms, so he simply turned me toward the wall and kissed me again, his heart hammering so hard, I could feel it against my chest.

There was a scream from Dutfield’s Yard, and Austen pulled back.

Jack was off again, running in the opposite direction of Commercial Road, where there would be fewer coppers.

My entire body was shaking, and I swallowed, trying to control my breath. “Do you think he saw us?” I whispered.

Austen didn’t answer but took my hand and led me toward Commercial Road and onto the side street where Miles would pick us up.

He didn’t need to answer. I knew the truth.

Jack had seen us standing there—but had he seen our faces?