Page 18 of Every Hour until Then (Timeless #5)
18
October 15, 1938 London, England
The day was clear and bright as I worked on the exhibit in the basement of Lancaster House. It had been eleven days since Austen had left, but I had endured twenty-two days without him. All I could think about were the kisses we’d shared in my father’s study on that stormy afternoon and his declaration of love before he’d left.
In 1888, London was still gripped by terror of Jack the Ripper, who was now known by his infamous name. Every newspaper in London, and many around the world, was carrying stories about the four murders, wondering if he might strike again. A vigilante committee had been formed in Whitechapel, and people didn’t go out at night if they could help it. I’d upheld my promise to Austen and not returned to Whitechapel other than to volunteer at Toynbee Hall, but I had gone to Bermondsey to the home of Anne Philips, who was Catherine Eddowes’s adult daughter. She had been leery answering questions, and I had surmised that she and her mother had not been close. On the contrary, she’d told me that Catherine had only come around when she needed money, and when Anne had given birth to her third child, her mother only agreed to help if Anne paid her.
When I’d asked Anne if she knew anything about the Freemasons or her mother’s trip to Jerusalem in 1874, Anne had laughed at the very notion of her mother traveling outside of London.
I had prayed more in the past twenty-two days than I had in all my life. And yet, I had no idea how God would orchestrate my future. Every time I felt panicky or hopeless, I reminded myself that I’d surrendered to His will and that I would trust Him. But it took all my willpower not to fight and push and force circumstances to go my way.
Sunshine poured through the thin windows at the top of the exhibit room, offering a bit of natural light. We’d gathered all the information we could find on Jack the Ripper and borrowed all the evidence from the Crime Museum that we wanted to display. Most of the artifacts were items that the victims had been carrying in their pockets on the nights they were murdered, and because they moved from boardinghouse to boardinghouse, they were many and varied. Bars of soap, combs, silverware, small tins of tea and sugar, pins and needles, and other various sundry items. We also had the piece of apron from Catherine Eddowes, the black bonnet from Polly Nichols, and a pile of clothes that were said to have belonged to Mary Jane Kelly, though I’d never seen them before. The brick facade of Buck’s Row was almost finished, and the glass display cases were being assembled. Calan and I were working for hours on end, trying to get everything ready for the grand opening in less than three weeks.
“Did you hear that the paintings have finally arrived?” Calan asked me as we left the lower level to take our lunch break at noon.
“The ones from Scotland?”
“The very same. Bryant is going through them now to make sure all of them arrived safely. They should have been here late last week, but he’s happy they’re here now.”
“Let’s go look at them,” I said to Calan. “I’m curious to see what all the fuss is about.”
We found Sir Rothschild in an empty room on the ground floor with three other men who volunteered in the museum. The room was used as a multipurpose space for events or temporary exhibits. There were four large crates, and Sir Rothschild was standing beside the only one that was open. He held a clipboard in one hand as he directed the volunteers to remove the paintings from the crate. There were three of them already leaning against one wall. Each was a pastoral scene of a beautiful landscape. I wasn’t familiar enough with art to know the techniques used, but they were breathtaking. The use of light was so realistic—yet there was a dreamlike quality to each scene. Gilded frames enhanced their beauty, but even if they’d been framed by barnwood, they would have been stunning.
I walked over to the three against the wall and stared at each one.
“Aren’t they incredible?” Calan asked me. “All of the artist’s paintings were done in Scotland from memory of trips he took to places around the world. I believe these are scenes from the Italian countryside.”
“Are all of the paintings landscapes?” I asked.
“Not all of them,” Sir Rothschild said from behind me. “There is one portrait amongst them. I’m looking for it now.”
Calan and I joined Sir Rothschild as he squinted at the list and then went back to the crate. “Here,” he said to one of the volunteers. “It should be the one in the back.”
“Who is the artist?” I asked Sir Rothschild.
“His name is Austen Baird,” Sir Rothschild said. “And this is the rarest of his paintings. It’s called Kate .”
Austen Baird? My Austen?
As the volunteer lifted the painting and turned it around, my heart pumped wildly.
It was a portrait of me in a beautiful green gown with an intricately embroidered bodice of pink roses.
I stared at the likeness, stunned and at a loss for words. Austen was a painter? I’d had no idea. He had never breathed a word of it to me—and, for reasons I couldn’t identify, I felt betrayed. Why wouldn’t he share something this important with me?
“Good heavens,” Calan said beside me. “She looks just like you, Kathryn. And you bear the same name! What are the odds?”
Sir Rothschild looked from the painting to me and back to the painting, his thoughts inscrutable. “It’s uncanny,” he said. “The hair, the eyes ... the only difference is the clothing.”
“When was this painted?” I asked Sir Rothschild.
Bryant looked at his clipboard and said, “1889.”
“So, it couldn’t be our Kathryn,” Calan said.
“Of course not.” My voice shook.
“It’s the most beautiful, emotional painting I’ve ever seen,” Sir Rothschild said as he took it from the volunteer and brought it to the wall, where he set it beside the others. He stepped back to admire it. “It is the stunning centerpiece in Baird’s collection. There is such pain and heartache in the model’s eyes, almost as if the artist was feeling the pain himself.”
My heart broke, thinking of Austen painting this portrait the year after I left him. It hadn’t happened yet in my other path, but the pain reflected in the portrait was the pain in his heart.
“I would love to know the story behind the painting.” Calan sighed. “She must have been the love of his life. There’s no other way to capture such a remarkable portrait. But it couldn’t have ended well. I asked Mr. Baird about her when I went to his home in Loch Lomond to inquire after this portrait, but he refused to say anything.”
“You spoke to him?” I asked Calan.
“Briefly. I was surprised he sold me the painting. It appeared to be very painful for him to let it go. He wouldn’t speak of the model.” Calan turned to Sir Rothschild. “Do you know anything about her?”
“I know nothing of the model,” Sir Rothschild said. “Not much is known of Austen Baird’s life.”
“How did you come across his paintings?” I asked.
“It wasn’t easy since they are unsigned,” Sir Rothschild said. “After the Great War, someone began to piece them together under the same artist. For a time, no one knew who the artist was, and then a receipt attached to one of the pastoral paintings from a sale in 1888 was found. It identified the artist’s name.”
I could only stare, stunned and amazed at what I was learning about the man I thought I knew better than anyone. He’d kept this part of his life a secret from me, too. Perhaps that was what he was hiding in his study, and that was probably what he was doing when he went to his cottage or traveled abroad. The crates he’d sent out of his home the morning I’d come upon him weren’t paintings from his parents’ collection. They were more than likely commissioned works that he was sending to the buyer. The receipt that had identified him from 1888 could have been the receipt I saw him sign before the movers left.
A yearning grew so deep in my chest, it was a physical pain. I wanted to run to Austen and ask him why he’d never told me. And ask him about the portrait I didn’t know he’d painted. But if it was done in 1889, he didn’t even know about it yet. I couldn’t talk to the Austen of 1888.
But perhaps I could talk to the Austen in 1938.
“He’s still alive?” I asked.
“I believe so,” Sir Rothschild said.
“Does he live near Loch Lomond?”
“After several paintings were donated to the Royal Museum of Scotland,” Calan said, “I began to research and finally found that Mr. Baird had a home in London and a cottage in Loch Lomond. I visited him at his cottage and was able to acquire several more, including the portrait.”
“But he still has a home in London?”
“I believe so, but I don’t know where it might be.”
I had to ask Austen about the paintings.
“Will you excuse me?” I asked. “I’m taking my lunch, and I’ll be back as soon as I’m able.”
“Of course,” Sir Rothschild said. “Take all the time you need.”
I was almost out the door when Sir Rothschild stopped me. “I forgot to mention—I’ve been invited to consult at Versailles at the Musée de l’Histoire de France. I’ve been putting it off, waiting for this shipment, but now that it’s here, I shouldn’t delay another day. If I’m gone before you return, please know that I will instruct the staff and volunteers to assist you in any way, and should you need me, you can contact me at the H?tel Westminster.”
“I think we have everything under control,” I said, eager to get away. “When should we expect you to return?”
“A week, hopefully no longer.”
I nodded. “I’ll see you when you return.” I didn’t want to wait another moment but took the stairs up to my office and grabbed my hat and purse before I left Lancaster House.
I was breaking every rule and risking everything I held dear to look for Austen in this path. It was a foolish, headstrong, and impetuous decision—the very thing I’d promised him I wouldn’t do. But after seeing the portrait and witnessing the pain he’d painted into my eyes, my heart yearned to be near Austen. I needed to go to Wilton Crescent. I couldn’t explain it.
I just had to see him.
I’d never been so nervous before in my life. I didn’t know if Austen still lived at 12 Wilton Crescent or if he’d even be in London. Perhaps he was in his cottage at Loch Lomond or somewhere else entirely.
All I knew was that I needed to go.
It wasn’t far from Lancaster House to Wilton Crescent. I tried not to run, but it was almost impossible, even wearing heels. I followed a path through Green Park and then took a left toward my old neighborhood.
The homes looked almost the same as they did in 1888, and the familiarity made me forget for a moment that I was in 1938. Yet the automobiles and the modern street signs were a constant reminder.
Thankfully, it was cold, or I would have overheated as I made my way toward Wilton Crescent. My heart was pounding so hard, I couldn’t think straight.
What would I say if I saw him? Fifty years had passed since 1888, and though I looked the same, he would be an old man. Would it be too great a shock for him to see me again?
Would it shock me to see him?
My steps slowed as I caught a glimpse of number twelve, and the foolishness of my decision started to cause more rational thoughts to war within my heart and mind.
I wanted to ask Austen about the paintings. But if I did, I might be tempted to ask him about Mary, too, and that would be far too dangerous.
I paused on the opposite side of the street, realizing that, in this path, I hadn’t yet saved Mary. She was the last victim of Jack the Ripper. It wouldn’t be until after November 9th that history would change. What version of history did Austen know today? The one in which Mary died and I left? Or the one in which Mary was saved—and I left? But if Mary was saved, why was her name still listed as a victim?
I was suddenly very confused.
Perhaps this was the reason Mama had cautioned me not to knowingly change history. When I saved Mary, everything in this path could change—so drastically, in fact, I might not even recognize it when I woke up here. But how did it work? Was I in the changed history now, or would it change after November 9th?
I felt paralyzed on the opposite side of Wilton Crescent as questions and doubt plagued me.
When the door opened to number twelve, panic filled my heart. Yet a quiet voice urged me to stay. I watched as an old man stepped outside of his house, and I immediately knew it was Austen. His body had aged, but he still bore the same movements, even if they were slower. He looked distinguished in a long coat and a bowler hat, and from where I stood, I could see his hair was now gray.
My heart broke as I watched him slowly lock his door. He probably had a servant or two to see to his most basic needs. Gone would be the large household staff, and in their place was electricity, washing machines, toasters, and vacuum cleaners.
Was he lonely?
Or had he found someone else to love? That thought was more painful than all the others.
As he slowly turned, I finally caught a glimpse of his face, and I would have known him anywhere. He was still handsome, though there were lines and wrinkles and age spots on his skin.
He paused as his gaze caught on mine.
The street separated us, but I knew the moment he recognized me. His mouth parted, and he caught his breath. The surprise soon turned to disbelief, and then to sadness ... and then he smiled.
I thought I would want to run to him, but I didn’t. I thought I would have a hundred questions, but no words formed.
Instead, I only looked at him, and he at me.
I swallowed and took a step forward, needing to say something—but he shook his head, the sadness returning—and I paused.
A cab turned the corner and stopped in front of his house, partially blocking him from view.
With one last glance, Austen opened the door and got into the car.
He watched me through the window, but I couldn’t move, my heart breaking.
Austen didn’t want to talk to me.
The cab pulled away and turned down the street, leaving me alone.
I took a deep breath and then began to walk, tears in my eyes. It hurt that he didn’t want to speak to me, but I didn’t blame him. It would be too hard for both of us. Seeing him as an old man had been hard. Speaking to him would have been harder.
I should have gone back to Lancaster House, but I needed to talk to Mama and Papa. I needed answers to the questions that had stopped me outside Austen’s house.
It took me another twenty minutes to walk from Wilton Cres cent to Berkeley Square. My mind was so jumbled and confused, I couldn’t keep a single thought straight.
When I arrived at 44 Berkeley Square, I opened the front door and walked blindly up to the parlor.
Mama and Papa were sitting on a settee together. Mama was reading Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s latest book, Listen! The Wind , about her flight with her husband from Africa to South America across the Atlantic Ocean, and Papa was reading a newspaper. They both looked up at the same moment, surprise on their faces.
“Kathryn!” Mama said. “We weren’t expecting you for hours.” Her smile faded, and she rose from the settee. “What’s wrong?”
I walked across the parlor and sat beside Papa. I placed my head on his shoulder, and I let the tears fall.
Mama sat next to me and took my hand. “What’s wrong, Kathryn?”
“I went to see Austen just now.”
Papa sat up straighter, forcing me to lift my head and face them.
“What do you mean?” Mama asked.
“Austen still lives at 12 Wilton Crescent,” I said. “He’s seventy-five years old.”
“Kathryn.” Papa’s voice was full of both a warning and a censure. “What were you thinking? Mama has told you a hundred times not to let one path affect the other. You don’t know what kind of trouble you are placing yourself or anyone else in.”
“Why did you go?” Mama asked.
“I was impetuous and headstrong.” It was what Austen had said to me affectionately in my father’s study in 1888, but the truth was, I had tried to push God again.
I told them about the paintings and the portrait Austen had made of me. “I had to see him—”
“Why?” Mama asked.
“I don’t know.” I shrugged, suddenly unable to remember what had prompted me. “I miss him. I haven’t seen him in almost two weeks in my other path.”
“So you thought to go to him now?” Mama asked, almost angry. “When he hasn’t seen you in fifty years? What might he be thinking, Kathryn? He is probably shocked and confused and heartbroken.”
I wiped my tears, frustrated that I was crying again. “It doesn’t matter. He didn’t want to talk to me, and I became confused and panicked.”
“Why?” Papa asked.
“Because it occurred to me that I haven’t changed history yet. What if the history that Austen knows is the history where Mary still dies? I won’t change anything until November 9th, but then everything might change.” I shook my head. “I don’t know. It’s just so confusing. I got scared.”
“This is why you shouldn’t go looking for answers,” Mama said. “It’s too dangerous, Kathryn. Your paths are so close—closer than any other I’ve ever heard of. I don’t know what that means or what might happen when you change things on November 9th.” Her eyes were so sad. “I just wish you wouldn’t have to change anything. My mama said that cataclysmic events have taken place when time-crossers have changed history, but I don’t know which events happened because of time-crossers. Maybe even wars, I don’t know. It’s just better to leave things as they are.”
“Are you saying I shouldn’t save Mary?” I asked, incredulous.
Mama looked at Papa helplessly.
“We can’t tell you what to do,” Papa said. “But there is a reason why every time-crosser in your mother’s family has cautioned the next generation to leave things alone. You have a huge responsibility on your shoulders.”
“Do you think changing history could cause a war?” I asked, sitting up straighter. “Could it cause the next World War? If the Freemasons are involved with the Jack the Ripper killings—and I somehow change the outcome of that, or unmask the killer—might it cause World War Two?”
Mama lifted her shoulders. “I don’t know, Kathryn. I really don’t.”
My chest felt heavy, and I couldn’t seem to catch a breath. Was it all worth the risk?
When I thought of Mary living in Whitechapel, a victim of the information she had about the Freemasons, the injustice of it all brought air back to my lungs.
Yes, it was worth the risk. I couldn’t let my sister die a gruesome death. Not if I could stop it.
I didn’t know what would happen. I wasn’t sure if it would have a cataclysmic effect on history, but I had to try.