Page 19 of Every Hour until Then (Timeless #5)

19

London, England October 16, 1888

I woke up in 1888 with an ache in my chest that didn’t disappear as I dressed in a simple walking gown. Austen was still not back from Scotland, but I wouldn’t spend my day waiting for his arrival. After breakfast, I planned to take the carriage to Mile End, not far from Whitechapel, where Catherine Eddowes’s ex-husband, Thomas Conway, was reported to live. I still hadn’t been able to locate William Nichols, Polly’s husband, and both John Chapman and John Stride, Annie and Elizabeth’s husbands, had died.

Hopefully Thomas might answer my questions and tell me why all five women ended up in Whitechapel. I had sold a piece of jewelry for funds to hire the cabs that I’d been using, but I was running dangerously low and would need to sell something else soon.

My mother entered my room as Duffy helped me finish my toilette.

“I do wish you’d come calling with me,” Mother said as she adjusted her gloves. “I’m running out of excuses for your absences.”

“I don’t feel like making calls.” And I didn’t feel like fighting her about it, either.

“Mrs. Kelly?” A maid appeared at the door.

“Yes?” Mother turned to address her.

“There is a caller here to see you and Miss Kelly. A Mr. Maybrick, I believe.”

“Michael Maybrick?” Mother asked, her voice rising a notch. “How very interesting.”

Michael Maybrick had come to see us? I couldn’t stop thinking about what Austen had said about him. Mr. Maybrick suspected that Austen was trying to find answers about the Freemasons, and he’d hinted that Mr. Maybrick was a threat, someone I shouldn’t trust. Had he somehow learned that I knew about the trip to Jerusalem? There was no way he could know. I hadn’t spoken to anyone about what Austen told me.

Mother turned back to me. “Come, Kathryn. He’s asked to see both of us.”

“Must I?”

Mother smoothed back a strand of my hair and fastened the top button on my collar. “Of course you must speak to him. Mr. Maybrick is one of the most eligible bachelors in England, and I saw how he admired you when he was here before. I didn’t think it would take him this long to call on you, but he’s here, nonetheless.”

“Surely he’s not here to see me.”

“Of course he is.” She batted her eyes in a playful manner. “I may have dropped the hint that you’re quite eligible yourself.”

“Mother, you know—”

“Hush, Kathryn. You’re running out of time and options. And Michael Maybrick would be the catch of the decade. I don’t know what—or who—you’re waiting for, but it’s time to settle down.”

I couldn’t look her in the eyes, knowing I might give away my true feelings about Austen if she saw my emotions.

She squinted and put her finger under my chin to lift my gaze to hers. “I know Austen was here a couple weeks ago and that you’ve been sneaking over to his house.”

“I haven’t been sneaking,” I clarified, quite proud of myself for using his front door.

“Perhaps there was a time when I would have welcomed a union between you,” she said, her voice serious as she let go of my chin. “But after—but since—” She paused.

“After the trip to Jerusalem?” I asked her.

Her gaze narrowed, and she nodded for Duffy to leave the room. When my maid was gone, Mother said, “What do you know about that trip?”

“Very little,” I said honestly. “I know that Austen’s parents died, and nothing has ever been the same.”

“Precisely. Perhaps if things had been different, I could encourage you and Austen. But nothing good could come from a marriage with him now.”

“Why not? What happened in Jerusalem?” I couldn’t help asking. She was the only woman there who hadn’t been killed. She must know something.

“What do you mean?”

“How did Austen’s parents die? Who else was with you on the trip?”

She took a step back. “Why are you suddenly so interested? You’ve never wondered before now.”

I swallowed my nerves and said, “I know that the women who died in Whitechapel were—”

“Don’t breathe another word, Kathryn.” She put her hand over my mouth, her voice low and filled with a dire warning. “Not another word.” She looked over her shoulder and then back at me. “If you know what is good for you, you will never speak about this again. I was able to save Mar—” Her breath caught, and panic filled her eyes. “Please don’t speak about those women. I don’t know what you think you know, but nothing is as it appears.” She stared at me. “Promise me.”

I nodded, my eyes wide.

She lowered her hand and took a step back, inhaling a few deep breaths. “Compose yourself and think carefully about what I just said. Not a word, Kathryn.”

I nodded again.

Mother and I left my bedroom, but my legs were shaking. She’d been so fierce and determined. She’d suggested that she’d been able to save Mary, so she didn’t know that my sister’s life was still in jeopardy. And she’d said that she would have welcomed a union between Austen and me—before Jerusalem. Why not after? If Austen’s parents had died heroic deaths, it should be an honor to join our families together.

All I wanted was to get the visit with Mr. Maybrick over so I could go to Mile End and find Thomas Conway to ask him about the trip, despite my promise to Mother. There was too much at stake to not find answers.

As soon as Mother and I entered the parlor, Mr. Maybrick rose from his chair and offered us a slight bow. “It’s good to see you again, Mrs. Kelly, Miss Kelly.”

After the pleasantries were exchanged, I took a seat beside Mother to face our visitor.

“To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?” Mother asked.

Mr. Maybrick smiled, his mustache rising slightly. There was superiority and arrogance in his movements as he said, “I will be giving a performance at St. James Hall this Friday evening, and I was hoping your family would attend as my guests of honor.”

“We’d love to accept your invitation,” she said without hesitation. “How marvelous.”

“And, of course,” he added, “I would enjoy taking all of you to Café Royal after for a late supper.”

Mother’s cheeks were filled with color. “We’d be honored, Mr. Maybrick. Simply honored. Wouldn’t we, Kathryn?”

The last thing I wanted to do was spend an evening with Michael Maybrick, so I asked the question on everyone’s minds in London. “Is it safe to be out at night?”

“Why, Kathryn,” Mother said, “what a thing to ask. Everyone knows that it’s only the poor who are at risk.”

I gave her a look, remembering how she’d reacted when we went to the Lyceum Theatre to see The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde . It was one of the last times she’d gone out to a public place at night, and the only reason she agreed to go now was because of Mr. Maybrick’s status.

“You’ll be quite safe in my company, I assure you,” Mr. Maybrick said with a smile that was far too intimate and familiar.

Mother and Mr. Maybrick continued to chat about the concert, one of many performances Mr. Maybrick would give over the course of October and November. He spoke of his frenzied calendar, often with three or four performances a day, moving from one music hall to the next, from one end of England to the other. He hardly seemed to notice that I remained quiet for most of his visit, anxiously watching the clock, wanting to get to Mile End.

When there was a natural break in the conversation, Mother rose, and Mr. Maybrick followed.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Mother said, “I need to speak to the housekeeper about tonight’s supper, and I’m afraid it can’t wait.” She turned to me. “Kathryn, you’ll see our guest out when he’s ready to leave?”

It was a question, but I knew there was only one answer, and I felt sick knowing she was leaving us alone on purpose.

“Of course.”

By the look on Mr. Maybrick’s face, he’d been waiting for this moment.

“Good-bye, Mr. Maybrick,” Mother said, “I look forward to seeing you again soon.”

He bowed over her hand, and then she left.

When he turned to face me, there was a pleased smile on his face. “I thought we’d never be alone.”

I slowly rose from my chair, uncertain. “I’m not sure I understand your meaning, sir.”

He paused, his eyebrows rising high. “Have I misunderstood?”

I frowned. “Misunderstood?”

He advanced again. “The electricity between us is palpable, Miss Kelly. Surely you feel it, too.”

I took a step behind my chair, needing something between us. “You forget yourself, Mr. Maybrick. I’m a lady.”

“And I’m a gentleman. Clearly we belong together.”

I stared at him, stunned. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He stopped on the other side of the chair, a smile tilting up one edge of his mouth. “From the moment we met, I knew that you were meant to be mine. I’ve been waiting, biding my time, but I can wait no longer.”

“We’ve hardly spoken,” I said. “And we’ve only seen each other twice.”

“Once is all it takes.” He started to round the chair, and I left my spot to move toward the door. “Unless your reticence is because of Mr. Baird,” he said. “If that’s the case, we can remedy that problem.”

“I believe it’s time you leave, sir,” I said, trying to keep my voice level.

He stared at me, his jaw tight. “A thousand women would love to be in your shoes.”

I stared back, frustrated at his behavior. “I’d gladly hand my shoes over to anyone who asks.”

His scowl turned to surprise and then an arrogant and condescending smile. “I always get what I want.”

“Why in the world would you want me?”

“Your family is Freemason royalty, Miss Kelly.”

I frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It means that your great-grandfather brought Freemasonry to England, and your family name is greatly revered. I intend to benefit from that connection, and your parents have already agreed to the match.”

I lifted my chin. “Then my parents—and you—greatly underestimate me, Mr. Maybrick, because I will never marry you.”

And with that, I left the parlor, intent on speaking to Catherine Eddowes’s ex-husband.

Mile End was not far from Whitechapel, but the living conditions were a little better. It was home to working-class and lower-class groups of people, mostly immigrants and migrants. I had left home without a word to Mother and hired a cab not far from Wilton Crescent.

When the cab pulled up to a tenement on Bow Road in Mile End, I was still shaking from my encounter with Mr. Maybrick. I couldn’t believe my parents would agree to a betrothal without speaking to me—but then again, there were a lot of things they had never told me.

I stared at the run-down building of Mile End with more trepidation than I anticipated. I had promised Austen I wouldn’t go to Whitechapel, but was this any better? I was going to approach a man whom I’d never met, on a street I wasn’t familiar with, at the height of the Jack the Ripper scare.

But I’d come this far, and I was still angry enough from my visit with Mr. Maybrick to charge ahead.

“Will you wait?” I asked the cab driver, a kind older man with a posy in his hat band. I had just enough money to pay for my fare back to Wilton Crescent.

“Indeed I will, miss,” he said as he glanced at the building, worry in the lines of his face. “Be careful.”

I nodded, checked the address I’d found in 1938 for Thomas Conway, and then walked down a passageway toward the back of the building to number 5.

Dirty children played in the muddy courtyard while a woman hung wash on a line. Trash was piled up against a wall, and a rotting animal that looked like it might have been a rat lay beside it, filling the air with putrid odors.

I placed my gloved hand under my nose, trying not to gag as I knocked on number 5.

There was a shuffling noise and then the door opened. A middle-aged woman with deep wrinkles and glossy eyes stared at me.

“What do you want?” she asked abruptly in a Cockney accent. “We don’t take no charity.”

I swallowed my nerves and said, “I’m looking for Mr. Thomas Conway.”

The lady frowned. “And who are you? Come looking for a story about Catherine? Well, he won’t give it to you unless you pay.”

My lips parted in surprise. “I don’t have anything to offer.”

She nodded at the purse hanging from my wrist. “What’s in there?”

“Just enough fare to get home.”

“That’s what he’ll take then.”

“But—”

“What’s this?” a man asked as he came to the door, scratching his head and blinking away sleep. When he saw me, he sobered enough to lift an eyebrow with interest. According to the reports I’d read in 1938, Thomas had been handsome and charming at one point—but now he was unshaven, overweight, and scarred by time. “And who are you, pretty lady?”

The woman who had answered the door scoffed and went back into the house, tossing a fiery glare in my direction and talking under her breath.

“Are you Thomas Conway?” I asked, aware of the woman hanging laundry, staring at me.

He leaned against the doorframe and looked me up and down, lifting a corner of his mouth in a half smile. “I am, sweetheart. What can I do for you?”

My pulse was thrumming. “May I have a word with you about—about Jerusalem?”

His smile disappeared, and he straightened. “What do you want to know about that?”

I glanced behind me and then said, “May we have a word in private?”

“There ain’t nowhere private around here,” he said. “And I ain’t got nothing to say, anyway.” He started to move back into the house, but I took a step forward.

“I can pay you.” I took the coins out of my reticule, hoping I could convince the cabby to take me back to Wilton Crescent on credit.

That got Conway’s attention. He held out his hand.

“Not until you answer my questions,” I said, clutching the coins in my fist.

He worked his jaw for a minute. “What do you want to know?”

I licked my dry lips, hoping he’d share the truth. “I know that Polly, Annie, Elizabeth, and Catherine were all in Jerusalem. And I know you were there, too.”

He stared at me, squinting for a second. “Who are you?”

“It doesn’t matter. Are you a Freemason, Mr. Conway?”

He hesitated, and I knew he was weighing the wisdom in telling me the truth. He glanced at my fist holding the coins and then leaned against the doorframe again. “I was just a poor, ex-soldier when I joined the Freemasons. I thought they might help me make something of my life. When they called upon me to assist the expedition as a guard and offered to pay my way, I went. Thought it would be a good opportunity for me and Catherine to see a bit of the world.”

“Are you still a Freemason?”

He looked down at his worn clothing and then lifted his head in pride. “Not in good standing, as it were. Couldn’t afford the dues after a time.”

“And what of the others?” I asked. “Was William Nichols a Freemason? Or John Chapman or John Stride?”

Thomas looked right and then left before he said, “Aye, they were all Freemasons, called upon because they had different skills.”

“How did each of your wives end up in Whitechapel?” I asked, eager for him to keep talking.

He shrugged and held out his hand. “I need me a coin for what I already told you.”

I slightly unclenched my fist, afraid he’d try to take it all, and removed one penny, which I handed to him. “Why were your wives in Whitechapel?”

Thomas put the penny into his pocket and said, “When you’re desperate and destitute, it’s the cheapest place to live—and to disappear. Polly left William because he had taken up with another woman. Annie left her husband because she couldn’t resist the bottle. Elizabeth left her chap because she was disease-ridden and couldn’t have children, and it came between them.” He shrugged. “Me and Catherine had our quarrels and went our separate ways. She was set up real nice in Woolwich for a time, in a respectable flat, but it didn’t take long before I heard she was living in Whitechapel.”

“Do you think Jack the Ripper is—”

Thomas’s shoulders stiffened, and his face became still. “I don’t know nothing about any of that.”

“But—”

“I already told you enough.” He held out his hand for another penny.

I gave it to him and opened my mouth to ask another question, but he glanced over my shoulder as the shadow of a man fell across the wall. Thomas swallowed hard before he stepped inside and closed the door in my face.

My heart pounded as I turned, knowing there was someone standing behind me.

It was Austen.

“Kathryn, what are you doing here?”

My heart leapt at the sight of him and relief made me feel weak. I ran into his embrace, not caring what the tenants thought of me. I had ached for Austen.

He embraced me, his heart beating hard against his chest.

“What am I doing here?” I asked, laughter and joy in my voice. “What are you doing here?”

“I was just pulling up to my townhouse when I saw you get into the cab. Miles and I followed you here, but lost you in traffic several times. Thankfully Miles recognized the cab, and we were able to locate you.” He looked at the dirty courtyard, a myriad of emotions playing on his face. One was frustration. “You promised you wouldn’t come here without me.”

“This isn’t Whitechapel.”

He lifted an eyebrow.

“I’m finished,” I said as I tugged him toward the passage. Thomas Conway’s door had been firmly closed in my face, and I knew he wouldn’t open it to me again. “I have so much to tell you.”

I put my arm around his waist and pressed against him as his arm went around my shoulders.

After thanking the cabby for waiting for me and paying him the few pennies I had left, Austen helped me into his carriage.

As soon as the door was closed, I went into his arms.

“Kate,” he whispered as he buried his face against my neck.

The carriage began to move, and I wrapped my arms around him, my heart soaring and breaking in the same moment. I couldn’t stop thinking about him as an old man with pain in his eyes, a pain I would cause. But I also reveled in the joy we brought into each other’s lives here. Now.

He pulled back and slipped a hand up to my cheek, caressing my skin with his thumb. His eyes were shining. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered as he lowered his lips to mine and captured them in a kiss.

I had been waiting for this moment for weeks, and it was better than I imagined. All the love I felt for him in the past, in the present, and in the future mingled together in exquisite bliss.

When he finally pulled back, he whispered, “I thought about this kiss every moment I was away from you.”

I leaned into his touch, but then I remembered the paintings, and I sat up straight. “Why didn’t you tell me, Austen?”

He pulled back and frowned. “Tell you what?”

“About your paintings?”

Comprehension flickered in his eyes. “How did you find out?”

“Sir Rothschild, the keeper of the London Museum in 1938, has just borrowed them from the Royal Museum of Scotland and will be putting them on display.”

“They’re putting my paintings on display?” he asked with a frown. “But I’ve sold them to people all over Europe, ensuring that no one knew my identity. How did they collect them?”

“Someone has been accumulating them through the years. Why didn’t you tell me you are a painter?”

He sat back against the bench and ran his hand through his hair. “Why does it matter?”

“Because—” I shook my head in confusion. “Because I’m me, and you’re you, and I thought we knew each other.”

Austen was quiet for a moment, and then he finally said, “Honestly, it was the last thing I had that no one could take away from me. I was afraid that if people knew, it would be torn from me, too.”

My heart ached for him as I sat back on the bench and took his hand into mine. “Is that what you were doing at Loch Lomond?”

He nodded. “I was commissioned to finish a painting for a client in France, and I needed to get it done before the fifteenth. I finished it yesterday, and I left it with my caretakers to mail after the paint dried. I came back to London as soon as I could.”

“Why do you paint in Scotland? Why not here?”

“There are too many memories in London. I’ve tried, but the only place I can truly let my mind go is in Scotland.”

“What about that morning when the movers were at your house? I thought you were selling some of your parents’ paintings.”

“I’d finished the paintings in Scotland and brought them with me to ship to Italy. I don’t usually leave my caretakers responsible for shipments, since it’s easier to have them sent from London.”

“You’re extremely talented,” I told him with a smile. “Your paintings are stunning.”

He returned my smile as the carriage joined a busy thoroughfare. The noise increased as the carriage slowed to accommodate traffic.

“I wish I could have been there when you saw them,” he said.

“I do, too.” I nibbled my bottom lip, not sure how he would react to my next statement. “I went to see you.”

“What do you mean?”

“In 1938. After I saw the paintings.”

Austen frowned. “Did I say anything to you?”

“No. You shook your head, as if you didn’t want to speak to me.”

There was no humor in his eyes as he regarded me, and I wished I knew what he was thinking.

“Why did you go?” he finally asked.

“I missed you, and ... I wanted to ask you about the portrait.”

“Portrait?” He frowned. “What portrait?”

“The one of me.”

“I don’t have a portrait of you.”

“You will.”

He studied me again, pain and uncertainty in his gaze. “After you leave, you mean?”

I nodded.

He turned away from me and shook his head. “I’m a fool.”

I put my hand on his arm, but he pulled away.

His rejection hurt, and I stiffened.

When he turned back to me, there was so much grief in his eyes, it stung. “Who are we fooling?” he asked. “I keep thinking that by some miracle, you’ll choose me, and this will continue. But it won’t, will it?”

“I want to choose you,” I whispered, my heart thudding with certainty. “But I must save Mary.”

Neither of us spoke for a moment, and then Austen let out a sigh and put his arm around me again.

We both knew the truth.

This wouldn’t last.

It couldn’t.