Page 2 of Every Hour until Then (Timeless #5)
2
London, England August 30, 1938
It felt strange to stand outside 44 Berkeley Square on that hot August day in 1938. Months of planning and correspondence and worry—at least on Mama’s part—had finally brought me to the place I loved dearest of all. And not even the threat of war could dim my excitement.
“Is it much changed from 1888, Kathryn?” Mama asked me as Papa slipped a key into the front door of our rented townhouse.
I took a deep breath, conscious of the exhaust from motorcars and the tense atmosphere that had greeted our arrival at Southampton. Hitler’s invasion of Austria earlier that year, and the knowledge of his increasing military strength, had the entire world on edge—but especially those in England who were still recovering from the Great War and depression.
“Things have changed,” I acknowledged, “but it’s not as different as you might think.”
“Are you familiar with Berkeley Square?”
“Somewhat,” I said evasively. I didn’t tell her that I’d been to tea at a home across the square just the day before in 1888. She was already nervous that I might run into someone I would know from my other path. It was one of the many promises I’d made to convince her that this trip was a good idea. I had to avoid anyone I might know from 1888—though they’d hardly believe it was me anyway.
I had inherited the time-crossing gift from my mother in 1938, Grace Voland. She had given up her life in 1692 to marry my papa, Brigadier General Lucas Voland. I loved her dearly for understanding what it felt like to be a time-crosser—yet her two paths were separated by centuries. Mine were only separated by fifty years. Perhaps the very woman I’d had tea with yesterday in 1888, Lady Woodsmith, was still living in the house across the square.
But that was precisely why I had agreed to come. For months, I had been looking for Mary in 1888 and had not succeeded in finding her. Was she still living in London in 1938? It was one of the questions that plagued me night and day, and because I had more freedom and resources to look for her here, I planned to do just that.
Papa opened the door at 44 Berkeley Square and allowed us to pass inside.
As we entered the front hall, I was duly impressed with the décor. Black and white checkered marble floors were polished to a high gleam, and a sparkling chandelier hung overhead. Down the length of the central hall was a spectacular staircase, and flanking the hall on either side were doors.
“I’m still in awe that Lady Astor offered us her home,” Mama said as she set her bag on the floor and looked up at the chandelier. “It’s so grand.”
Lord and Lady Astor were American expatriates who had acclimated to English society. Lady Astor had become the first female to sit in the House of Commons almost twenty years ago. She was a devoted fan of aviation and had befriended my parents. When the Astors heard we were coming, they had offered to rent one of their many properties to us, and both the Astors and my parents looked forward to a reunion.
As Mama and I inspected the rooms on the main floor, Papa brought the luggage into the foyer.
I took one of my bags and climbed the curving staircase to the second floor. There was a parlor and a study, but the bedrooms were on the third floor. After taking the smaller of the two bedrooms, I set my suitcase on my bed and then poked my head into my parents’ room a moment later.
“I’m off,” I said, eager to get on with the reason I’d come.
Mama was just kicking off her heels, her eyes creased with exhaustion and concern. She looked up at me with a frown. “So soon, Kathryn?”
My first name was Kathryn in both paths, though my last names were different. In 1938, I was Kathryn Voland, but in 1888, I was Kathryn Kelly. Mama said that her first names had been the same in both of her paths, as well, and that God had ordained our names. She had guided me and taught me the rules of my time-crossing gift—but my parents in 1888 had no idea I lived two lives. Neither of them was a time-crosser, so Mama had cautioned me not to tell them. They didn’t know that the birthmark on the back of my head, shaped like a sunburst, was the mark that distinguished me as a time-crosser and indicated that I had twenty-five years to choose which path to keep and which to forfeit. But it was ever-present in my mind.
“I have no time to spare,” I told Mama, fighting the urge to use the English accent I was accustomed to in 1888. I didn’t use it 1938 in Washington, DC, where I had grown up with Mama and Papa and my older sister, Lydia. She was in California now, living with our grandmother Tacy. “I only have two months to pull the exhibit together, and that’s hardly enough time as it is.”
“You’ll take a cab?” Mama asked.
“I plan to walk since it is only half a mile to Lancaster House. It will be good to stretch my legs after all the travel.”
“You’ll need to let her go eventually,” Papa said to Mama in his French accent as he stood behind her and rubbed her shoulders. “She’ll be fine, Grace. She knows this city better than us.”
“I’m not afraid she’ll get lost,” Mama countered. “I’m just—with the war looming—” She paused and shook her head. “When can we expect you home?”
“I’m only going to meet Sir Rothschild and become familiar with the museum,” I said. “I’ll be home for supper by seven. You can phone me at the museum if you need me.”
Mama’s shoulders lowered, and she nodded. “Be careful, Kathryn.”
I smiled and winked at Papa. “See you soon.”
My excitement could hardly be contained as I followed the circular staircase back to the ground level and out into the sunshine, toward my destination.
The London Museum occupied Lancaster House, not far from St. James Palace on The Mall. I’d been invited by the Keeper of the museum, Sir Bryant Rothschild, to be a guest exhibit curator to help him establish a new exhibit. I’d met him the year before in Washington when he’d visited the Smithsonian Arts and Industries building as part of a museum exchange delegation. Because I was an assistant exhibit curator, I had been his guide for much of his visit. I’d told him about my fondness for British history, though he had no idea I was a time-crosser and had a special connection to Victorian England. When I’d received his surprise invitation to come to London a few months later as part of the exchange, I couldn’t resist.
I was still shocked that I had been invited. There were so many other people more qualified than me. Perhaps Sir Rothschild had asked me because we had gotten along so well, and my knowledge of British history had impressed him.
It didn’t matter to me, even though it put me in a precarious position. At any moment, I might run into someone I knew from my other path—though they’d be fifty years older, and I was still twenty-three. But even if they saw me, they would just assume I looked like someone they used to know. At least, that’s what I’d told Mama. And when she’d asked me what would happen if I ran into myself, I told her the simple answer: I didn’t plan to stay in my 1888 path after my twenty-fifth birthday, so there was no chance that I’d see myself as a seventy-three-year-old woman.
Mama had only shaken her head and sighed. I’d decided I would accept Sir Rothschild’s invitation, and nothing could stop me. Not even the threat of Adolf Hitler.
And perhaps there was a chance I might find my sister Mary. It had been ten months since she’d disappeared on that cold, autumn night in 1887. She had sent me a brief and cryptic letter a couple weeks later, telling me she was living in the Whitechapel district. She had found work as a charwoman, doing daily domestic chores for Jewish families who could afford a little extra help. The thought of my sweet, delicate sister doing such demanding physical labor was hard to imagine. Worse, though, was the memory of how frightened and alone she was the night she left, and how scared she must still be.
I would never give up looking for her, in 1888 or 1938.
Lancaster House sat on the edge of Green Park, not far from Buckingham Palace. Before she left, Mary and I had attended a ball there in 1887, when it was known as the Stafford House. The mansion now contained the London Museum, and I was eager to step inside and see how they had transformed the ornate building to house their collections.
The hot August sun bore down on my shoulders as I approached the Corinthian style mansion. Its plain exterior was no match for the splendor within. Large trees on the perimeter of the property offered a bit of shade and privacy, but the passing pedestrians and motorcars reminded me we were in the heart of the metropolis.
I opened the heavy door and entered the central hall of Lancaster House. The air was cool as my heels tapped on the diamond-shaped marble floor, and my gaze lifted to the ceiling, which was three stories above with a glass dome and a view of the blue sky. Red-carpeted stairs rose ahead and split in the middle to the upper galleries. Ornate gilded trim, blue marble columns, red cloth coverings, and massive murals dominated the room.
There were several people in the main hall, some admiring the murals, others purchasing tickets at the front desk, and still others moving around the upper galleries, from one room to the other.
“Are you here to see the exhibits?” a woman asked as she approached, wearing white cotton gloves and a blue dress suit.
“I’m here to meet with Sir Rothschild,” I said. “I’m Kathryn Voland, from the Smithsonian Institute.”
Her eyes lit with recognition, and she said, “Sir Rothschild has been expecting you. He’s in his office. Won’t you follow me?”
She led me across the echoing hall to the stairwell, and we began to climb. When we arrived on the second floor, we crossed a gallery and then took another set of stairs to the third floor.
“The exhibits are housed in the basement, on the ground level, and on the second floor,” the docent said as she led me up a staircase with a sign that said Staff Only. “The top floor houses the staff lounge and Sir Rothschild’s office.”
The docent guided me through a maze of rooms until we arrived at a closed door. She knocked, and when a male voice called for us to enter, she opened the door and let me walk in before her.
Sir Bryant Rothschild was seated at a massive desk. A cold fireplace flanked one wall of his office, and tall windows on the other offered a magnificent view of Buckingham Palace. The room had probably been a bedchamber at one point but was now the office of the Keeper of the museum.
“Miss Voland,” he said with a wide smile as he stood to greet me. “How wonderful to see you again. We’ve been expecting you.”
“I’m sorry for the delay.”
“Nothing to worry yourself about,” he said in his cultured accent. “Our other guest curator hasn’t arrived from Scotland yet, so you haven’t missed anything.” He nodded at the docent and said, “Thank you, Mrs. Turner.”
The woman excused herself as Sir Rothschild motioned for me to have a seat.
He was a well-built man, in his mid-thirties, if I had to guess, with straw-colored hair and blue eyes. He’d been charming and intelligent when we’d spent time together in Washington, DC, eager to share his knowledge and glean from those at the Smithsonian. I was excited, though a little nervous, to finally work with him. What if I didn’t have the skills needed to do a good job? I would hate to embarrass myself or disappoint him.
“Now,” he said as he took his seat again. “We have much to discuss, but I have a feeling you’re curious about the project you’ll be helping with over the next two months.”
I sat on the edge of my seat and nodded. I would be assisting the other guest curator, a man named Calan McCaffrey from the Royal Museum of Scotland, though I hadn’t met him yet. “I can’t wait any longer.”
He smiled, revealing a straight row of teeth, slightly yellowed, probably from the coffee sitting on his desk. “That’s why I asked you to come, Miss Voland. Your energy and passion for history is matchless—though, perhaps Mr. McCaffrey and I come in a close second and third.” Sir Rothschild leaned forward and placed his clasped hands on his desk, excitement shining in his eyes. “The London Museum has been given unprecedented access to the Metropolitan Police Crime Museum. It’s a private collection of evidence that the police have accumulated for over a century, and every so often, they release parts of their collection for public viewing.” He paused, as if he couldn’t contain his glee. “As of tomorrow, the evidence for the Jack the Ripper case will turn fifty years old, and they are allowing us access for the first time. We will be allowed to look over everything they have on file and create an exhibit for the museum.”
My mouth parted at his announcement. I had heard of Jack the Ripper many times. The murders he committed in Victorian England were part of the collective history of the world by 1938—yet I hadn’t paid much attention to the dates before now.
“When did the murders take place?” I asked Sir Rothschild.
“I’ve only done a little preliminary study myself,” he said, “so I’m not as familiar with the case as I’d like. However, I do know that the first murder accredited to Jack the Ripper occurred on August 31, 1888, and the last happened on November 9, 1888.”
“August 31st?”
“Yes—fifty years ago tomorrow.”
A shiver ran up my spine. That meant that tomorrow, when I woke up in 1888, the first murder would happen in my other path.
“And where did the murders take place?” I asked, my pulse starting to pick up a notch.
“All five murders accredited to Jack took place within a mile radius in the Whitechapel district.”
I felt the blood drain from my face as I whispered, “Whitechapel?”
“Yes.” He frowned, clearly confused by my response. “At the time, Whitechapel was the most impoverished area of the city, filled with thousands of working-class individuals, most of them down on their luck. All five victims were women, and known to be—” He paused, as if he couldn’t say the word, but then he spit it out. “Prostitutes.”
“In Whitechapel,” I said again, though it wasn’t a question.
“Yes. In Whitechapel.” He leaned back, clearly concerned with my response. “Do you have a problem working on this exhibit, Miss Voland?”
I swallowed my trepidation and shook my head as I tried to compose myself. One of the rules of my time-crossing gift was that I couldn’t knowingly change history. If I did, I would forfeit the path I tried to change. So even if I wanted to stop the horrific murders committed by Jack the Ripper in 1888, I couldn’t. I would forfeit my time there—and I wasn’t ready.
Yet, that didn’t give my heart any comfort. Not now.
“Do you know the names of the victims?” I asked him, almost too afraid to learn the truth.
He seemed to think for a moment and then shook his head. “I’m sorry. I haven’t done enough research to be familiar with the details. Tomorrow when we visit the Metropolitan Police Crime Museum, we’ll learn more and then we can start to discuss how we want to proceed with the exhibit as we wait for Mr. McCaffrey’s arrival.” He rose from his desk. “I’ll show you to your office and then I’ll give you a tour.”
I followed Sir Rothschild through one room and into another with an even better view of Buckingham Palace. This room had also previously been a bedchamber, no doubt, but it now housed another massive desk, a table, some ornate chairs, and a filing cabinet. The walls were painted in a soft green with platinum gilded trim and crystal wall sconces.
“This will be yours and Mr. McCaffrey’s office for the next two months,” Sir Rothschild said. “I hope it will do.”
“Of course,” I said absentmindedly, my mind still on the news he’d just shared. “It’s lovely.”
He motioned toward the door. “Shall we start the tour?”
I tried to smile and nod as I followed him out of my office to see the rest of the museum. Yet, I couldn’t shake the foreboding feeling I had or the pressing question that made my heart ache.
I needed to know the names of the victims from Whitechapel, because in 1888, one of the people I loved most in the world lived somewhere in that neglected district.
Mary.