Page 26 of Every Hour until Then (Timeless #5)

26

November 8, 1938 London, England

I slowly opened my eyes in my room at 44 Berkeley Square, not knowing what might be different. I must have been crying in my sleep because tears wet my cheeks in 1938, reminding me of all I’d just sacrificed for Mary.

The sun sat low on the horizon as I stared out the window, my heart breaking into a thousand little pieces. Grief hit me in waves, and as soon as I thought I might catch my breath, another memory of Austen or Mary would crash upon me with such force, it would overwhelm me again. The only thing that brought me comfort was knowing Mary had gotten away and, I prayed, lived a long and happy life in New York. Perhaps she was still alive there now. I couldn’t visit her, since she didn’t know I was a time-crosser, but I could make inquiries.

Nothing brought me comfort where Austen was concerned. I pulled a pillow into my arms and allowed myself to cry for all he and I had lost. Just like Mama had held Papa’s nightshirt, I wanted something tangible to hold. Something that smelled like Austen—but I had nothing. He was gone, or at least, the man he had been was gone.

I had nowhere to go and nothing to do today, so I stayed in bed, nursing my sore heart, until I knew Mama would get worried. Every part of my body felt sluggish, and my head pounded. I prayed with all my heart that we would have news of Papa today. Good news that would strengthen me for the days ahead.

Slowly, I got dressed and then left my room to find Mama.

She was in the parlor, the telephone extension within reach.

When she heard my arrival, she stood and rushed across the room to pull me into her embrace.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Kathryn,” she said. “I know what you’re going through today. I know how hard this has been for you.”

I held her tight, thankful that someone understood.

“We make a fine pair, don’t we?” I asked as I wiped my face and pulled back a few moments later. “You, longing for Papa, and me, longing for Austen.”

“They say misery loves company, but I don’t agree.” She shook her head. “I do not want you to feel the misery I’m feeling.”

We went to the chairs near the hearth and took a seat. I couldn’t think of anything I wanted to do today, but there was one question that was plaguing me.

“Did anything change in the world because I saved Mary?” I asked Mama.

She frowned and shrugged. “I don’t know. If you changed something that affected history, then I only know the new version.”

“That seems strange and unsettling,” I said as I shifted in my chair. “Is Hitler still a threat?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“And Papa is still missing?”

She lowered her gaze to her hands and nodded.

“And Jack the Ripper only killed four women?”

Mama lifted her face and shook her head. “As far as I know, he killed five women.”

I frowned. Would Mama still have all the same memories as before while the rest of the world would only know of the four murders?

“Perhaps I should go to Lancaster House,” I said as I stood, “and see for myself how much history changed.”

“It might be a good idea for you to get out of the house,” Mama agreed. “Take your mind off Austen.”

“I’ll be home as soon as possible,” I told her. “Call the museum if you hear something about Papa.”

She smiled and nodded as I left the room.

I took my hat and jacket off the hall coat-tree, and I left 44 Berkeley Square on foot.

As I walked toward Lancaster House, I kept my eyes open to see if anything looked strange or out of the ordinary. But everything appeared as it had yesterday. The buildings were the same, the streets were the same, even the people I passed looked no different. Many of them carried their gas masks, and newspapers on the street corner still boasted similar headlines.

Frowning, I entered Lancaster House through the side entrance, as I had since going to work there. No one seemed surprised to see me, and several people greeted me fondly.

I went to the stairs leading to the basement and was pleased to see that there was a large crowd there to view the new exhibit.

Here, too, everything looked as it had when I left. The brick facade of Buck’s Row, the glass exhibit with Jack the Ripper’s letters, and even Catherine Eddowes’s apron were just as they’d been before.

Slowly, I walked to the corner where we’d hung the photos of the victims—and I stopped short when I saw that there were still five frames on the wall, and the last one was covered with a black cloth.

My mouth slipped open as my heart beat hard. It felt like I was in a nightmare as I slowly walked to the picture. My hand trembled as I lifted the black cloth, not knowing what I might see beneath.

It was Mary’s room at Miller’s Court, with the same mutilated body on the bed. It was the same picture.

Nothing had changed.

I let out a gasp and stepped back, shaking my head.

Visitors glanced in my direction as I quickly scanned the rest of the exhibit, looking for information about Mary Jane Kelly.

Everything was as it had been. Nothing had changed. Mary’s name was in the inquest documents, in the newspapers, and in the coroner’s reports. Her general height, weight, and age were all the same. The time she was last seen, the approximate time she’d been killed, and the time her body had been discovered.

Even the clothes that she’d been wearing when I arrived at Miller’s Court were in the exhibit.

I couldn’t breathe as I stumbled through the exhibit to get into the hall. My mind was jumbled with uncertainty and dread as I climbed the stairs, unsure where I was going. I hadn’t eaten that morning, but if I had, I was afraid I might vomit. Cold sweat beaded on my brow as I put my hand to my stomach.

How was it possible that Mary had still been killed at Miller’s Court?

Unless ... I couldn’t even accept the thought that came to my mind. Had Miles brought her back to London? Had he been working with Jack the Ripper all along?

Was he Jack? That night on Berner Street, when he dropped us off in the rain, he could have parked the carriage and then met Elizabeth Stride to murder her. That would explain how he knew about the copper’s beat and why he was so familiar with Whitechapel.

But Austen assured me that he trusted Miles.

I stopped at the top of the stairs and leaned against the railing for support as possibilities assailed me.

If it wasn’t Miles, did that mean that Mary had gone back to look for Joseph?

“Kathryn?” Sir Rothschild appeared, concern on his face. “What’s wrong?”

How would I explain everything to him? I couldn’t.

He gently took me by the elbow and led me into the nearest room, which happened to be the gallery where Austen’s paintings were on display.

Thankfully, we were alone. But my heart was hammering so fast, I thought I might faint.

“What’s the trouble?” Sir Rothschild asked me, concern in his face and voice. “You look as if someone has died.” His eyes opened wide. “It isn’t your father, is it?”

I shook my head, knowing I needed to pull myself together. I took a few deep breaths and then said, “Who was the last victim of Jack the Ripper?”

He frowned as he studied me. “Mary Jane Kelly, of course.”

“And when did she die?”

“November 9, 1888.”

I pressed my hand to my mouth. “It can’t be. I thought I changed everything.”

Sir Rothschild continued to study me, and his thoughts were hard to read behind his troubled gaze. Did he think I had lost my mind?

“Perhaps you should go home, Miss Voland,” he said and then put his hand on my middle back. “I’ll see you there myself. I think the strain of your father’s disappearance has been too much.”

I shook my head, knowing it was more than Papa’s disappearance. Perhaps it would be best if I went home to be with Mama. To figure out where I had gone wrong.

And I knew who I would ask as soon as I could get away.

I would go to 12 Wilton Crescent and confront Austen, no matter how old or feeble he might be.

I needed answers.

Sir Rothschild said very little as he drove me home to Berkeley Square. But what was there to say? My mind was racing with everything I would tell Mama—and then everything I would ask Austen. Surely, he wouldn’t be surprised to see me after I learned that my sister had died after all.

Was that why he wouldn’t speak to me that day I first learned about the paintings, outside his home? Because he knew Mary still died?

Just thinking about Mary made me shudder with unshed tears as I bit my lower lip, trying to hold myself together until Sir Rothschild left.

“Let me walk you in,” he said as he pulled to a stop and turned off the engine of his vehicle. “I’d like to speak to your mother.”

I didn’t protest as he opened the automobile door for me and put his hand on the middle of my back again as he walked me to the front door. I didn’t even bother to take off my hat or jacket as I walked up the stairs, Sir Rothschild close behind, and found Mama in the parlor.

She turned and rose from her chair. “Sir Rothschild, what a nice surprise.” But then her gaze landed on me, and her welcoming face turned to concern. “What’s wrong, Kathryn?”

I couldn’t pretend to be okay when I wasn’t. Yet, I couldn’t unleash my pain and confusion until Sir Rothschild left.

When I turned to thank him for bringing me home, I paused.

There was something different about his demeanor as he slowly closed the door behind us and then faced Mama and me.

“I think you both need to take a seat,” he said, his voice lowering.

I frowned, and when I made no move to sit down, he took a step closer to me and this time pushed me toward the couch.

My fear and uncertainty about Mary turned to discomfort concerning Sir Rothschild and his strange behavior.

I joined Mama, and we both took a seat on the couch. She grasped my hand in hers as she looked up at Sir Rothschild.

“What is this about?” she asked him.

He was wearing his trench coat, but he took off his bowler hat and set it on a nearby table. His movements were slow and decisive.

When he faced us again, he crossed his arms and stared at me. “I believe you and I can help each other, Miss Voland—or should I call you Miss Kelly? Which do you prefer?”

My lips parted as I blinked. “What—”

“We don’t have time to pretend.” He took a step closer and narrowed his eyes. “When I first saw that painting by Austen Baird, it looked so much like you, I had to do a little research. And what I found surprised me—but not entirely. I learned that Austen’s childhood friend and neighbor, the woman he painted in the picture, was named Kathryn Kelly, and it didn’t take me long to see you with my own eyes in 1888. I just had to wait outside 11 Wilton Crescent for an afternoon.”

“In 1888?” I asked, leaning forward as I stared at him.

“I’m a time-crosser, as well, Kathryn,” he said. “My other time is 1888.”

Mama’s hand tightened around mine, and before I could ask another question, she said, “But you’re in your thirties—at least. How do you still occupy two times?”

He frowned, as if he didn’t understand her meaning. “I have until my thirty-fifth birthday to choose my path,” Sir Rothschild said. “And that date is coming up here very quickly.”

“Thirty-five years?” Mama looked truly dumbfounded. “Where is your mark?”

“On my lower back,” he said, as if it hardly mattered.

Mama turned to me. “There are other time-crossers out there with different rules. I’ve never heard of one on the lower back or someone with thirty-five years.”

“You don’t have thirty-five years?” Sir Rothschild asked, suddenly more curious than he’d been a moment before.

“I only have twenty-five years,” I told him and lifted the hair on the back of my head. “My mark is here. Mama’s grandmother had her mark on her chest, and she only had twenty-one years.”

Sir Rothschild was quiet for a moment, but then he shook his head. “None of that matters right now. I found out who you were in 1888, and I realized that you could help me. But it occurred to me that you didn’t know what was going to happen to your sister.”

“To Mary, you mean?” I asked.

He nodded. “That’s why I invited you to create an exhibit about Jack the Ripper and asked you to come to London. I needed you to realize who your family is in 1888.” He narrowed his eyes again. “I’ve been waiting for today, for this very moment. Because I believe that we both have something the other might want.”

I leaned back on the couch, my shoulder brushing Mama’s as I waited. What might I have that he wanted? And what did he have that I wanted?

“I’ve been watching you,” he said. “That day when we were in the basement at New Scotland Yard, the moment you saw your sister’s name for the first time.”

I had been shocked and horrified. But he’d known all along who I was and who Mary was to me. A shiver ran up my spine, just thinking about it.

“I tried to get her away from Miller’s Court, but nothing changed. She still died.”

“What?” Mama turned to me, her face blanching. “What do you mean?”

“Mary still died,” I told her as I shook my head. “I don’t know how—or why.”

“Maybe you can’t change history,” Mama said. “Maybe God doesn’t allow it.”

“But—” I swallowed. “I thought we had free will. That we could choose to change things, even if we weren’t supposed to.”

“Stop talking!” Sir Rothschild roared. “I don’t care about Mary. It was your father’s fault that she died. Now I need to focus on you and what I need.”

I jumped at his sudden anger, perplexed at the change in his demeanor. “My father’s fault?” I frowned. “What do you mean?”

“He wouldn’t tell me where the Book is! None of them would!” he yelled, clearly frustrated.

Mama squeezed my hand tight as we stared at him.

“That’s what this has all been about.” Spittle formed in the corners of his mouth as he raged. “I should have known your father and the others wouldn’t give in.”

“The Book?” I asked, almost too afraid.

“The Book your father, Sir Bernard Kelly, brought home from Jerusalem.” He paced as he rubbed his whiskered jaw. “I need it. I need to know where it is. None of the other families would cave with threats, and I had to take their women out, one by one. But Sir Charles Warren gathered the pieces of the Book together right after the Double Event when he realized what was happening, before I could get to them, and now it’s whole again, hidden away.”

Realization dawned, and my heart felt like it stopped. “You’re Jack the Ripper.”

The look that came over his face made my blood run cold. His gaze was so calculated, so cool, it was the most frightening thing I’d ever seen.

“In another time and place,” he said. “But I knew Sir Bernard Kelly wouldn’t betray his Brotherhood, even though I threatened to take Mary’s life.” He paused as he stared at me. “He thought he’d hidden her, though it didn’t take much work to find her. But I thwarted his plans, because I still have you. A time-crosser who has a lot more to lose than the rest of them.” He walked toward me and bent down until his face was mere inches from mine. “I have someone very important to you in a warehouse nearby.”

“Papa?” I asked, my breath catching in my throat.

“Your dear papa wasn’t as easy to capture as I had hoped, but the gestapo are just as eager as Hitler to put an end to the Freemasons, so they were told to do whatever I asked of them. And they did.”

“Put an end to the Freemasons?” Mama asked, her voice small as she stared at the monster in front of us.

“Hitler knows that the Freemasons support democracy,” Sir Rothschild said, “and they are one of the most powerful organizations on the earth. To allow Fascism to rule, we must first destroy the Freemasons. He has started to dismantle their lodges in Germany, Austria, and now Czechoslovakia. But if we have the Book, even a portion of it, we will have enough ammunition to take all of them down. And then Hitler can make his next move.”

“You’re a Fascist?” I asked him, though I shouldn’t be surprised, given his conversations at Cliveden House. “And all of this, even the murders in 1888, were all about taking the Freemasons down for Hitler.”

He smiled, pleased with himself, but narrowed his eyes. “I’m giving you just forty-eight hours to locate the Book, Miss Voland. I don’t care how you do it. I want it in my hands two days from now. And if you do not present it to me, you will never see your papa again.”

I started to rise off the couch, to lash out at him, but Mama held me back.

How had I worked side by side with Jack the Ripper for months and not known?

When Sir Rothschild stopped at the door, he turned and said, “And don’t try to get the police involved. I have an impeccable record, and I have alibis. Besides that, I have the British Union of Fascists with over fifty-thousand members on my side, not to mention the keen and eager ear of Hermann Goring, the commander in chief of the Luftwaffe, and the second in command in Germany. You do not want to cross any of us.” He smiled, though it was cold and lifeless. “Get me the Book in forty-eight hours, or I will not hesitate to kill your papa.”

And with that, Sir Rothschild walked out of the parlor and disappeared.

Mama turned to me, her ashen face filled with horror. “He has Luc,” she said.

I rose, all my senses firing as I tried to grapple with everything Sir Rothschild had just told us. He was Jack the Ripper! I couldn’t remember ever seeing him in 1888, but had he recognized Austen and me on Berner Street? Thinking back, I tried to remember the man I had seen. It had been so dark, but it could very well have been Bryant Rothschild. They were the same height and the same build.

“How will I learn where they are keeping the Book if I don’t wake up in 1888 tomorrow?” I asked Mama.

“I don’t know.” She shook her head, her face filled with panic.

“What if I do wake up there tomorrow? I didn’t change history, despite trying. I can’t save Mary—” My voice caught as grief choked me, but I had to stay strong for Mama. “But I can still save Papa.”

“You knowingly changed history, Kathryn. My grandmother Libby tried to do the same thing, and even though she failed, she still lost her 1774 path.”

I frowned as I stared at my mama. “You never told me that.”

She lifted her shoulders. “My grandfather Henry was a time-crosser, and he knew his destiny. Libby tried to stop him, but he wouldn’t be stopped, because he knew he had to die as a spy in the American Revolution. That’s why she couldn’t change history. I didn’t think it would happen to you, too. Mary didn’t know her fate, not like Henry did.”

“I have to get the Book,” I said as I paced, worrying my bottom lip. My heart was torn in half, thinking about Austen and Mary, but I couldn’t dwell on my grief right now. I needed all my energy to find a way to get Papa back.

Yet I still had questions. How did Mary get back to Miller’s Court? Was Miles loyal to Sir Rothschild? And what was Sir Rothschild’s real name in 1888?

More importantly, how had history not changed when we’d moved Mary far away from the scene of the crime?

“I need to speak to Austen,” I said as I came to a stop.

“How? You won’t go back to 1888, Kathryn.”

“No. I need to speak to the Austen of 1938. Right now.”

I began to move toward the door, but she reached out to try and stop me. “Don’t go. You can make things so much worse.”

“I can’t sit here and worry, Mama. I need to do something.”

I didn’t let her stop me, but rushed out of the house and ran from Berkeley Square to Wilton Crescent. I was out of breath when I arrived there fifteen minutes later, and my heart felt like it might burst inside my chest, but I ran right up to the door and rang the bell, then pounded on it with all my might.

I waited as I tried to catch my breath.

But no one answered my knock. I tried again and again, and even shook the doorknob, trying to get in, but nothing.

There was no one at home.

Surely, Austen would know I had questions. He saw me in 1938 and knew I was in London. My sister still died. He’d tried to help me save her. Where was he now when he could tell me what happened?

Unless he had died, as I feared.

I backed away from his house, never feeling more defeated or heartbroken in my life.

I had failed to save Mary, Austen might have died when he tried to help us, and Papa’s life was in danger. I wanted to give in to my fear and grief, but I couldn’t. I still needed to save Papa. And if no one would help me, I would do it myself.