Page 3 of Every Hour until Then (Timeless #5)

3

August 31, 1888 London, England

The next morning, I woke up in my bedchamber at 11 Wilton Crescent, near the opposite end of Green Park and Lancaster House. It was the only home I’d known in this path, though it was much changed since Mary had left.

“Good morning, Miss Kathryn.” My lady’s maid, Lucy Duffy, moved aside the heavy drapes to allow the sun to fill my room with light. “I’ve laid out your dark blue taffeta dress for today’s activities. Your mother says you’re to be home early to change for the ball tonight.”

I groaned, already exhausted at the prospect of another ball.

At the age of twenty-three, I was well-past my debut and quickly approaching spinsterhood—but my mother in 1888 was as fiercely determined to see me married as I was to stay single. I couldn’t and wouldn’t jeopardize my life by getting married in this path because I didn’t plan to stay. My career at the Smithsonian in 1938 had been my greatest dream since I was a child, and I loved my work. And, even though I was passionate about history, I couldn’t deny that I enjoyed the modern conveniences of the twentieth century even more. Not to mention all the freedoms I had and my connection to my time-crossing mama, Grace. I didn’t want any complications, like a husband in 1888, to hinder my plans.

“Your father is at breakfast,” Duffy continued, apparently given a list to share with me this morning, “but he’s due at the hospital soon and will have the carriage returned to take you to Toynbee Hall.”

I had no intention of joining Father for breakfast. Even though ten months had passed since the night Mary left, I still struggled to be in the same room as him without feeling angry. I never brought up Mary’s name again, though she was often on my mind. I couldn’t understand how a father could turn his back on his daughter. And it was the fear that he would do the same to me that kept me silent.

“Thank you,” I said as I hugged my pillow under my head, not ready to face the day. I’d been going to Toynbee Hall for months, and I hadn’t found my sister, but I wasn’t going to give up. Especially now, with the news of Jack the Ripper at work. The thought that he was alive and starting his reign of terror in the very city where I lived made a shiver run up my spine.

“There was a terrible murder in Whitechapel last night,” Duffy said as she finished opening the drapes, as if she’d read my mind. Her Yorkshire accent deepened as her voice filled with concern. “A dreadful business. They say a woman was killed in a most gruesome manner.”

“Do they know her name?” I asked, sitting up, my heart pounding.

“It hasn’t been released yet. The murder happened in the wee hours of the morning near a place called Buck’s Row. They say she was in her mid-forties.”

Relief washed over me at the age of the victim, though my heart still hurt for her. Mary’s twentieth birthday would be next month.

As I stepped out of bed, all I could think about was learning the names of the victims. Murders happened in Whitechapel all the time, but yesterday I had discovered by talking to Sir Rothschild that the Ripper victims would draw attention because of the disturbing manner in which the murderer mutilated the bodies.

And the fact that he committed the crimes moments before the bodies were found, yet no one ever caught him.

I’d asked Mama and Papa if they knew anything about the case last night at supper in 1938, but neither one knew any more than I did. I’d have to wait until I went to the Metropolitan Police Crime Museum with Sir Rothschild to see the names. I told myself I had nothing to worry about, since thousands of people lived in Whitechapel and the odds of my sister being in danger were slim. But I wouldn’t be at peace until I knew for certain.

“There’s a rumor going around downstairs.” Duffy interrupted my thoughts as she went to my dressing table to set out the items I would need for my morning toilette.

“You know I don’t like gossip.”

“You’ll like this bit o’ news.” She grinned. “The stableboy is sparking with the scullery maid next door.”

“You’ve mentioned that before.”

“That’s not the news,” Duffy said, her green eyes wide with excitement. “The scullery maid told the stableboy that Mr. Baird has finally come home.”

I paused as I stretched my arms above my head. “Austen is home?”

“Aye, he came home late last night.”

Austen was home—was probably just waking up on the other side of the very wall that connected our townhomes. When we were young and had discovered that our bedrooms shared a wall, it was the happiest day of my life. Yet that wall had come to represent a vast divide fourteen years ago—one that I hadn’t been able to cross no matter how much I had tried or willed it to happen.

“Some say he was in India,” Duffy continued as she pulled items out of my dressing table drawers. “Others say Russia or Japan. But I think he went to America to find a wealthy wife.”

“Austen?” I scoffed. “He doesn’t need a wealthy wife—and least of all an American.”

“He’s a fine catch, if I do say so myself.” Her cheeks colored, and she looked down at my dressing table with embarrassment.

My own cheeks felt warm as I thought about Austen, not surprised that my maid was attracted to him. “I’d like to get dressed as quickly as possible. I’m expected at Toynbee Hall by ten.”

“Yes, miss.”

And if I wanted to pay a call to my enigmatic neighbor before I left, I needed to hurry. He’d probably turn me away, as he’d done so many times before, but I had to try, one more time.

Duffy helped me into the beautiful taffeta gown with the generous bustle and tight bodice, which accentuated all my curves. The corset was uncomfortable, but it was more flattering than the dresses I wore in 1938. She styled my dark red hair into a becoming updo and handed me a pair of gold teardrop earrings, which dangled just below my earlobes.

“What do you think?” she asked.

I admired my reflection, pleased with my appearance. I had inherited my mama’s brown eyes from 1938 and my thick, red hair from my mother in 1888. Mama said my dimples were from her mother, Maggie. My fierce determination was from my father, Sir Bernard Kelly. And from my papa, Lucas Voland, I’d inherited my fearlessness. I was a combination of both sets of parents, creating a unique me. It was a strange existence, but Mama had made it feel normal. Stranger still, my two bodies were identical, but they didn’t affect each other. If I became sick or injured in 1888, I didn’t suffer the same maladies in 1938. I’d accepted that I was different a long time ago and didn’t waste a minute worrying about it. There were more important things to do than fret about something I couldn’t change.

I left Duffy and went down the back stairs and into the courtyard where a secret passageway between the hedges connected our backyard to Austen’s. We’d used the passageway countless times as children, and I suspected that our stableboy used it now to court Austen’s scullery maid.

It was already stiflingly hot as I passed through our courtyard, while memories of Austen filled my mind and heart. He was two years older than me, but he and I had been the best of friends for as long as I could remember. That was, until the day we’d heard the news that had changed our lives forever—the day Austen learned his parents had died while on holiday with my parents.

It had been a crushing blow to Austen, who had lost his grandparents and his little brother in the years leading up to his parents’ death.

After that day, I had only seen Austen at the funeral, and then he’d been sent to Eton, where he’d lived as he attended school. His aunt had moved into his house, coming all the way from America, and when Austen visited home for holidays, he was cold. Distant. Aloof.

As I stepped through the passageway and entered his garden, I wasn’t sure why I thought things would be different this time, but my perpetual hope wouldn’t die. Papa often told me I was the most optimistic person he knew—but it wasn’t always optimism that made me push ahead. It was my unwavering belief that I could fix whatever had been broken. And, in this case, it was Austen’s heart. I wanted his happiness—craved it—because there was an ache, deep within me, since I’d lost it.

I didn’t care that the staff would whisper about me sneaking through the Bairds’ garden early in the morning as I approached the back door. Many of them had known me my whole life, and I had ceased to surprise them.

Though I somehow continued to shock my mother.

After I knocked, the door was opened and one of the maids allowed me to enter the house.

“Is Mr. Baird at home?” I asked her.

“Aye, miss, he’s in the morning room, eating his breakfast.”

“Thank you,” I said as I bypassed her in the back hall and made my way through the house.

It was identical to ours, only in reverse. All the townhouses on Wilton Crescent had the same floor plans, creating a curved row of simple white facades and ornate interiors.

I hadn’t seen Austen in over a year and had been waiting eagerly for this day. I didn’t give myself time to have second thoughts. Instead, I entered the morning room as if I lived in his home and was simply coming down for breakfast.

“Good morning,” I said as I went to the sideboard and lifted a lid to inspect the dishes that had been laid by the staff. “The sausage smells divine.”

Austen sighed, and I smiled to myself. He pretended I annoyed him, but I knew the truth. I was still one of his favorite people. I lowered the lid and turned around to greet my old friend.

He sat at the head of the table, a newspaper in hand as his plate of food sat untouched before him. His blue-eyed gaze met mine over the top of the newspaper. I was both elated and sad to see his dear face. Elated because for a moment, I saw his pleasure at my arrival—and then sad because it was quickly replaced with the grief he’d carried for the past fourteen years—a grief that seemed tied to me.

“Hello, Austen.”

He studied me as if looking for an ulterior motive for my visit. “Good morning.”

I briefly glanced at his butler, Brinley, before saying, “May we have a moment of privacy?”

“And risk your reputation?” Austen asked with a raised eyebrow.

I lowered my chin and gave him a look. “When have I ever been worried about my reputation?”

Brinley’s smile was quick, but I saw it nonetheless. He’d always been one of my favorites.

Austen motioned for him to leave.

I took a seat at the table, offering Austen another smile, knowing that—at one point—he’d found my dimples charming. “I’ve missed you,” I said as I laid my hand on his arm.

His muscles tensed beneath my touch, and he pulled away, frowning. “What do you want, Kathryn?”

Disappointment warmed my cheeks as I laid my hands in my lap, wishing that whatever had come between us would have been gone by now. One thing I’d always loved about our relationship was that there were no pretenses. But sometimes, when he was blunt, I would prefer some formality. “You’ve been away a year.” I tried not to sound hurt. “I came to see how you’ve been. Aren’t you curious about me?”

He studied me, and for a heartbeat, there was vulnerability behind his eyes. He was wearing his dark hair a bit long, the ends curling slightly as they brushed against his collar. And he had a beard, which made him look much older than his twenty-five years. Gone was the joyful little boy who used to entertain me with stories about gallant knights, fair maidens, and sprawling castles.

“I have been curious about your other path,” he said. “Are you still planning to choose it in two years?”

The question surprised me, and it was my turn to frown. I’d told Austen about my other life when we were children. He hadn’t believed me at first, so I had researched and discovered that there would be a mining accident in Cheshire on April 14, 1874, and fifty-four people would be killed. After it happened, he was astonished—and then he had believed me. He was the only person in this path that I had told, and the only person I could talk to about it.

But then his parents had died, and I’d lost my confidant and best friend.

I could see that my answer was important to him. “That’s what you want to know?”

“It’s a simple question, Kathryn.”

It was a simple question, and I knew the answer, but part of me didn’t want to tell him, and I wasn’t sure why.

“You are leaving,” he said with little emotion.

“Why do you care?” I asked, the pain of his rejection for the past fourteen years building up inside me. “You disappear for months on end, and I have no idea where you’ve gone. I don’t demand that you explain yourself. Why must I?”

He didn’t respond.

“Why does it matter if I leave this path?” I asked, not ready to back down.

He lifted his gaze, and I saw the pain he tried so hard to hide. “I guess it doesn’t matter.”

All my bluster faded at the look in his eyes.

We were both silent for a moment, and then he asked, “Why have you really come?”

I was trembling, but I needed to pull myself together to tell him about my sister. All that I cared about right now was Mary’s safety. “Father turned Mary out of our home ten months ago, and the last I heard she was living in Whitechapel.”

Austen’s reaction was as I expected. Confusion and shock filled his face. “What? Why?”

“I don’t know. Father refuses to speak her name, and I wouldn’t even know that she was in Whitechapel if she hadn’t sent me a brief letter.”

“Did she tell you anything helpful?”

“Just that I wasn’t to worry. She was renting a room and had work as a charwoman. That was all. But of course I’m worried.”

“Your sister—” He paused, at a loss for words. “She’s educated and from one of the best families in London. At the very least, she could have taken a job as a governess or companion. What would possess your father to turn her out on the street?”

“I don’t know,” I said, feeling as confused as him. Mary had been enjoying her second season and my mother had been close to making a match for her. A match that Mary had desired. She’d had a brilliant future ahead of her.

“What are other people saying?” he asked. “Surely, people are concerned about her.”

I pressed my lips together as my anger continued to rise. “People assume Mary got into trouble—with a man—and that she left with him. And my parents haven’t corrected the rumors. Mary’s life is over, as she knew it, and people are taking pity on my poor parents, as if they are suffering in some way. Even if she wanted to come home, she couldn’t. No one would accept her.”

“Then perhaps it’s best if she doesn’t.”

“She can’t stay in Whitechapel. I’ve been volunteering at Toynbee Hall for the past few months, asking everyone who visits if they know her, but no one has heard of her. I would go into the streets to look, but it’s far too dangerous and there are tens of thousands of people who live there. It feels impossible.”

“What does this have to do with me?” he asked.

“I don’t know how to find Mary.”

“And you think I do?”

“I can’t walk the streets of Whitechapel alone. If I had your help—”

“No.” He lifted his newspaper, indicating that our conversation was over.

“Austen, she’s my sister—your friend.”

“I don’t have friends.”

I stood, wanting to shake him. Instead I growled, “Why do you have to be so difficult?”

“It’s the one pleasure I have in life.”

I clenched my hands. “You are maddening.”

He looked back at me, his gaze earnest. “Then why do you come here?”

“Because—” I released my fists and forced myself to calm down. I took a deep breath and leveled him with a look that I hoped would convey the depth of my worry. “I learned that there will be several horrific murders in Whitechapel over the next two months, and I’m afraid Mary might be in danger.”

He lowered his newspaper. “You heard this in your other life?”

I nodded, speaking quietly in case Brinley was listening. “I was asked to be a guest curator for the London Museum in 1938, and I will be given access to the records at the Crime Museum. It’s a case that hasn’t been solved by 1938—and the first murder just occurred this morning.”

“What could I possibly do to help?”

“Come with me to Whitechap—”

“No.”

“Austen, please. Mary needs me.”

“It’s none of my business.” This time when he lifted the news paper, he blocked me from his vision. “Brinley,” Austen called to his butler, “Miss Kelly is leaving.”

“I’ll be back,” I told him.

“I’m sure you will.”

Brinley appeared from the servant’s entrance and walked across the room to the main door. He opened it and stood back, waiting for me.

I didn’t bother to say good-bye as I strode toward the door.

“And see that the staff are instructed to refuse entrance to Miss Kelly,” Austen said, “so this doesn’t happen again. Put a guard at the door, if you must.”

I huffed and held my head high but turned just in time to see Austen watching me leave over the top of his newspaper.

Two hours later, I found myself at Toynbee Hall, still shaken from my encounter with Austen. But I wasn’t deterred. I would do whatever I could to convince him to help me find Mary.

Toynbee Hall was the first settlement house in the world, and it was only four years old. It was an ambitious experiment led by reformers and educators. The three-story, red-brick building was as out of place in Whitechapel as the Oxford and Cambridge students who lived and worked there. They came to lecture and teach the impoverished inhabitants about literature, philosophy, art, science, and more. They also taught practical skills like cooking, sewing, and blacksmithing. I had started a history club soon after Mary left so I could visit Toynbee Hall to ask about her.

Mother allowed it because she was a patron of the arts and saw my work as charity.

“Good morning, Miss Kelly,” Mrs. Barnett, one of the founders of Toynbee Hall said as I entered the drawing room where I held my weekly history club meetings. The group size shifted each week, with people coming and going as they were able. There were children as young as ten and adults as old as eighty who came to hear my lectures and discuss what they learned. We’d been focusing on the Elizabethan era for the past month, and I’d been teaching them about Queen Elizabeth’s accession to the throne—the very history that Austen had taught me when we were children. The stories that had awakened my love for history.

“Good morning,” I said as I set my satchel on the closest table. I’d brought books with colorful pictures to show the group.

Mrs. Barnett taught a sewing class before mine, and she was gathering her supplies as her students trickled out of the room and mine came in. The drawing room was spacious with large windows, allowing in plenty of light. “There’s been quite a ruckus around here this morning,” she said, shaking her head with sadness. “All anyone can talk about is the murder on Buck’s Row. ’Tis the second murder this month.”

My senses were immediately heightened. The first murder she spoke of was that of Martha Tabram on August 7th. She had been found in the stairwell at George Yard, a building just behind Toynbee Hall. But was her murder linked to the others? If it was, wouldn’t Sir Rothschild have told me? “I heard the news about Buck’s Row. Does anyone know the name of the victim?”

“There have been whispers about her identity, though the police are waiting on an official identification from those who knew her. It was Mary Ann Nichols, but her friends called her Polly.”

I recognized the name. “She’s been here before.”

“Aye, she has. I saw her just last week when we were handing out clothing to the poor,” Mrs. Barnett said. “She took a liking to a secondhand black bonnet, and I saw that she got it. She was so proud to wear it.”

“Are you talking about Polly?” a woman asked as she entered the drawing room. She was a middle-aged woman with a missing bottom tooth and a careworn face. She had told me her name was Mrs. Shaw, and though she was impoverished, she was married and living in a respectable home. She came to our meetings to “better” herself, she’d told me.

Though she was probably there to learn the latest gossip, too.

“Yes,” I said. “Did you know her?”

“ I didn’t know her.” Mrs. Shaw spat her words. “She was a prostitute. I don’t associate with those women.”

Mrs. Barnett lowered her gaze, clearly uncomfortable with the conversation.

“They say she was last seen around 2:30 in the morning, heading toward Whitechapel Road,” Mrs. Shaw continued, “wearing a jolly new bonnet.”

Mrs. Barnett’s face turned pale, and she took a seat on the closest chair. “Oh, good heavens.”

I went to her and put my hand on her shoulder.

“The bonnet,” Mrs. Barnett said, looking up at me.

“She was found around 3:30,” Mrs. Shaw continued, apparently unaware of Mrs. Barnett’s unease. “Her throat was cut, which accounts for the lack of a scream to alert those nearby.” The woman nodded as if she knew about such things. “But no one saw or heard a thing—isn’t that peculiar? They’re questioning everyone in the vicinity. There are crowds around Buck’s Row even now. It’s all anyone can talk about. I went there to have a look-see myself.”

“I’d prefer if we didn’t discuss it here,” Mrs. Barnett said. “We’ll let the police do their work, shall we?” She rose from her chair and smoothed her skirt. “Please refrain from discussing the situation with your club members, Miss Kelly, at least while in Toynbee Hall. It’s too distressing.”

“Of course.” I nodded as Mrs. Barnett gathered the rest of her things and left the drawing room.

Three other ladies had entered, all similar to Mrs. Shaw in age and living arrangements.

“She was married,” whispered one of the other ladies, “but she’d left her husband and five children several years ago and ended up in Whitechapel.”

“She was arrested for drunkenness, prostitution, and disorderly conduct many times,” added another with disdain, “and was in and out of the workhouse. She couldn’t hold a job because of her need for the drink.”

“That’s why she sold herself,” said the third with pity. “Such a sad state of affairs, that.”

“Ladies,” I said as I lightly clapped my hands, mindful of Mrs. Barnett’s wishes. “Let us leave the unpleasant conversation outside and gather around for our discussion of Queen Elizabeth and the plague of 1563.”

“And that’s not unpleasant?” Mrs. Shaw asked with a cackle.

The other ladies joined in the laughter, and for a moment, the mood lightened.

It wasn’t easy to focus on our history lesson that day. All I could do was wait for tomorrow to learn the names of the victims at the Metropolitan Police Crime Museum and pray that Mary was not one of them.