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

5

London, England September 1, 1888

It was past ten when I woke up the next morning in my room at 11 Wilton Crescent. My physical body slept while my consciousness was away. If I fell asleep and then woke again before midnight, I would wake up in the same time and space, but if I slept until after midnight, I woke up in my other path. If I stayed awake past midnight, I would remain in this timeline until I fell asleep. On my twenty-fifth birthday, I would stay awake past midnight in whatever time I wanted to keep, and I would forfeit the other path.

That is, unless I knowingly changed history here in 1888. Then I would stay in my other path forever.

I climbed out of bed and rang for Duffy. I had no time to lose today. I needed to get to 13 Miller’s Court as soon as possible. I couldn’t ask for the family carriage, since the driver would tell my parents. Mother didn’t like it when I left home without a chaperone, though she usually spent most of the day in bed. The only way she’d know was if one of the staff told her.

Duffy soon arrived and helped me into a simple green skirt and matching green jacket with a white blouse. It was one of the plainest outfits I owned, but it complimented my hair beautifully. Austen had once told me he liked a green dress I wore when I was younger, and the praise had stayed with me ever since. I thought about it every time I wore a similar color.

Within the hour, I passed through the hedge again, this time armed with more knowledge.

“Good morning,” I said to the same maid who had greeted me the day before. “Is Mr. Baird at home?”

“Yes, miss.” She quickly glanced behind her, and then said, “but Brinley has told us to alert him if you come again.”

“She’s welcome to come in.” Mrs. Leslie, the housekeeper, appeared from the back stairs. I’d known her most of my life, and like Brinley, she had always been very kind to me. She longed for Austen’s happiness as much as I did.

“Thank you,” I said as the maid stepped back and held the door open for me.

“How are you, Miss Kathryn?” Mrs. Leslie asked as she smiled.

“I’m doing well,” I told her, though it wasn’t quite the truth. I was anxious about Mary. “Can you tell me where to find Mr. Baird?”

“He’s in his study,” she said, “but I’d knock before entering. He’s been working all morning.”

I nodded at her instruction and then made my way up the back stairway and toward the study on the second floor. I hadn’t been in the study since Austen’s parents had died. It had once belonged to Austen’s father, and I’d spent many happy hours in there with Austen as a child, looking over the history books that he knew were my favorites. For years, I’d been trying to find a copy of the book about Queen Elizabeth that had so enthralled me, but I had to settle for the one I brought to Toynbee Hall yesterday.

When I reached the door, I took a deep breath and then knocked.

“Give me a moment,” Austen said, though the sound was muffled.

He had inherited his family’s properties and had been educated at Eton and then Oxford, but I wasn’t sure what occupied his time now. He had traveled quite a bit since graduating from university, often leaving for months—or a year—at a time. But when he was in London, he stayed at home and didn’t move about in society. I never saw him at balls or other social events and wasn’t even sure if he had a club.

What did he do with himself all day?

The door opened, and Austen stood before me in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, his jacket discarded. His hair was disheveled, and his beard needed a trim.

And he was surprised to see me. I glimpsed pleasure in his eyes, but then he frowned and said, “I thought I told you not to return.”

“And I told you I’d be back.”

He closed the door again, murmuring, “Give me a second.”

I waited, and when he returned, he had on his jacket and his hair looked as if he’d run his hands through it. I tried to peek into the room, but he closed the door firmly.

“What do you do with all your time?”

He frowned. “Is that what you came to ask me?”

“No. But I’m curious. Do you work?”

“It really doesn’t concern you.”

I sighed, not wanting to fight with him when I had a more important topic to discuss. “I learned something yesterday, when I was in 1938, and I was hoping to discuss it privately with you.”

“Does this have to do with your sister?”

“Yes.”

“I told you that I can’t get involved.”

“Austen.” I laid my hand on his forearm. He tensed, trying to pull away from me again, but I wouldn’t let him. “Her name is listed as the last victim of the Whitechapel murders. She’ll be murdered on November 9th—that is, if she is the same Mary Jane Kelly listed in the files.”

He studied me for a moment and then withdrew his arm, motioning to the drawing room across the hallway.

“Can’t we go into the study?” I asked him. “The drawing room isn’t as private.”

He strode across the hall and entered the drawing room without answering.

I stood for a moment, wondering what he had in the study that he didn’t want me to see.

But I wouldn’t quarrel with him. He was willing to hear me out, and that was more than he’d offered yesterday.

When I entered the drawing room, I found him standing near the cold fireplace, his arms crossed, waiting.

I missed Austen’s smile. I missed the way he used to playfully tease me and bring me gifts and sit with me for hours, talking about nothing and everything.

Now, he scowled and acted like I was an inconvenience.

The drawing room was decorated much differently than my own. Mother kept the furnishings in ours up-to-date and changed the wall color whenever she felt the need. Austen’s drawing room looked exactly as it had fourteen years ago when his parents died. The entire house was like a time capsule.

“Should we take a seat?” I asked him.

“Just tell me what you want so I can refuse you and then get on with my day.”

“Hiding in your study? Pretending the rest of the world doesn’t exist?”

“Did you come here to badger me in my own home?”

“Where else can I badger you?”

“Tell me what you want.”

“It’s not what I want—it’s what I need. I need to know if my sister is the woman who will be killed on November 9th. And the only way I can do that is if I go to 13 Miller’s Court to see if she’s living there.”

“And if she is?”

“I’ll find a way to get her out of there.”

“You’ll change history and forfeit your time here even sooner.” There was something in the tone of his voice that I hadn’t heard before, or perhaps I hadn’t wanted to hear.

I stared at him, surprised. “Are you angry with me for choosing my other path?”

“What?”

It all returned to me, like a movie playing across a flickering screen in my mind’s eye. The day before we’d learned about his parents’ death was the day I had told Austen that I had to make a choice when I turned twenty-five—and I’d told him I was choosing my other path. Even then, I’d recognized that all my hopes and dreams were centered on that life. I suddenly recalled how he’d left me in the garden, confused and angry at my words. I planned to go to him, to try to make him understand. But then, we’d heard about his parents the next day and that had overshadowed our previous conversation.

I’d always assumed his anger had to do with his parents’ death.

Now I wasn’t so sure.

“The day before we learned about your parents,” I said, slowly, trying to remember all the details as I studied him. “I told you that I wasn’t staying here, and you got upset.”

He stared at me but didn’t respond.

“Is that why you’ve been pushing me away all these years, Austen? I thought it was simply because of your grief. Now I’m not so sure.”

“You didn’t even give me a chance.”

My lips parted. “What?”

He ran his hand through his hair and walked to the window. “You made up your mind that you were choosing the other path, and you rejected me and everything about this life.”

“Rejected you ?” I was at a loss for words. “ You’ve been rejecting me!”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” he said, not looking at me. “I was a foolish child who thought the world was a better place. I quickly learned that anything I loved would be taken from me, so it was easier not to care.”

I walked to him, uncertain. “Fourteen years ago, I knew it mattered to you. But since then, you’ve done a good job showing me it didn’t.”

He turned to me then, and I saw the truth in his eyes. It mattered far more than I’d ever realized—far more than maybe he even wanted to acknowledge.

I took a step back, shocked that I’d never noticed it before.

“Of course it matters, Kathryn.” He looked out the window again. “Why do you think I spend so much time away from here? I can’t stand to be this close to you and not—” He took a deep breath. “I thought that this time, things might be different. But you’re still set on leaving and I don’t want to play the fool anymore.”

“The fool?” I shook my head. “What do you mean?”

He finally looked at me. “You really can’t see it, can you?”

I wanted desperately to understand what he meant. Austen was my friend. Had always been my friend.

Had he wanted more?

“I’ll call for my carriage,” he growled as he walked past me to the door. “Meet me downstairs.”

I blinked several times—trying to process his shifting moods and what he was trying to tell me. “You’ll take me to Miller’s Court?”

“Against my better judgment.”

And then he was gone.

I sat next to Austen twenty minutes later in his carriage. I’d gone home to grab my bonnet and reticule, and then I’d met him outside when the carriage had been pulled around to the front of his townhouse.

The coachman had helped me into the small conveyance and then Austen had stepped inside, without saying a word to me. He wore a top hat and a pair of gloves, but his clothing was worn and outdated as he sat stiff beside me.

I was still trying to understand what had happened between us. I’d never suspected that he wanted more from me, especially because he had spent the past fourteen years avoiding me. Was that what he’d meant? That his feelings ran deeper than friendship?

It was ridiculous to even think about. We were friends and nothing more.

“I hate when you stare at me,” he said as he looked out the window.

“How do you know I’m staring at you?” I asked as the carriage passed Green Park and took a left onto Victoria Street.

“I can feel it.”

“I’m trying to understand what you meant—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

The truth was that I didn’t really want to talk about it, either. I’d never thought of Austen as anything other than a friend. It would be better to return to safer topics. “Where have you been for the past year?”

“Italy.”

“What were you doing there?”

“Are you going to drill me with questions the whole way?”

“If that’s what it takes to find the answer.”

This was safer. The bantering side of our relationship.

I played with the fastener of my reticule, clasping and unclasping it. “I have been waiting for a long time to have your undivided attention.”

He put his hand on mine to stop me from fidgeting and met my gaze. “If you stop this infernal clicking noise, I’ll answer you.”

A different sort of tension started to coil inside me at the feel of his hand.

I nodded as I set the reticule aside, forcing him to remove his hand. It took me a moment to remember what we’d been saying. “Why were you in Italy for a year?”

“Studying.”

“Studying?” I frowned. “What?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“Why not?”

“Kate—” He paused. “There are some things that even you don’t need to know.”

He hadn’t called me Kate in years. It reminded me of our childhood. Of a time and place that made more sense.

“Does it have something to do with your work?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“And what is your work?”

“Let’s talk about something else.”

I wasn’t sure why his work was so secretive, but I’d get it out of him eventually.

As we made our way to Dorset Street, where Miller’s Court was located, things began to return to their normal cadence between us and I breathed a sigh of relief.

The city seemed to decay the farther we drove into the Whitechapel District. The sanitation and health conditions were abysmal. The stench of dead animals and waste was overpowering on the hot September day, and crime was an ever-present danger. Even in broad daylight.

Commercial Street was clogged with carriages, wagons, carts, and pedestrians. Dirty children darted between the vehicles, and stray animals wandered from one trash pile to the next.

“We do not belong here,” Austen said as we drove toward Dorset Street. “Don’t do anything to draw more attention than necessary.”

I moved a little closer to Austen on instinct, and he glanced down at me.

“It’s strange and scary to think that Jack the Ripper could be walking this very street right now, looking for his next victim, and we wouldn’t even know him,” I said.

“Jack the Ripper?”

“That’s what they’ll call him after the second murder when he sends a letter to the Central News Agency and signs it that way.”

“And they never learn his identity?”

“There are theories—but nothing concrete, though everyone agrees that he was a madman.”

“How many murders will he commit?”

“Experts link only five together—the canonical five—though there are other murders in Whitechapel around the time of his killing spree. Do you remember hearing about Martha Tabram? Some people think he murdered her, but most experts think she had a different killer because her death didn’t fit the same modus operandi.”

“He commits five murders and then what happens to him?”

“I don’t know. No one does for sure.”

“He just quit suddenly?”

“Yes. Some say he was forced into an insane asylum or committed suicide and that’s why the murders stop.”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t know—I’ve only just begun to research the case. I didn’t know much about it until two days ago. But all I can focus on right now is knowing if my sister is the last victim.”

“And when does that murder take place?”

“November 9th.”

“So we have time.”

The way he said it made me pause. Had he meant we still had time to save Mary? Or that we still had time together?

When the carriage finally came to a stop, the coachman got out and opened the door for us.

“Stay close,” Austen said to me.

I nodded and then accepted his hand to step out of the carriage.

The smell was worse outside. I wanted to put my handkerchief up to my nose, but I refrained.

Instead, I walked close to Austen as we approached a brick building that said Miller’s Court on a weathered sign. There was a narrow passage with several doors on either side. We walked along the passage and found the number thirteen on a door at the back. Next to the door was a small window, which was broken and had a piece of clothing pushed through it.

“This must be it,” I said to Austen.

Austen knocked on the door, and we stepped back to wait.

My hands were sweating, and my pulse was thumping hard. There were so many things I wanted to say to my sister, so many questions I wanted to ask. But if this was her, I would have to be very careful. I couldn’t change history before just the right time, or I could mess it all up—and lose my place here sooner than necessary, while putting other people’s lives in danger.

More than anything, though, I wanted to know why our father had not stopped her from leaving.

Austen knocked again, but there was no answer.

“Perhaps she’s working,” he said.

“Can I help you?” asked a man as he walked down the passageway toward us. He was in his mid-thirties. His worn clothes and thick accent suggested he lived in Whitechapel.

“We’re looking for Mary Jane Kelly,” Austen said. “We were told she lives at this address.”

He frowned. “I’m the landlord of this place, and there ain’t no Mary Jane Kelly what lives here.”

“Do you know who rents number thirteen?” I asked him.

“What’s it to you?”

Austen reached into his pocket and removed a coin. He discreetly handed it to the man and said, “Please answer the lady’s question.”

The man pocketed the coin and nodded, his gaze trailing up the length of my body. I was thankful for the simple, modest gown, though it still looked out of place in this neighborhood. “The room is currently empty. Are you looking for a place to stay?” He glanced at Austen and then back at me. “Or only a room to rent for the hour?”

My lips parted at his insinuation, and Austen took a menacing step forward.

The man backed up, his eyes widening.

“Do you know a woman named Mary Jane Kelly or not?” Austen demanded.

“Never heard of her before,” he said quickly.

“And this room is empty?” I asked. “No one is currently living here?”

“Bertha Parker was the last tenant, and she moved out this morning. Found herself a man to live with, she did. I say good riddance. She was always late with her rent.”

“Mary Jane must not live here yet,” I said to Austen, disappointed that we hadn’t found who we were looking for but still praying it wasn’t my sister.

“Thank you for your time,” Austen said to the landlord as he put his hand on the small of my back and led me through the passageway, back to Dorset Street, where the carriage was waiting.

When we arrived at the carriage, Austen helped me inside and then tapped on the roof to let the driver know we were ready to pull away.

“I’m sorry, Kate,” he said to me.

I nodded as I looked out the window, not wanting him to see how disappointed I was.

“We’ll find your sister.” His face was serious. “I promise.”

I wasn’t sure what was happening between Austen and me, but I knew one thing for certain. My friend had returned, just in time.