Every Hour until Then, page 15
“I will be fine.” I tried to reassure us both. “And if I’m not there to save Mary, at least Austen still can.”
“And risk losing his own life?” Her words struck a chord deep within me. It wasn’t a risk I wanted him to take.
“You’re right,” I said. “I will do my best to stay safe in 1888.”
“And here,” Mama added, clearly trying to rein in her frustration with me. “Don’t forget to stay safe here.”
I was finally able to muster a smile, though it wasn’t big. “Why wouldn’t I be safe here?”
“Because you’re so headstrong that you charge into battle without a second thought?” she asked. “Or you get so engrossed in your work that you start to neglect the relationships around you?” She put her hand on my cheek. “Or you think that something can’t be done unless you’re the one to do it? There are a dozen different ways you could get yourself into trouble here. Just be careful, sweetheart.”
I laid my hand over hers as my eye caught on Calan McCaffrey and Sir Rothschild, speaking together in the opposite corner of the ballroom. Their faces were grim.
What if something had happened at the museum? By the looks of them, any number of things could have gone wrong.
“Excuse me,” I said to Mama as I rose. “I’m going to speak to Calan and Sir Rothschild. It looks like there is trouble.”
“Just as I said.” Mama lifted her eyebrows at me. “Instead of running away from trouble, you seem to run toward it.”
I smiled and left her side to approach my colleagues.
Both men were wearing tuxedos, and I’d seen each of them dance already that evening. Sir Rothschild had brought Bianca to the ball, and they were staying in a room across the hall from me. Bianca was a quiet, unremarkable kind of woman who sat on the edge of the room and observed rather than partook of the festivities. She watched me as I crossed the room to speak to her husband.
“I hope all is well,” I said to Calan and Sir Rothschild as I approached them.
They were talking in low tones, and I couldn’t make out their conversation, but they paused when I joined them.
“Is something wrong? Is there a problem at the museum?” I asked.
“It’s nothing about the Ripper exhibit, if that’s what you mean,” Calan answered. “I recently acquired a large collection of paintings for the Royal Museum of Scotland. But because the artist is English, Bryant has been working with the Royal Museum to get some of the paintings sent to the London Museum for a special exhibit.”
“It’s one of the reasons I asked Calan to join our team,” Sir Rothschild confessed. “I was hoping he could be a liaison between the two museums.”
“The Royal Museum is happy to loan the paintings,” Calan continued. “But it seems they have been lost in transit.”
Sir Rothschild’s face became serious again. “They were supposed to arrive yesterday, but there’s been a delay, and we’re having a hard time tracking them down.”
“Not only is there a huge monetary value involved,” Calan said, “but these paintings are one of a kind. Irreplaceable.”
“Who is the artist?” I asked.
The men glanced at each other, and then Sir Rothschild said, “I’d rather not say—just yet. I know you’re trustworthy, but if news of this leaks, we would be facing significant backlash. Please don’t say anything.”
“Of course not.” I frowned, curious about their secrecy.
“Shall we take a turn on the dance floor?” Sir Rothschild asked, surprising me with the sudden shift in conversation, as if he was trying to distract me.
“Of course.” I smiled as he offered his arm.
We walked onto the dance floor, where dozens of people were dancing a foxtrot.
“This is a pleasant change of pace,” Sir Rothschild said as he slipped his arms around me, and we melded onto the dance floor. “I can almost forget all of my other troubles when I’m dancing.”
He was a surprisingly good dancer, and it was a challenge to keep up with him, though I didn’t mind.
“I’m sorry about the paintings,” I said. “Is there anything to be done about it?”
“I sent a man to investigate. If he has not located the shipment by tomorrow afternoon, I will travel to Glasgow and see what I can find.” He smiled, and his mustache came up at the corners. “But I really don’t want to ruin this evening with worries about the paintings. We have much to celebrate. The Sudetenland is now secure, Germany has her people back where they belong, and not a single drop of bloodshed was required.”
“I had forgotten that you were in favor of Hitler’s acquisition of the Sudetenland.” I couldn’t hide the displeasure in my voice.
Sir Rothschild was quiet for a moment, and then he said, “Perhaps history will prove me wrong, but I believe Adolf Hitler is one of the most brilliant men to have walked this planet, and while I’m a Brit through and through and loyal to my king and country, I think we could learn some valuable lessons from the Germans. Is there anything wrong with that?”
It was a sentiment I’d heard from countless people in London, and it didn’t surprise me. Not anymore. Yet, I knew that history would prove that Adolf Hitler was a madman—whether he was brilliant or insane, or perhaps both, was up for debate. Grandmother Maggie had told us that she lived long enough in her 1940s path to see Hitler’s downfall, but it came at the expense of millions of lives. That didn’t seem brilliant to me.
“May I have this dance?” Calan asked as soon as I was finished with Sir Rothschild.
I smiled and nodded. “Of course.”
He took me into his arms, a little closer than Sir Rothschild had, as the band played “They Can’t Take That Away from Me.” Calan began to hum the tune, and I closed my eyes, imagining what it would be like to dance this close with Austen.
Melancholy struck me so quickly, it took my breath away. All I could think about was Austen—his passionate words in the garden. Then, his arms around me on Berner Street and his lips against mine, overwhelming all my senses until I felt as if I might drown in them. I wanted him here, to talk about the kiss, to ask him why it had taken so long for him to confess his feelings and why he continued to keep them locked inside. I wanted to introduce him to Mama and Papa and show him this other world I occupied, one that looked much like 1888 but where I was free to pursue the things I loved.
It suddenly occurred to me that perhaps Austen did know this life.
I stumbled, causing Calan to come to a stop.
“Is everything alright?” he asked.
“I’m sorry,” I said as I took an unsteady breath. “Yes, everything is fine.”
But was it? Austen was only twenty-five in 1888. That would make him seventy-five today. As Calan and I began to dance again, I searched the ballroom, as if Austen might appear. Yet, I couldn’t see him as part of the Cliveden Set. Not the Austen I knew in 1888. But was he alive? And did he live in London? Perhaps at his old address?
A longing so deep and powerful tugged at me to look for him this very moment, even though I was thirty miles away from the city. But what would I do if I found him? He’d be an old man, and it would shock him to see me again. Nothing good would come from visiting Austen—for him or for me. It was a foolish notion.
When our song came to an end, Calan offered a bow and then handed me over to Papa, who was waiting for the next dance.
As soon as the music began, I fell into Papa’s embrace, needing his strength.
“What’s bothering you, ma chérie?” he asked. “Is it Austen? Mary? Both?”
“Yes.” I put my cheek on his shoulder, unsure if I wanted to talk about it all again.
“If I’ve learned anything, it’s that love cannot be rushed,” he said, a smile in his voice. “And that if it is meant to be, it usually finds a way to thrive.”
I sighed, realizing I did not want to talk about Austen. It was easy for him to say such things, but far harder for me to believe them.
“And,” he continued, “as for Mary, is there anyone who might know why she left home, or if it had anything to do with the Freemasons? Someone close to her. A servant, perhaps.”
I pulled back from his shoulder as a thought occurred to me.
There was one person who might know—someone Mary had trusted, who knew the ins and outs of her daily life better than anyone else.
Someone who had left our house at the same time as Mary.
“Her lady’s maid, Sarah Danbury.”
“And you haven’t thought to ask her before now?”
“At the time, I thought that Mother was making yet another change in the household staff. But perhaps Danbury was let go because she knew too much.”
“There is only one way to find out,” Papa said. “But be careful, Kathryn. The truth can set us free, but it can also put us in danger.”
I nodded, heeding his words.
I’d already discovered the wisdom in his warning.
15
London, England
October 1, 1888
The next day, I found myself at 50 Chester Square, an elegant townhome in Belgravia, one of the more affluent districts in central London. The day was overcast, and rain still fell from the dark clouds. To Londoners, the Double Event had just happened the day before, and news was starting to circulate.
My fifteen-minute walk from Wilton Crescent had taken me past several groups of people standing on street corners with newspapers, shaken by the unthinkable. How had the murderer gotten away with two killings on the same night? And why had Sir Charles Warren erased the graffito on the wall?
There was a heaviness that permeated the air. Even in our home, the staff whispered about the murders. It was all anyone could think about. With the popularity and subsequent closure of The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, the public started to question if the killer was a physician like Dr. Jekyll with knowledge of anatomy to accomplish his gruesome tasks. The image of a man in a top hat and overcoat, and carrying a doctor’s bag, stalking the dark, foggy streets of Whitechapel, had started to appear on the front cover of all the newspapers.
I knocked on the door of 50 Chester Square and took a deep breath. The owner of the home, Mrs. Windham, was a family acquaintance. She had hired Danbury after she left our house, or so Duffy had told me.
The butler soon answered the door, and I was invited in out of the rain. He took my umbrella and set it on a drying rack and then led me into the parlor.
“My dear Miss Kelly,” Mrs. Windham said as she arrived a few minutes later. “What a lovely surprise.” She smiled and motioned to one of the chairs. “I’ve rang for tea. Won’t you have a seat?”
I sat opposite her on an ornate chair, perching on the edge as decorum demanded, my skirts tucked properly around my legs, and my corset pinching my waist. I wanted to get the pleasantries over with, but they were a necessity.
“How are you, my dear?” she asked with a friendly smile. She was in her mid-forties and took great pains to deflect the appearance of her age behind a tight corset, expensive clothing, and gaudy jewelry. “I had such a lovely time at your mother’s ball several weeks ago. Mr. Maybrick’s voice is a dream. What an honor for you to dance with him. I had so hoped my own daughter could join us that night, but she was indisposed. I do hope your mother will invite Mr. Maybrick back again, so that I can introduce him to my daughter. But then again, perhaps you have already stolen him for yourself.”
She prattled on and on, and every time she asked a question, I began to answer, but she cut me off and continued speaking.
The butler brought in the tea tray, and Mrs. Windham poured a cup for me and then one for her. She spoke about the Whitechapel Murders, as they were called, but she had no more information than anyone else. I kept my eye on the clock, wanting to be done with the arduous conversation, though I needed to endure it for at least thirty minutes before I could ask to speak to Danbury. It would be rude to cut the visit short before that.
As soon as the clock hit thirty minutes, I gently interrupted my hostess.
“About a year ago,” I said, “my mother discharged a maid from her employment, and I’ve been told she found a place here. I wonder if I may speak to her about a private matter?”
Mrs. Windham’s eyebrows shot up. “I hope she’s not being accused of something untoward.”
“No. Nothing like that. Her name is Sarah Danbury.”
“Yes, of course. I know who you’re speaking of.” She rose abruptly. “I’ll call her in.”
I also rose. “Thank you, Mrs. Windham.”
She nodded and then left the room.
Several minutes passed before the door opened again and Danbury entered, her eyes wide with concern.
“Hello, Danbury.”
She nodded and offered a curtsy, though every line of her body communicated her discomfort. The last time I saw her was the night Mary left.
“Please come in and close the door,” I said to her.
Danbury slipped inside and shut the door but stood as close to it as she could. “What can I do for you, miss?”
“Please don’t be worried,” I said as I motioned her closer. “I’m not here to cause trouble. I’d like to ask you some questions about my sister, Mary.”
She didn’t look relieved or less concerned. If anything, she appeared more upset as her eyes darted around the room. “I don’t know anything, miss.”
“You don’t know why Mary suddenly left our house?”
She swallowed and shook her head.
“You never heard any conversation? Mary didn’t mention anything to you?”
“No, miss.”
Her behavior told me that she wasn’t telling the truth—but why?
I took a step closer, needing her to understand how important her answer was to Mary’s well-being.
“Mary is in grave danger. Her very life depends on what you might know. I need to understand why Mary left my parents’ home. I spoke to her, and she said that Father didn’t force her to leave, but that she left of her own free will. I don’t believe her for a moment. Why would she give up the comfort and safety of her parents’ home to—” I couldn’t continue. I wanted to know why Mary would take up with a man for safety when she had my father’s protection to rely upon. “Please. I must find answers. I fear Mary’s life is in danger from the man who is murdering women in Whitechapel.”
Danbury’s eyes grew wide at that statement. “Is Miss Mary in real danger?”
“Yes.”
She glanced around the room again, as if looking for prying ears, and then leaned in. “Please don’t tell anyone where you heard this information. I fear for my own life if someone should know.”
I frowned, but if the truth was so dire that my sister would hide in Whitechapel, then perhaps Danbury’s fears were well-founded.
“Of course I won’t,” I promised.
She paused, as if second-guessing her decision to share, but then she plunged ahead. “Miss Mary found a book, or something like a book, hidden away in a secret compartment in your father’s study. I don’t know how she found it, or if she’d been looking for it, but whatever was written in that book terrified and alarmed her. She fretted over it for several days before she confronted your father.”
“What was written in the book?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Miss Mary wouldn’t tell me. I didn’t see the book, either. She kept it hidden.”
“What happened after she confronted my father?”
“That was the night she left.”
“Did she leave of her own free will? Or did my father force her to go?”
“I don’t know. I truly don’t.” She pressed her lips together as sweat beaded on her brow. “The next morning, your mother rang for me. She said that my services were no longer needed. I would be given a letter of reference, and I was to be gone by noon. When I tried to ask her where Miss Mary had gone, she told me not to ask any questions or discuss anything with the other staff. She threatened to send me away without a reference if I did.” Danbury swallowed hard. “I couldn’t take that chance, so I didn’t say another word until now.”
My mind spun with possibilities. “Thank you for answering my questions. I know it was a risk for you to tell me, and I promise I won’t get you in trouble.”
Danbury nodded slowly, though she didn’t look convinced. “Will there be anything else?”
“If you can think of something, please get word to me.”
“Yes, miss.” Danbury opened the door, clearly eager to see the back of me. “Good day, Miss Kathryn.”
I left the Windham’s home with my umbrella open and walked back to Wilton Crescent, hardly noticing anything but the thoughts running through my mind.
What kind of book did Mary find that would be so dire as to either send her away or make her choose to leave? And where had Father been hiding this book? Why did he have it to begin with?
The only person who might answer my questions was Mary, but it would be almost impossible to go to her without Austen’s help. I couldn’t ask for our carriage to take me. Father would find out where I’d gone. But I couldn’t ask Austen to take me to Whitechapel again.
I would need to hire a carriage, though I didn’t have that kind of money. Father saw to all my expenses, so I would need to sell something.
I was still pondering this when I approached Wilton Crescent. Austen’s carriage was just pulling up to the front of his home. We hadn’t spoken since returning from Berner Street, and I wasn’t sure what I would say to him. I contemplated turning around to walk in the opposite direction, but he stepped out of his carriage and paused when he saw me.
His blue eyes were stormy as he regarded me, and my traitorous heart leapt.
“Hello,” I said, swallowing the unexpected nerves racing up my throat.
“What are you doing in the rain?”
“I went to see Mary’s lady’s maid on Chester Square.”
“And did she tell you anything valuable?”
