Every Hour until Then, page 24
Was that why Polly, Annie, Elizabeth, and Catherine died? They refused to be silent and compliant. I wanted to ask him, but I didn’t dare.
“Go on,” he said as he took a step back. “But if I hear that you went to Austen’s or that he entered this house, you will not be living here come morning.”
I was a twenty-three-year-old woman being sent to my room, and it rankled. But I also knew what my father could do, and I would not test the limits of his patience.
I went to my room, but I didn’t go to bed. I couldn’t. It was still early, and I planned to see Austen as soon as my parents left. I would send word to him through Duffy.
Austen couldn’t come to my house, and I couldn’t go to his. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t meet him somewhere else.
At the appointed hour, I snuck out of my home on Wilton Crescent and walked the ten minutes to Hyde Park and the Statue of Achilles. I’d told Austen to meet me there in the note I had sent with Duffy. I just prayed he would get it in time.
Clouds covered the moon as I made my way along the dark street toward the park. Austen, Mary and I had come here often as children, drawn to the impressive sculpture that stood over thirty feet high. It was on the east end of the park, close enough to reach easily at this time of night, yet sheltered enough that we would have a bit of privacy.
It had grown cold since the sun went down, and a wind had come up, making me pull my cape closer to my body. Though this part of London was relatively safe, I couldn’t stop thinking about Jack the Ripper and his next planned victim—my sister. I had no reason to think he’d been watching me, but I couldn’t be certain. It was probably a foolish idea to leave the house this late at night. Alone. With only Austen knowing where I planned to go.
I kept my head low as I passed people on the street. It was far too late to be out for social calls. If anyone knew my identity, my reputation would be ruined.
But none of that mattered. I needed to speak to Austen. To tell him what had happened to Papa in 1938 and to make sure all our plans to help Mary were in place.
And, more than anything, I simply wanted to be with him.
I made it to the statue, but there was no one within sight. I had hoped Austen would be waiting for me, though I had arrived earlier than I planned.
The wind whipped the leafless branches of the trees overhead and whistled a low, moaning sound through the park. I shivered as I stood near the statue, on full alert to anyone who might come by. My fingers and nose were cold, so I brought my hands up to my mouth to blow warm air into them.
A lone man entered the park. I watched him closely, but quickly realized it wasn’t Austen. My heart began to beat hard as he came closer. I moved deeper into the shadows, praying he would pass by.
Thankfully, he turned on the path and moved out of sight.
My entire body shook as I realized this had been a mistake. I was headstrong, but I wasn’t usually foolish, and the longer I stood there, alone, the more foolish I felt.
Twenty minutes passed, and I was about to return home when I saw another man enter the park and walk toward the statue. I knew instantly that it was Austen, and my pulse sped for a different reason as relief and joy washed over me. His stride was so dear, so familiar, I wanted to run to him. But I waited behind the statue until he was within earshot.
“I’m here,” I said quietly.
He turned toward the sound of my voice and joined me at the statue. It was then that I noticed he was carrying something in his hands. He set it on the base of the statue and opened his arms to me.
I entered them freely as he enveloped me.
“As soon as I got home and saw your note, I raced to get here,” he said. “You shouldn’t be alone in the park at any time, but especially not now, when we don’t know if Jack has been watching you.”
“Father forbade me from going to your house or for you to come to mine. But I had to see you.” My voice caught with emotion. “I’ve wanted to see you all day—to tell you—” I couldn’t bring myself to voice the reality of what was happening in 1938.
“What is it, Kate?” He pulled back to study me. And though it was dark, my eyes had adjusted enough to see his face.
“Papa was abducted in 1938.” My voice faltered, and I found it harder to tell him than I expected. I relayed everything we’d learned the day before, and when I was done, he drew me into his arms again and held me tight.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I wish I could do something to help you.”
“You are. Maybe not there, but here.” I clung to him, trying to remember all the little details I could. The smell of his cologne, the feel of his arms, the sound of his voice. “I don’t know what I’ll do without you.”
He tilted my chin up with his finger and placed a kiss on my lips. It was just as tender as all the others, but it held so much passion and longing, it felt different. As if he couldn’t get enough.
When I finally pulled back, I asked, “Where were you today? I’ve missed you.”
“I did something that’s probably foolish.” He let me go and reached for the item he’d set on the statue. “Actually, I know it was foolish. I left last night after I brought you home from Miller’s Court, and I just now returned.”
He handed me the item, which I quickly realized was a book. A book I would know anywhere.
“It’s the book about Queen Elizabeth,” I said, quickly opening it and trying to see the pages in the dark. It was the book that Austen and I had read together in the garden as children. The book that had made me want to be a historian. “Austen.” I looked up at him, my lips parting in both surprise and delight. “Where was it?”
“At my cottage on Loch Lomond.”
“You went all the way there and back to bring it to me?”
He took my hand and walked me to a bench where we sat, out of the wind and in a little alcove of trees. “Do you recall all the hours we sat together reading this book?”
“Of course I do,” I said as I ran my hand over the worn fabric cover. “Those are some of my dearest memories. This book made me fall in love with history.”
“As I fell in love with you,” he said, touching my cheek. “I’ve always been drawn to your passion and your courage. I could see you living in the Elizabethan period, amid the intrigue at court, like Queen Elizabeth’s maid of honor Lady Cecily Pembrooke, who we read about.”
I smiled against his hand. “You remember her story?”
“How could I forget? You lit up every time we read about her. I could easily see you in any place and at any time in history,” he said, his voice growing sad, “never cowering or bowing down to injustice. That’s why the book means so much to me. It makes me feel connected to you through time, somehow. I’ve never understood it.” He paused for a moment, and all the angst and gruffness was gone as he said, “You’re timeless, Kate. Whether you’re here or in 1938, or in Queen Elizabeth’s court, you belong. And I feel honored to know you. To share even a small part of your amazing existence.”
His words warmed my heart, and I lifted the book to my chest. “Why did you have this at Loch Lomond?”
“When I left London after my parents died, I didn’t take a single thing with me. Nothing. Except this book. I had it with me at Eton and then Oxford, and I had it with me on every trip I took abroad. I leave it at Loch Lomond only because when I’m in London, and you’re nearby, I don’t need it.”
“You took this with you?” I asked, incredulous.
“It reminded me of the happiest moments of my life, of a time that made sense and gave me hope.” He ran his thumb over my lower lip. “It connected me to you. No matter where I went.”
“Austen,” I said on a breath, trying to control my emotions. “What are we going to do?”
“What can we do?” he asked. “We must face the path ahead with courage and faith. Just as Lady Cecily did in 1563. Do you remember?”
I smiled and nodded. “But she had a knight in shining armor come to her rescue.”
“Did she?” he asked with a smile, taking me into his arms. “Somehow, I remember that it was Lady Cecily who did the rescuing.”
I returned his smile, my heart breaking, knowing that neither of us could rescue the other from what was about to happen.
This was a stolen moment. One I would cherish forever, because there would never again be a night like this.
24
November 7, 1938
London, England
My nerves were so raw by the next evening, I could hardly think straight. There had been no news from Berlin. Not even a phone call from Major Smith, Colonel Lindbergh, or anyone from the American embassy. The Astors had come earlier in the day, but seeing that there was nothing they could do, Mama had insisted they leave.
We had called Lydia and spoken to her for over an hour, and then around noon, Mama had told me I needed to leave. She knew I had things to do at Lancaster House to prepare for the grand opening. And, though I didn’t want her to be alone, I couldn’t deny my need to go to the museum.
As I worked on last-minute touches to the exhibit, I prayed fervently for good news out of Berlin and for a miracle in 1888. Every time I saw something with Mary’s name on it, I forced myself to think beyond November 9th. This was not how Mary’s story would end. I didn’t care what history had to say about it. And I prayed that Austen wouldn’t have to suffer for helping me. I was the one changing history.
An hour before the grand opening ceremony, I went into the restroom to touch up my lipstick and smooth down my hair. King George VI and Queen Elizabeth would arrive within half an hour to look over the exhibit before it was opened to the public. They would be on hand for the ceremony, when Sir Rothschild, Calan, and I were scheduled to talk about the history and the collaboration between the London Museum, the Smithsonian, and the Royal Museum of Scotland. It was one of the biggest moments of my career and my life. I just wished Mama and Papa could be there with me to celebrate.
I took several deep breaths, trying to gain control of my emotions so I could get through the next couple of hours. My longing for Austen felt like a gaping hole in my chest. If he could be at my side, things would be a little more bearable. Waiting for news about Papa might not be so hard.
When I left the restroom, I was near the portrait gallery, so I slipped into the long, narrow room to look at Austen’s paintings. It still amazed me that he had done this work. If we had more time, I would love to go to Loch Lomond and see his painting studio. Watch him create one of these masterpieces. It was a marvel how he used light to convey the mood of each painting, and how he could transport me to another place and time with his creations.
I stopped in front of the portrait of me. Of all Austen’s paintings, this one made me feel the closest to him. I could imagine him brushing each stroke of paint to create my cheeks, my eyes, my lips—almost as if he was caressing them with his fingers now. Warmth filled me at the memories of all the kisses we’d shared in the past couple of weeks.
But then reality washed over me as I thought about all the kisses we would be denied after I forfeited 1888.
Tears stung my eyes, and I had to work valiantly not to cry.
“It’s a stunning portrait, is it not?” Sir Rothschild asked as he entered the room.
I blinked several times before I turned to him and smiled, surprised that he’d found me here.
“This is the painting that first caught my eye,” he continued as he looked from the painting back to me. “The one that made me interested in Austen Baird’s work. I’d already met you in Washington, and when I saw this, I was shocked at the likeness. I was convinced it was you, until I learned that Mr. Baird had painted it in 1889—and it couldn’t be you.” He chuckled and shook his head. “But it made me curious to see all his other paintings. I had assumed they would all be portraits. I was surprised to learn that this was the only portrait he’d ever painted.”
“It is an uncanny likeness,” I said, my voice weaker than I liked.
“I’m happy that it is,” Sir Rothschild said. “Because it led me to investigate this painter, and I was delighted at what I discovered. Nothing happens by chance. I’m convinced of that.”
I nodded, unable to find words to express my agreement.
“And now you’re here,” he said with a smile. “Not only have you created a spectacular exhibit, but you’re able to see this portrait for yourself. I had so hoped you could. It isn’t every day that we see a picture of ourselves from the past.”
I looked up at him quickly, but he was smiling happily as he admired the portrait.
“I suppose it’s not uncommon to have a doppelgänger—is that the word the Germans use?” He chuckled again. “With so many people in the world, both past and present, there has to be others who look like us.”
I swallowed my nerves and said, “I suppose so.”
“Well.” He clasped his hands, apparently ready to move on. “We should prepare to receive the king and queen. They will want a personal tour.” He motioned toward the door, and I preceded him out of the gallery.
Thirty minutes later, I was standing beside Calan, just inside the special exhibit room in the basement of Lancaster House when the king and queen were escorted in by Sir Rothschild. They were dressed in formal evening wear, which made me assume they had other plans beyond attending the grand opening. The queen’s jewelry sparkled, and the king was boasting a set of ribbons and medals on his chest.
I lifted my chin, determined to enjoy the culmination of weeks of hard work. Meeting the King and Queen of England was an honor I wouldn’t waste, even though my heart was filled with the weight of many concerns.
“Your Majesties,” Sir Rothschild said, “may I present our lead curator, Mr. Calan McCaffrey from the Royal Museum of Scotland, and our assistant curator, Miss Kathryn Voland from the Smithsonian Institute.”
I offered the king and queen a curtsy while Calan bowed.
“How do you do?” I asked them.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Queen Elizabeth said with a smile.
I rose from my curtsy. “It’s an honor to have both of you visit the museum today.”
“We’ve been apprised of the situation with your father,” King George said, rocking back on his heels slightly. “And I want you to know that everyone is cooperating to find him as quickly as possible.”
Tears threatened again, but I managed to smile. “Thank you.”
“Of course.”
“Shall we begin the tour?” Sir Rothschild asked as he motioned toward the exhibit.
I walked on one side of King George and Queen Elizabeth, while Sir Rothschild and Calan walked on the other.
“Miss Voland,” Sir Rothschild said, “would you like to give a brief history of what happened in 1888 in Whitechapel?”
“Of course.”
We’d set up the exhibit in sort of a timeline, starting near the façade of Buck’s Row, where the first murder had taken place. “In the early morning hours of Friday, August 31, 1888, the first victim, Mary Ann Nichols, commonly known as Polly, was found here at Buck’s Row in Whitechapel.”
As we walked through the exhibit, I gave them all the details, though I didn’t mention my suspicions about the victims’ connection to the Freemasons. I wasn’t sure if King George was a member of the Freemasons and how much he might know about the cover-up. I wasn’t foolish enough to think that if I cracked the truth open, the Freemasons would let it stay open. Especially if King George was a Grand Master, as Prince Albert Victor had been in 1888.
And even if I did, I would be changing history in 1938, as well, and that was a risk I couldn’t take.
The king and queen asked several questions and showed great interest in the exhibit, but when we came to the pictures of the victims, they both declined to look at them.
I didn’t want to look at them again, either.
“What a fabulous exhibit,” the queen said. “Jack the Ripper has fascinated me since I was a child.”
“I’ve always found it odd,” King George mused as he looked at the items found in the victims’ pockets. “He has fascinated countless people, yet there have been others before and after him who were much more heinous. Why do you think we are so intrigued by Jack the Ripper?”
“Perhaps it’s because he was never caught,” the queen offered. “And that he always seemed just out of reach of the authorities. Kind of like a mythical creature. The evidence of his existence was real, but no one could catch him. And then his terror ended as abruptly as it began, causing more speculation about the monster.”
“I think you’re right,” I said. “And the more time that passes, the more his legendary status grows.”
We were almost to the letters Jack had written when an aide-de-camp stepped into the room and nodded at them. “Your Majesties? I believe it’s time to go upstairs for the ceremony, and then we must be off for your next appointment.”
“We do hate to rush,” Queen Elizabeth said, “but duty calls.”
“Of course.” I smiled.
“The exhibit is magnificent,” she said. “You have much to be proud of.”
“Thank you.”
We were ushered out of the exhibit hall and up the stairs to the central room of Lancaster House, where there was more space for people to gather.
The king and queen’s presence had not been advertised and was completely unexpected for our guests. Excited chatter filled the room as the royals smiled and nodded. They took their places on the landing of the massive formal staircase where we would address the audience, though neither of them planned to speak.
Even though the room was full, I felt lonelier than ever. I longed for Mama and Papa and for Austen and Lydia and Mary. I even missed Father and Mother, though neither one would approve of me having a career. I couldn’t fathom what they would say or think if they knew the truth about my time-crossing. They would be impressed that I’d met the king and queen, though, and that put a smile on my face.
