“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 learnedabout 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?”
