She simply smiled. “I know. I felt the same way when I decided to leave Hope and stay with Papa.” Her smile softened. “I shouldn’t have said anything yet. Let’s focus on today and getting Papa back before we talk about Austen.”
I nodded and then rose from the floor to leave the parlor, not wanting to add more anguish to my heart. It was already so overburdened, I was afraid I would crumple into a corner and start to cry and never stop. I wasn’t certain that Sir Rothschild would bring Papa to us. And if he did, I wasn’t sure if we would survive the encounter. He was a Nazi who had done horrible, terrifying things in two different paths to get something that could change the course of history if it fell into the wrong hands.
He would stop at nothing to get what he wanted, and I was risking everything by telling him where the Book might be located. I wasn’t sure it was the right course of action, but I was desperate and prayed that the king’s guards would protect the Book.
It was my only hope.
As soon as I had dressed, I left 44 Berkeley Square and returned to the London Library. The librarian greeted me with a smile as he had the day before. “How may I help you?”
“I’d like to see the file on James Maybrick again, if I may.” I waited, half expecting him to tell me there was no file on James Maybrick. If James had changed history, then there would be no trial and no newspaper clippings.
The librarian nodded. “Of course. Please follow me.”
He took me back to the table I had used yesterday, but when he presented the folder, it was just as thick as the day before.
What did it mean?
As the librarian walked away, I slowly opened the folder, wondering what I might find.
There were just as many newspaper clippings as before, but they contained much different information. James Maybrick had not died at noon on November 10th, 1888, as history had originally stated. Instead, he had died in his sleep, and his body was discovered the next morning on November 11th. His brother, Michael, had still accused Florence Maybrick of poisoning her husband, and it had still gone to trial. But this time, there was no proof of poisoning, and Florence Maybrick did not go to prison.
She’d been spared.
Sir James Bryant Rothschild, also known as James Maybrick, had forfeited his life in 1888. He’d made Jack the Ripper exit history without even realizing it. Which explained why he disappeared so abruptly.
I slipped one of the newspaper clippings into my purse, knowing that Sir Rothschild would never believe me without proof, and planned to return it as soon as I could to the library.
After thanking the librarian, I returned home just before ten, with two hours to wait for Sir Rothschild’s arrival.
“He changed history,” I said to Mama as soon as I entered the parlor on the main floor.
She was sitting in her chair near the hearth, her eyes closed in prayer, but she opened them when I appeared. “What?”
“Here.” I showed her the newspaper clipping and explained everything I’d discovered.
She shook her head in wonder. “This is the newspaper clipping I saw yesterday when we were at the library.”
“You don’t remember that he was supposed to die at noon, from arsenic poisoning?”
“No.”
“But I do.”
“That’s because you’re still a time-crosser,” she explained. “I’m not anymore. What I do know is that God’s plans cannot be thwarted.”
For the next two hours, I paced in the parlor while Mama prayed. If Sir Rothschild didn’t bring Papa to Berkeley Square, I would be forced to tell the world about Jack the Ripper—and forfeit my own paths.
When the grandfather clock struck the midday hour, my pulse ticked up another notch.
I strode to the window, but looking out, I could see no one approaching the townhouse.
“Where are they?” I demanded.
Mama didn’t answer.
The clock continued to tick. Five minutes passed, ten minutes—and then the front doorbell rang.
Mama rose from her chair, but I ran past her into the hall, down the stairs, and into the foyer, where I tore open the door.
