London, England
September 2, 1888
The next morning, I was up and dressed earlier than usual. It was one thing to investigate the Jack the Ripper case from a vantage point fifty years in the future, with all the evidence and depositions obtained, but another thing entirely to investigate it as it unfolded. I was fighting time and history, and I needed to work fast.
I entered the breakfast room on the main floor of our townhouse, where my father was already seated. Mother took her first meal of the day in bed, as was common for married women, though her first meal was often at noon.
I had been avoiding Father for the past ten months, as much as I could, and usually came down after he left for King’s College Hospital, where he was a surgeon and a lecturer, serving as the chair of systemic surgery. He had warned me not to mention Mary’s name again, but that was before I knew she might be the last victim of Jack the Ripper.
I had to take a risk.
“Good morning,” I said, trying not to let my anger and frustration at his treatment of Mary color my words.
Father was seated at the head of the table, eating his breakfastwith the same determination he did everything. With single-minded focus. He was a tall man, with thick, gray side whiskers and a spreading middle, a testament to his love for food.
“Kathryn.” He looked up from the sausage he was cutting. “I haven’t seen you at breakfast for some time.”
I went to the sideboard and helped myself to a plate of eggs and a muffin, though I had no appetite. Our butler, Jenkins, stood at attention but didn’t acknowledge me. He had not been with us for long. Mother’s penchant for change, if it could not be met with new drapes or wallcoverings, came at the expense of new staff.
“I’ve been a little busy,” I said as I took a seat next to Father.
“Your mother’s social calendar is daunting,” he agreed as he continued to cut his sausage. “She only wants the best for you.”
“And now that Mary is gone, I’m her sole focus.”
His fork paused on its way to his mouth. He glanced at Jenkins quickly before he said to me, “I’ve warned you not to say her name.”
I leaned forward, desperate. “I need to find her—”
“She is dead.”
“You mean dead to us?Why? What did she do? I don’t under—”
Father speared me with a look that made me close my mouth. “If you don’t want to end up like her, I’d suggest you heed my words, Kathryn. Your sister is dead and nothing you say or do will bring her back. Do I make myself clear? I will not say it again.”
My heart was pounding hard as I stared at him. I wanted to ask him how he could turn out his own flesh and blood to the horrors of Whitechapel, but I believed he could—and would—send me to the same fate if I persisted. He’d always been a kind and generous father, but he was also demanding and disciplined.
With a scowl, Father wiped his lips and tossed his napkin onto his half-eaten plate of food, proof that he was livid, and then he rose from the table and left the breakfast room.
I sat at the table until I heard him leave the house, staring at the empty seat across from me where my sister used to sit, filling each new day with her happy chatter. My chest rose and fell withmemories of her excitement over a new dress, or her colorful description of a ball or event she’d attended without me. She had been all that was good and happy in our home.
Jenkins didn’t move behind me, but I knew he was there, and I didn’t want to show him the depth of my pain.
I rose, leaving my food uneaten, and left the breakfast room. If Father wouldn’t help me, then perhaps Austen would. I needed to get back to Whitechapel and find Annie Chapman, or one of the other women who would be murdered. If there was a connection between the victims, it might point me to Mary.
The hem of my day dress brushed the floor as I walked toward the back door. My corset felt too tight, and my collar choked me as I stepped out into the courtyard. Clouds marred the sky, and the lack of wind made the hot air feel thick with smog.
When I was a child, I often came into the garden to pray. I hadn’t understood my time-crossing gift, and it had scared me, though Mama had done a good job explaining it to me. I had spent hours asking God why I had to endure such a strange existence. I hadn’t started to appreciate it until Austen had brought me history books, and his excitement about the past had filled me with a newfound appreciation for what I experienced. I had started to wish that I could live even further back in time, during the days of knights and fair maidens. And I wanted to take him with me.
But that wasn’t the way my gift worked, so instead we’d traveled there together through books.
I stepped onto the green grass and walked toward the hedge, realizing that the more confident I grew in my time-crossing gift, the less I had come to God with my concerns. Mama had always said I was headstrong and determined, often taking matters into my own hands, which hadn’t left much need for God.
For the first time in a long time, I realized I was facing something that felt bigger than me. I had a plan to save Mary, if she was the last victim, and I would not waver in seeing it through, but what if it didn’t go as I hoped? I glanced up at the cloudy sky, feeling guilty that I’d grown so distant from God. I didn’t want to go toHim only when I needed something or when I was desperate. I often attended church in both paths, and I knew He was there, but I usually felt confident to proceed without consulting Him. And things had generally worked out as I hoped.
But this time, I was thinking about changing history, and that didn’t sit right within my spirit—no matter how confident I appeared to Mama and Papa. Yet, God had revealed this piece of history to me, and I didn’t think He wanted me to sit back and do nothing.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered in prayer as I passed through the hedge, my heart heavy. “Please help me find Mary, and please direct my steps. I don’t want to do anything that might hurt Your plans, but I also don’t want my sister to die. Please help me find a way to keep her safe.”
