“Whatever it is,” I said as I laid my hand on his arm, “you can tell me.”
He looked down at my hand and slowly took it in his own. With a sigh, he said, “I admire your tenacity.”
I could tell it wasn’t what he had intended to say, but I didn’t want to press him. I had loved spending time with Austen over the past few days, and I wanted more of it. I didn’t want to complicate things.
So instead of convincing him to tell me what he had been thinking, I made a proposition. “Perhaps I can persuade you to attend the ball Mother is planning this Saturday night.”
He let go of my hand, and whatever gentleness had come over him, it was suddenly gone. “No.”
“Please,” I said. “Mother’s parties are so boring.”
He frowned. “If you’re trying to convince me to attend, you’re going about it the wrong way.”
“What I mean,” I said, “is that you would make it fun.”
He gave me a side eye, his voice dry. “Because I bring so much life to a party.”
“You could, if you wanted to. Mother has a performer coming, and she will no doubt have a handful of eligible bachelors there to meet me. Please save me from the boredom.”
Something flickered in his gaze, but it was gone before it fully formed.
It almost looked like jealousy.
8
Buckinghamshire, England
September 2, 1938
Sunshine warmed the car as Mama, Papa, and I made our way to Cliveden House in Buckinghamshire, just outside London. It was refreshing to be back in 1938, away from Whitechapel and Jack the Ripper—and Austen, whose behavior had started to puzzle me.
Austen usually said exactly what he thought, without care as to how I would perceive it. But the conversation in the carriage the day before, after meeting Annie, was strange. He had wanted to say something but had chosen not to. It wasn’t like him, but then again, Austen wasn’t acting like his old self since returning from Italy.
Something was different, and it was all I could think about.
“You’re quieter than usual,” Mama said as we turned down a long drive with trees on either side. Ahead was Cliveden House, the Astors’ country home.
“I met Annie Chapman,” I said, though it wasn’t the reason I was being quiet.
“Who is she?” Papa asked.
“One of the victims—the next victim.”
Mama’s eyebrows rose high. “Do you think it’s wise to be in contact with the victims? What if you change history?”
“Or are seen by Jack?” Papa added.
“I just wanted to ask her if she knew Mary or Polly Nichols.” I felt defensive, probably because I knew they were right. “I wasn’t going to change anything.”
“You need to be more careful,” Mama said. “I hope you didn’t go alone.”
“Austen took me to Whitechapel both times I’ve gone.”
“You’ve been there before?” Papa shook his head and sighed. “One of the most dangerous places in history.”
“Austen will take care of me.” Even as I said the words, I realized I meant them wholeheartedly. I trusted Austen with my life.
So why did I hesitate to trust him with my heart?
