August 30, 1938
It felt strange to stand outside 44 Berkeley Square on that hot August day in 1938. Months of planning and correspondence and worry—at least on Mama’s part—had finally brought me to the place I loved dearest of all. And not even the threat of war could dim my excitement.
“Is it much changed from 1888, Kathryn?” Mama asked me as Papa slipped a key into the front door of our rented townhouse.
I took a deep breath, conscious of the exhaust from motorcars and the tense atmosphere that had greeted our arrival at Southampton. Hitler’s invasion of Austria earlier that year, and the knowledge of his increasing military strength, had the entire world on edge—but especially those in England who were still recovering from the Great War and depression.
“Things have changed,” I acknowledged, “but it’s not as different as you might think.”
“Are you familiar with Berkeley Square?”
“Somewhat,” I said evasively. I didn’t tell her that I’d been to tea at a home across the square just the day before in 1888. She was already nervous that I might run into someone I would knowfrom my other path. It was one of the many promises I’d made to convince her that this trip was a good idea. I had to avoid anyone I might know from 1888—though they’d hardly believe it was me anyway.
I had inherited the time-crossing gift from my mother in 1938, Grace Voland. She had given up her life in 1692 to marry my papa, Brigadier General Lucas Voland. I loved her dearly for understanding what it felt like to be a time-crosser—yet her two paths were separated by centuries. Mine were only separated by fifty years. Perhaps the very woman I’d had tea with yesterday in 1888, Lady Woodsmith, was still living in the house across the square.
But that was precisely why I had agreed to come. For months, I had been looking for Mary in 1888 and had not succeeded in finding her. Was she still living in London in 1938? It was one of the questions that plagued me night and day, and because I had more freedom and resources to look for her here, I planned to do just that.
Papa opened the door at 44 Berkeley Square and allowed us to pass inside.
As we entered the front hall, I was duly impressed with the décor. Black and white checkered marble floors were polished to a high gleam, and a sparkling chandelier hung overhead. Down the length of the central hall was a spectacular staircase, and flanking the hall on either side were doors.
“I’m still in awe that Lady Astor offered us her home,” Mama said as she set her bag on the floor and looked up at the chandelier. “It’s so grand.”
Lord and Lady Astor were American expatriates who had acclimated to English society. Lady Astor had become the first female to sit in the House of Commons almost twenty years ago. She was a devoted fan of aviation and had befriended my parents. When the Astors heard we were coming, they had offered to rent one of their many properties to us, and both the Astors and my parents looked forward to a reunion.
As Mama and I inspected the rooms on the main floor, Papa brought the luggage into the foyer.
I took one of my bags and climbed the curving staircase to the second floor. There was a parlor and a study, but the bedrooms were on the third floor. After taking the smaller of the two bedrooms, I set my suitcase on my bed and then poked my head into my parents’ room a moment later.
“I’m off,” I said, eager to get on with the reason I’d come.
Mama was just kicking off her heels, her eyes creased with exhaustion and concern. She looked up at me with a frown. “So soon, Kathryn?”
My first name was Kathryn in both paths, though my last names were different. In 1938, I was Kathryn Voland, but in 1888, I was Kathryn Kelly. Mama said that her first names had been the same in both of her paths, as well, and that God had ordained our names. She had guided me and taught me the rules of my time-crossing gift—but my parents in 1888 had no idea I lived two lives. Neither of them was a time-crosser, so Mama had cautioned me not to tell them. They didn’t know that the birthmark on the back of my head, shaped like a sunburst, was the mark that distinguished me as a time-crosser and indicated that I had twenty-five years to choose which path to keep and which to forfeit. But it was ever-present in my mind.
“I have no time to spare,” I told Mama, fighting the urge to use the English accent I was accustomed to in 1888. I didn’t use it 1938 in Washington, DC, where I had grown up with Mama and Papa and my older sister, Lydia. She was in California now, living with our grandmother Tacy. “I only have two months to pull the exhibit together, and that’s hardly enough time as it is.”
“You’ll take a cab?” Mama asked.
“I plan to walk since it is only half a mile to Lancaster House. It will be good to stretch my legs after all the travel.”
“You’ll need to let her go eventually,” Papa said to Mama in his French accent as he stood behind her and rubbed her shoulders. “She’ll be fine, Grace. She knows this city better than us.”
“I’m not afraid she’ll get lost,” Mama countered. “I’m just—with the war looming—” She paused and shook her head. “When can we expect you home?”
“I’m only going to meet Sir Rothschild and become familiar with the museum,” I said. “I’ll be home for supper by seven. You can phone me at the museum if you need me.”
Mama’s shoulders lowered, and she nodded. “Be careful, Kathryn.”
I smiled and winked at Papa. “See you soon.”
My excitement could hardly be contained as I followed the circular staircase back to the ground level and out into the sunshine, toward my destination.
The London Museum occupied Lancaster House, not far from St. James Palace on The Mall. I’d been invited by the Keeper of the museum, Sir Bryant Rothschild, to be a guest exhibit curator to help him establish a new exhibit. I’d met him the year before in Washington when he’d visited the Smithsonian Arts and Industries building as part of a museum exchange delegation. Because I was an assistant exhibit curator, I had been his guide for much of his visit. I’d told him about my fondness for British history, though he had no idea I was a time-crosser and had a special connection to Victorian England. When I’d received his surprise invitation to come to London a few months later as part of the exchange, I couldn’t resist.
I was still shocked that I had been invited. There were so many other people more qualified than me. Perhaps Sir Rothschild had asked me because we had gotten along so well, and my knowledge of British history had impressed him.
It didn’t matter to me, even though it put me in a precarious position. At any moment, I might run into someone I knew from my other path—though they’d be fifty years older, and I was still twenty-three. But even if they saw me, they would just assume I looked like someone they used to know. At least, that’s what I’d told Mama. And when she’d asked me what would happen if I ran into myself, I told her the simple answer: I didn’t plan to stayin my 1888 path after my twenty-fifth birthday, so there was no chance that I’d see myself as a seventy-three-year-old woman.
