“Do you mind working with an American woman?” Bianca Rothschild asked in an Italian accent.
Calan grinned. “Not when she’s such an attractive and intelligent one.”
“Now, none of that.” Sir Rothschild’s voice was serious. “You two need to remain professional at all times.”
“But we’re not at work right now,” Calan protested. “And what happens at Cliveden stays at Cliveden. Isn’t that right, Nancy?”
Nancy was just passing by, but she stopped and said, “Quite.”
My cheeks warmed as Calan met my gaze again, though I suspected he was a rake and only trying to make me blush. I’d had my head turned a few times before, but I wasn’t planning to have it happen now. The next few months would be too complicated as it was—and for some reason, each time my mind wandered, it landed on an entirely different man. One who was living next door to me in 1888. A man who had frustrated me endlessly for the past fourteen years, but one who was starting to intrigue me instead.
A man who called me Kate.
The conversation shifted from one topic to another, inevitably landing on one of the more popular subjects that had most of England—and the world—talking.
“Do you think Hitler is dangerous?” Calan asked the group at large.
“I think Hitler is necessary,” Nancy said with a decisive nod. “He stands between us and the Communist Soviet Union. Joseph Stalin is the real danger.”
“I can’t imagine that’s a popular opinion,” Calan said, though he didn’t seem surprised that she’d said it.
“It’s the truth.” Nancy set her empty glass on the tray of a passing footman and took another.
“There are things to be admired about Hitler,” Sir Rothschild said, surprising me. “He’s organized, focused, and has the German people’s best interest in mind.”
I had not heard anyone praise Hitler. On the contrary, I’d heard nothing but concern and dismay among my friends back home.
“I’ve heard Lindbergh speak of Germany’s strength,” Sir Rothschild continued. “I agree with Lindbergh. We shouldn’t try to anger Hitler. It would be like stirring up a bee’s nest.”
“Then you favor appeasing him,” Calan said. “Giving him whathe wants? You had no problem with him taking control of Austria, or wanting the Sudetenland in Czechoslovakia?”
“I say, let the Czechs decide.”
“But they don’t want to be annexed by Germany,” Calan said.
Sir Rothschild shrugged as he offered his arm to Bianca, apparently ready to leave the conversation. “It is not our concern. Let the Czechs worry about Hitler.”
Calan met my gaze, and I feared he’d ask me my opinion, but I wasn’t in a place to give one. I didn’t know enough about European politics to share my thoughts.
It was concerning enough to learn that Sir Rothschild and Nancy Astor were in favor of Hitler.
After supper, the party gathered in the north drawing room, which was decorated with dark-paneled walls, deep red upholstery, and a beautiful stone fireplace that dominated one wall. The room was large enough to easily accommodate the eighteen guests the Astors had invited for the weekend. Though it was an informal gathering and Nancy insisted upon everyone using their first names, we’d all dressed for supper, and the wealth in the room was apparent with all the fine clothing and jewelry.
It was as far removed from Whitechapel in 1888 as one could get.
There were several tables set up to play cards or games, and I found myself at a table with Calan to play mah-jongg. The Chinese tile game had become popular in the United States in the 1920s and was still all the rage in England.
“I really shouldn’t be playing games,” I said to Calan, who had been a charming dinner partner again that evening. “I have so much work to do.”
“You Americans,” he said in his Scottish brogue. “You work too much.”
“We only have two months to pull the exhibit together.”
“Two months is plenty of time.”
“I don’t usually go into a project without knowing something about the subject, and until I came here, I knew very little about Jack the Ripper.”
“What would you like to know?” he asked as he began to stack his tiles.
