The entire country—the world—held their breath.
Men calling out instructions as they dug trenches in St. James’s Park was disconcerting, but even more so were the lines of people waiting outside the London Library in St. James Square waiting to get fitted for their gas masks. Everyone over the age of four would receive one, and they were urged to carry it with them both day and night, no matter where they went. I carried mine like a purse, inside a box with a strap to wear over my shoulder. I’d been fitted for it just yesterday.
I knew war was coming from my grandmother, Maggie, who had told us about the Second World War, but I didn’t know details. She’d spoken of being in Pearl Harbor in December of 1941, when she was a nurse on a hospital ship. She had said America entered the fight after that. I had assumed the war wouldn’t start until then, and that Mama and Papa and I would be safe in London for a couple of months.
Now I wasn’t so sure.
It took me about fifteen minutes to walk to the Café Royal. Mama and Papa were waiting for me inside the opulent restaurant, sitting at a little table in the corner, their faces serious as they conversed.
“There you are,” Mama said, offering me a smile as Papa stood and pulled a chair out for me.
“I’m sorry I’m late.” I smiled, trying to ease her worries. “I got caught up in my work.”
Calan and I had been busy discussing the items we wanted to display at the London Museum and how we wanted the exhibit to look. I hadn’t even begun to sift through the hundreds of letters that had been sent to the Metropolitan Police in 1888, many purporting to be written by the killer.
“This was a wonderful suggestion,” Papa said as he motioned to the room. It was decorated with a heavy Victorian influence, thick gilded trim, mirrors, and plush furniture. The tables were covered in white cloths, with dripping candles in the center.
“I’ve eaten here many times in 1888,” I told them. “It’s a popular restaurant for society.”
We looked over the menu and placed our orders with the waiter, and then my parents looked at each other before turning to me. Mama wore a pretty, brick-red dress with a matching hat which partially covered her face, though I could still see her concern.
“You want to go home,” I said, not even asking. I could see it written all over their faces.
Mama sighed and spoke quietly. “I don’t know enough about what will happen here, Kathryn. We thought we had time. But the war could start any day and then we might be stuck here until it’s over.”
“The safest place will be in America,” Papa added, his French accent thickening with his concern.
“I can’t leave, not yet. I need firsthand access to the Ripper case to help Mary. And we’re just starting to lay out the design for the exhibit. I still have weeks left of work.”
“We might not have weeks left to get out of England,” Mama said. “Nothing is more important than your safety.”
My heart was already heavy with disappointment and sadness in 1888. I couldn’t face it here, too.
“You two should go,” I told them. “I’ll stay.”
“Kathryn.” Papa shook his head. “We won’t leave you with the threat of war hanging over Europe.”
“I can’t go. I have an obligation to the museum. Besides, we don’t know if the war will start now or later. And if Hitler invades the Sudetenland, we’d still have time to get out of England before anything happened here. Please. Let me have more time.”
They looked at each other again, and Mama lifted a shoulder.
“Fine,” Papa said, “but if there’s even a hint of danger, we will be on a ship heading home within hours. Do you understand?”
I nodded, wishing I felt relieved. But the threat of war, and of going home sooner than we planned, was daunting. I wanted to finish what I started, but more importantly, if I left, I wouldn’t have access to the evidence from the Jack the Ripper case. Therewere still so many unanswered questions. I had been to the Crime Museum several times, but I hadn’t scratched the surface of records, letters, and transcripts from the inquests into each murder.
I played with my water glass, lost in thought, when I felt Mama’s hand over mine.
“Have you heard from Austen?”
I shook my head as I nibbled my bottom lip, not wanting to look at her. I had told my parents that Austen left, but I hadn’t told them about our conversation in the garden or learning about how his parents had died. I was still trying to understand it all myself. “Duffy inquired, but not even Brinley knows where he went.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, and then she put her hand on my shoulder, drawing my gaze to hers. “I know something happened, Kathryn. You’ve never been this upset when he’s left in the past.”
I usually shared everything with my parents, and I trusted their wisdom, but I wasn’t sure what they would say about this. I took a deep breath and said, “I—I think I’m in love with Austen.” I swallowed the emotions that came with the confession. “And I know he’s in love with me.”
My parents didn’t speak for a moment, so I finally lifted my gaze.
There was a sad smile on Mama’s face. “You’re just now realizing what we’ve suspected for years.”
