“Good gracious, Agatha,” Father said, clearly having enough of her fear as he glanced at me and then back at her. “The killer is a madman in Whitechapel, like I’ve told you. Probably a poor immigrant chap, as they all suspect. If he came to this end of town, we’d all recognize him in a moment. He’d stand out like a sore thumb. You have nothing to worry about.”
“I hope you’re right, but don’t you think it’s odd that Polly NicholsandAnn—”
“That’s enough.” Father’s voice was thunderous, making both Mother and me jump.
The carriage ride was silent the remainder of the way, and I wished I could be anywhere but there. I’d done as much research in 1888 as I could without drawing attention from my parents. I’d even had our driver take me to Fleet Street on the pretense of getting new stationery printed so I could inquire after William Nichols, Polly’s ex-husband. I had discovered that he was no longer working at his former place of employment, and his employer was unwilling to give out his new address because he’d been bombarded by the press since Polly’s murder. I continued to volunteer at Toynbee Hall, asking anyone and everyone I met if they knew Mary Jane Kelly, but no one knew her. And I discreetly asked around about the Freemasons, but no one seemed to have any new information for me. And, if they did, they kept it to themselves.
The carriage came to a stop outside the Lyceum, but it was oddly quiet on the street.
Father sat forward and looked through the window at the closed doors of the popular theatre. He pounded on the ceiling of the carriage with his walking stick, and our footman jumped off the vehicle to come to the window.
“See why everything is so quiet,” Father said to the young man. “And be quick about it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, what could be the matter?” Mother asked as she, too, looked out at the empty street. “There should be dozens and dozens of people going into the theatre tonight. Where is everyone?”
When the footman returned, he had stunning news. “The play has been closed due to the Whitechapel murders, sir. Attendance was down, and the police have been receiving so many letters of concern that Mr. Mansfield has postponed the show until further notice.”
Relief washed over me. The book had terrified me enough as it was, and it was so intricately linked to the night Mary had disappeared that I hadn’t finished it, nor had I relished the thought of seeing the show.
“Where would you like to go, sir?” the coachman asked as he, too, came to the window.
Father glanced at Mother and asked, “Would you like to go to Café Royal for a late supper?”
“I just want to go home,” Mother said, putting her forehead into her hand. “I don’t feel safe out here, and I’m starting to get a headache.”
Father sighed and said to the coachman, “Take us home.”
“Very good, sir.”
Soon, we were on our way back to 11 Wilton Crescent, though I wasn’t sad to return to the safety of our home. Even though I knew that the next murder wouldn’t happen until the 30th of this month, I still didn’t like feeling exposed. Perhaps Jack the Ripperwassomeone close to our family. Someone my father knew as a Freemason.
Someone who I might interact with frequently.
As soon as we entered the house, Mother went to her room and Father went to his study. I wouldn’t see them for the rest of the evening.
Duffy was in my room tidying up after helping me prepare for the theatre. But the moment I entered, she looked relieved.
“It’s happy I am to see you,” she said without even asking why I had come home so early. “Mr. Baird was here looking for you right after you left.”
My heart skipped a beat with relief and joy. “Mr. Baird has returned?”
“Aye. The scullery maid, Bessy, said that he was so fine and dandy when he left, they thought he was going to woo a bride. But the prospective bride must had spurned him, because he hasn’t shaved in weeks and he’s back to his old ornery ways.”
“Did Bessy say where he’d gone?”
“No one knows.”
I didn’t care. All I wanted was to see Austen again, to ask him what had happened in the garden. I’d replayed his passionate speech a hundred times over in my head since that night, andevery time I thought about it, my heart yearned for more. Yet what good could come from giving in to my desire?
The uncertainty in my heart was crippling. My conversation with Mama and Papa at Café Royal had replayed in my head as often as Austen’s speech in the garden. What if God’s plans were different than mine? I never took the time to stop and ask Him what He wanted. I just assumed that if I wanted something, then God did, too. But I was starting to see that this type of thinking could be dangerous. I had free will, but that didn’t mean that I wanted to be out of God’s will.
I left my room without another word and raced down the steps, the thick petticoats of my heavy skirts feeling cumbersome. I might not be sure about which path I would choose, but there was one thing I knew for certain. I needed to see Austen. I could not pretend like nothing happened and leave things as they were. We were drawing closer to November 9th, and one way or the other, I would have to face the possibility of leaving 1888. I couldn’t do it without fixing the rift between us—or exploring the option of staying.
And I would do it properly this time. I would treat Austen as the man he had become and no longer the child that he had been. I would go to his front door.
Taking a deep breath, I left our house and walked down the three short steps and turned left to get to his. I stopped in front of number 12 Wilton Crescent and knocked, waiting for Brinley to answer the door. Thankfully, it didn’t take long.
