And the fact that he committed the crimes moments before the bodies were found, yet no one ever caught him.
I’d asked Mama and Papa if they knew anything about the case last night at supper in 1938, but neither one knew any more than I did. I’d have to wait until I went to the Metropolitan Police Crime Museum with Sir Rothschild to see the names. I told myself I had nothing to worry about, since thousands of people lived in Whitechapel and the odds of my sister being in danger were slim. But I wouldn’t be at peace until I knew for certain.
“There’s a rumor going around downstairs.” Duffy interrupted my thoughts as she went to my dressing table to set out the items I would need for my morning toilette.
“You know I don’t like gossip.”
“You’ll like this bit o’ news.” She grinned. “The stableboy is sparking with the scullery maid next door.”
“You’ve mentioned that before.”
“That’s not the news,” Duffy said, her green eyes wide with excitement. “The scullery maid told the stableboy that Mr. Baird has finally come home.”
I paused as I stretched my arms above my head. “Austen is home?”
“Aye, he came home late last night.”
Austen was home—was probably just waking up on the other side of the very wall that connected our townhomes. When we were young and had discovered that our bedrooms shared a wall, it was the happiest day of my life. Yet that wall had come to represent a vast divide fourteen years ago—one that I hadn’t been able to cross no matter how much I had tried or willed it to happen.
“Some say he was in India,” Duffy continued as she pulled items out of my dressing table drawers. “Others say Russia or Japan. But I think he went to America to find a wealthy wife.”
“Austen?” I scoffed. “He doesn’t need a wealthy wife—and least of all an American.”
“He’s a fine catch, if I do say so myself.” Her cheeks colored, and she looked down at my dressing table with embarrassment.
My own cheeks felt warm as I thought about Austen, not surprised that my maid was attracted to him. “I’d like to get dressed as quickly as possible. I’m expected at Toynbee Hall by ten.”
“Yes, miss.”
And if I wanted to pay a call to my enigmatic neighbor before I left, I needed to hurry. He’d probably turn me away, as he’d done so many times before, but I had to try, one more time.
Duffy helped me into the beautiful taffeta gown with the generous bustle and tight bodice, which accentuated all my curves. The corset was uncomfortable, but it was more flattering than the dresses I wore in 1938. She styled my dark red hair into a becoming updo and handed me a pair of gold teardrop earrings, which dangled just below my earlobes.
“What do you think?” she asked.
I admired my reflection, pleased with my appearance. I had inherited my mama’s brown eyes from 1938 and my thick, red hair from my mother in 1888. Mama said my dimples were from her mother, Maggie. My fierce determination was from my father, Sir Bernard Kelly. And from my papa, Lucas Voland, I’d inherited my fearlessness. I was a combination of both sets of parents, creating a unique me. It was a strange existence, but Mama had made it feel normal. Stranger still, my two bodies were identical, but they didn’t affect each other. If I became sick or injured in 1888, I didn’t suffer the same maladies in 1938. I’d accepted that I was different a long time ago and didn’t waste a minute worrying about it. There were more important things to do than fret about something I couldn’t change.
I left Duffy and went down the back stairs and into the courtyard where a secret passageway between the hedges connected our backyard to Austen’s. We’d used the passageway countless times as children, and I suspected that our stableboy used it now to court Austen’s scullery maid.
It was already stiflingly hot as I passed through our courtyard,while memories of Austen filled my mind and heart. He was two years older than me, but he and I had been the best of friends for as long as I could remember. That was, until the day we’d heard the news that had changed our lives forever—the day Austen learned his parents had died while on holiday with my parents.
It had been a crushing blow to Austen, who had lost his grandparents and his little brother in the years leading up to his parents’ death.
After that day, I had only seen Austen at the funeral, and then he’d been sent to Eton, where he’d lived as he attended school. His aunt had moved into his house, coming all the way from America, and when Austen visited home for holidays, he was cold. Distant. Aloof.
As I stepped through the passageway and entered his garden, I wasn’t sure why I thought things would be different this time, but my perpetual hope wouldn’t die. Papa often told me I was the most optimistic person he knew—but it wasn’t always optimism that made me push ahead. It was my unwavering belief that I could fix whatever had been broken. And, in this case, it was Austen’s heart. I wanted his happiness—craved it—because there was an ache, deep within me, since I’d lost it.
I didn’t care that the staff would whisper about me sneaking through the Bairds’ garden early in the morning as I approached the back door. Many of them had known me my whole life, and I had ceased to surprise them.
Though I somehow continued to shock my mother.
After I knocked, the door was opened and one of the maids allowed me to enter the house.
“Is Mr. Baird at home?” I asked her.
“Aye, miss, he’s in the morning room, eating his breakfast.”
“Thank you,” I said as I bypassed her in the back hall and made my way through the house.
