All I knew was that I needed to go.
It wasn’t far from Lancaster House to Wilton Crescent. I tried not to run, but it was almost impossible, even wearing heels. I followed a path through Green Park and then took a left toward my old neighborhood.
The homes looked almost the same as they did in 1888, and the familiarity made me forget for a moment that I was in 1938. Yet the automobiles and the modern street signs were a constant reminder.
Thankfully, it was cold, or I would have overheated as I made my way toward Wilton Crescent. My heart was pounding so hard, I couldn’t think straight.
What would I say if I saw him? Fifty years had passed since 1888, and though I looked the same, he would be an old man. Would it be too great a shock for him to see me again?
Would it shock me to see him?
My steps slowed as I caught a glimpse of number twelve, and the foolishness of my decision started to cause more rational thoughts to war within my heart and mind.
I wanted to ask Austen about the paintings. But if I did, I might be tempted to ask him about Mary, too, and that would be far too dangerous.
I paused on the opposite side of the street, realizing that, in this path, I hadn’t yet saved Mary. She was the last victim of Jack the Ripper. It wouldn’t be until after November 9th that history would change. What version of history did Austen know today? The one in which Mary died and I left? Or the one in which Mary was saved—and I left? But if Mary was saved, why was her name still listed as a victim?
I was suddenly very confused.
Perhaps this was the reason Mama had cautioned me not to knowingly change history. When I saved Mary, everything in this path could change—so drastically, in fact, I might not even recognize it when I woke up here. But how did it work? Was I in the changed history now, or would it changeafterNovember 9th?
I felt paralyzed on the opposite side of Wilton Crescent as questions and doubt plagued me.
When the door opened to number twelve, panic filled my heart. Yet a quiet voice urged me to stay. I watched as an old man stepped outside of his house, and I immediately knew it was Austen. His body had aged, but he still bore the same movements, even if they were slower. He looked distinguished in a long coat and a bowler hat, and from where I stood, I could see his hair was now gray.
My heart broke as I watched him slowly lock his door. He probably had a servant or two to see to his most basic needs. Gonewould be the large household staff, and in their place was electricity, washing machines, toasters, and vacuum cleaners.
Was he lonely?
Or had he found someone else to love? That thought was more painful than all the others.
As he slowly turned, I finally caught a glimpse of his face, and I would have known him anywhere. He was still handsome, though there were lines and wrinkles and age spots on his skin.
He paused as his gaze caught on mine.
The street separated us, but I knew the moment he recognized me. His mouth parted, and he caught his breath. The surprise soon turned to disbelief, and then to sadness ... and then he smiled.
I thought I would want to run to him, but I didn’t. I thought I would have a hundred questions, but no words formed.
Instead, I only looked at him, and he at me.
I swallowed and took a step forward, needing to say something—but he shook his head, the sadness returning—and I paused.
A cab turned the corner and stopped in front of his house, partially blocking him from view.
With one last glance, Austen opened the door and got into the car.
He watched me through the window, but I couldn’t move, my heart breaking.
Austen didn’t want to talk to me.
The cab pulled away and turned down the street, leaving me alone.
I took a deep breath and then began to walk, tears in my eyes. It hurt that he didn’t want to speak to me, but I didn’t blame him. It would be too hard for both of us. Seeing him as an old man had been hard. Speaking to him would have been harder.
I should have gone back to Lancaster House, but I needed to talk to Mama and Papa. I needed answers to the questions that had stopped me outside Austen’s house.
It took me another twenty minutes to walk from Wilton Crescentto Berkeley Square. My mind was so jumbled and confused, I couldn’t keep a single thought straight.
