It was identical to ours, only in reverse. All the townhouses on Wilton Crescent had the same floor plans, creating a curved row of simple white façades and ornate interiors.
I hadn’t seen Austen in over a year and had been waiting eagerly for this day. I didn’t give myself time to have second thoughts. Instead, I entered the morning room as if I lived in his home and was simply coming down for breakfast.
“Good morning,” I said as I went to the sideboard and lifted a lid to inspect the dishes that had been laid by the staff. “The sausage smells divine.”
Austen sighed, and I smiled to myself. He pretended I annoyed him, but I knew the truth. I was still one of his favorite people. I lowered the lid and turned around to greet my old friend.
He sat at the head of the table, a newspaper in hand as his plate of food sat untouched before him. His blue-eyed gaze met mine over the top of the newspaper. I was both elated and sad to see his dear face. Elated because for a moment, I saw his pleasure at my arrival—and then sad because it was quickly replaced with the grief he’d carried for the past fourteen years—a grief that seemed tied to me.
“Hello, Austen.”
He studied me as if looking for an ulterior motive for my visit. “Good morning.”
I briefly glanced at his butler, Brinley, before saying, “May we have a moment of privacy?”
“And risk your reputation?” Austen asked with a raised eyebrow.
I lowered my chin and gave him a look. “When have I ever been worried about my reputation?”
Brinley’s smile was quick, but I saw it nonetheless. He’d always been one of my favorites.
Austen motioned for him to leave.
I took a seat at the table, offering Austen another smile, knowing that—at one point—he’d found my dimples charming. “I’ve missed you,” I said as I laid my hand on his arm.
His muscles tensed beneath my touch, and he pulled away, frowning. “What do you want, Kathryn?”
Disappointment warmed my cheeks as I laid my hands in my lap, wishing that whatever had come between us would have beengone by now. One thing I’d always loved about our relationship was that there were no pretenses. But sometimes, when he was blunt, I would prefer some formality. “You’ve been away a year.” I tried not to sound hurt. “I came to see how you’ve been. Aren’t you curious about me?”
He studied me, and for a heartbeat, there was vulnerability behind his eyes. He was wearing his dark hair a bit long, the ends curling slightly as they brushed against his collar. And he had a beard, which made him look much older than his twenty-five years. Gone was the joyful little boy who used to entertain me with stories about gallant knights, fair maidens, and sprawling castles.
“I have been curious about your other path,” he said. “Are you still planning to choose it in two years?”
The question surprised me, and it was my turn to frown. I’d told Austen about my other life when we were children. He hadn’t believed me at first, so I had researched and discovered that there would be a mining accident in Cheshire on April 14, 1874, and fifty-four people would be killed. After it happened, he was astonished—and then he had believed me. He was the only person in this path that I had told, and the only person I could talk to about it.
But then his parents had died, and I’d lost my confidant and best friend.
I could see that my answer was important to him. “That’s what you want to know?”
“It’s a simple question, Kathryn.”
Itwasa simple question, and I knew the answer, but part of me didn’t want to tell him, and I wasn’t sure why.
“You are leaving,” he said with little emotion.
“Why do you care?” I asked, the pain of his rejection for the past fourteen years building up inside me. “You disappear for months on end, and I have no idea where you’ve gone. I don’t demand that you explain yourself. Why must I?”
He didn’t respond.
“Why does it matter if I leave this path?” I asked, not ready to back down.
He lifted his gaze, and I saw the pain he tried so hard to hide. “I guess it doesn’t matter.”
All my bluster faded at the look in his eyes.
We were both silent for a moment, and then he asked, “Why have you really come?”
I was trembling, but I needed to pull myself together to tell him about my sister. All that I cared about right now was Mary’s safety. “Father turned Mary out of our home ten months ago, and the last I heard she was living in Whitechapel.”
