November 5, 1888
More rain fell on London as Austen and I pulled up to Miller’s Court the day after I’d discovered Sir Charles Warren’s letter to Prince Albert Victor at Buckingham Palace. I’d gone to Austen immediately and told him what I’d found. He’d called Miles to bring the carriage around, and we now found ourselves outside Mary’s lodging, four days before she was supposed to become the last victim of Jack the Ripper.
Austen held my hand as we looked out the window at the dreary scene. It was cold, and the earth had turned to mud. It wasn’t fit for man nor beast outside, which meant there was a better chance my sister was at home. But also a better chance that she had company. I wanted to know more about Joseph and how he treated my sister. Yet, if he was in Mary’s room, she wouldn’t speak to me.
“Tell me again why this couldn’t wait?” Austen asked with a frown. “Why being out in this infernal weather is better than being home, near the warm hearth?”
“This may be the last time I get to speak to Mary before we have to force her to leave on the ninth.”
“Why not ask her about the book then?”
“Because I don’t know how it will work.”
“How what will work?”
“Once I change history. How much time I’ll have before ... ” I let the words trail off.
“Before you leave and never return?” he asked, his grip tightening ever so slightly on my hand, as if he could hold me there forever.
I didn’t want to talk about it again. I hadn’t been able to eat anything that morning, and my stomach was sick just thinking about it now.
“You don’t have to come with me,” I said as I began to pull away from him. “I can speak to Mary on my own.”
“I’m coming.” He opened the door and stepped out of the carriage before he turned to offer me his hand. His blue eyes were filled with more storm clouds today as he said, “Jack might already be watching Mary, waiting for a chance to strike. I can’t risk sending you in alone.”
A shiver ran up my spine, and my gaze darted up and down the muddy street. There were only a few pedestrians out, and they weren’t paying us any attention.
Austen opened an umbrella over our heads and put his arm around my waist to keep me close.
“None of this makes sense to me,” he said, his voice filled with anger, though I knew it was only a mask for his pain and fear. “I don’t understand why God would allow any of this to happen.”
I didn’t, either, and I was trying to believe what Mama and Papa told me, that God had a plan. That His will was better than my own. But none of it made sense to my human mind or heart, either, and I wasn’t sure I’d ever understand it.
Miles stayed with the carriage as I lifted my hem and Austen led me across Dorset Street. It had been a rainier autumn than usual, and I was tired of the cold, wet weather. I wanted sunshine and warmth and peace.
And I wanted hope.
The familiar stench of Whitechapel burned my eyes as wewalked through the narrow passage to the back of Miller’s Court. Nothing had changed. The small window next to the door at number thirteen was still broken, and a piece of cloth was shoved inside. Some people believed that Mary Jane Kelly let in Jack the Ripper; others speculated that he simply removed the cloth, reached through the window, and unlocked the door. I’d learned that the morning after Mary’s death, the door was locked and the cloth was back in place, which meant that Jack had to bother with locking it after he committed the murder.
Another shiver ran up my spine as I tried to push aside the thoughts, reminding myself that this was not how history would play out after November 9th, when I saved Mary from this horror.
Austen knocked on the door, and a moment later, it slowly opened. Mary stood before us, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen from crying.
Instead of looking angry at our arrival, Mary fell into my arms.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, reaching up to cradle the back of my sister’s head. “Why are you crying, love?”
Austen slowly prodded us into the room and closed the door as I kept my arm around Mary. Without asking, he walked to the fireplace and put a few extra pieces of coal onto the flames to offer more light and warmth.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” I said to Mary, trying not to shiver from the cold or my concern.
“Joseph left,” she said as she wiped at her red nose.
“I’m so sorry, Mary.”
“I care for him. He—” She paused and shook her head. “He’s been good to me, Kathryn. As good as he can be. He has spared me from the worst sorts of horrors in Whitechapel. And he doesn’t ask for much. He helps pay the bills, and he’s pleasant to pass the time. He hardly drinks, and he never hurts me.” She pressed her lips together and looked down at her red, chapped hands. “He treats me like royalty and tells me he’s not good enough for me.”
I took her to the bed, and we sat on the edge. I gently moved apiece of her hair off her forehead and put it behind her ear. “What happened?”
