“I understand the need for secrecy better than anyone,” she said quietly. “I’ve been living this lie for over a year, Kathryn.”
I kept my arm around her shoulder, and she laid her head on mine.
“I love you,” I whispered.
“I love you, too.”
We said good-bye, promising to be back soon, and then Austen led me out of her home and down the passage.
A young woman passed us. She wore a cape with a hood and glanced up at us briefly before she proceeded to Mary’s room and knocked on the door.
“Hello, Jane,” Mary said a moment later in her Whitechapel accent. “Come in out of the cold, love, and warm yourself by the fire.”
My sister’s kindness to her friends was heartwarming, and I knew her fear of losing her room was just as much for her as it was for them. I hated to think what would become of her friends once she was in America, but I couldn’t worry about them. I could only do so much.
Austen and I were quiet as we left Whitechapel and entered central London on our return to Wilton Crescent. I wasn’t sure what he was thinking, but I knew what was occupying my thoughts.
I’d set into motion the final plan I’d ever make for 1888. In just a few days, I would whisk Mary away from Miller’s Court and put her on a ship bound for New York City. Then I would say good-bye to her and Austen and go to sleep, and never return to either one of them.
I leaned on Austen’s shoulder, and he put his arm around me.
“I’ve purchased tickets for Mary’s travel,” Austen said. “I’ll have Miles ready to return to Whitechapel on Thursday so we can take her to Southampton to meet the ship.”
I sat up, surprised. “You can’t help me. I don’t know what will happen if you knowingly change history. I don’t want to take the risk.”
“I won’t let you do it alone, Kathryn,” he said, just as adamant. “It will be far too dangerous for both of you. Miles and I will help, come what may.”
“I couldn’t live with myself if you died, Austen.”
“You’ve seen me alive in 1938. It must mean I live.”
“I’ve seen you alive in theunchangedversion of history. Once we take Mary away, I don’t know what will change. You might not be in 1938 after November 9th.”
He drew me back into his arms. “It will be my decision, Kathryn. And I will not let you do this alone. No matter how much you protest.” He let out a breath, his voice deepening. “Besides, I will have little to live for if you’re not here, so it’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
I laid my head against his shoulder again, a whole new set of concerns weighing down my heart.
I didn’t want to live in a world without Austen.
22
London, England
November 6, 1938
There was a lot occupying my mind as I worked on the exhibit in the basement of Lancaster house. Austen’s words in the carriage only intensified my anxiety and fears for Mary. But it wasn’t just 1888 that concerned me. Papa’s trip to Berlin was weighing on my mind, as were all the little details I still needed to include in the exhibit. This was my final opportunity to put the finishing touches on the project I had come to London to create.
A dozen people worked alongside me, placing artifacts in glass cases, repositioning signs, touching up a crack that had developed in the façade of Buck’s Row, and cleaning the room. I’d spent the earlier part of my day answering questions from the public and the press. This was the first exhibit about Jack the Ripper, and people were curious.
“Are you certain you want to display the pictures of the victims?” Calan asked me one more time as he approached me with a wooden crate. We’d had the pictures framed and were planning to place them in a spot that could be overlooked if people didn’t want to see the images. The first four were pictures of the victims’faces after death and were not shocking. The fifth was horrific and showed Mary Jane Kelly in her familiar room, but the body was so mangled and deformed, it was impossible to recognize.
Every time I looked at the picture, I had to disassociate with it. It wasn’t my sister. It was a person who had not yet been murdered—and would not be murdered, because I was going to stop it from happening.
“Let’s do as we originally planned.” I told him. “We’ll place a black cloth over the photo of the last victim and tell people that they can look at their own discretion.”
Calan nodded and left my side.
I couldn’t help but wonder what would happen after November 9th. Would that picture just disappear? I wasn’t sure how it would all happen. Would everything be different when I woke up in 1938 after saving my sister? Would I be the only person who knew a different history? When I talked to Calan and Sir Rothschild, would their memory of Mary Jane Kelly have disappeared?
