A Rip in Time (Out of Time #7)

by Monique Martin

  As they entered the park proper, the few carriages she’d seen turned into dozens and dozens. There were probably even more people on horseback. The carriages all broke off to the left and rode down one of two broad straight tracks, with horses to the right.

  “Rotten Row,” Simon explained. “Where the fashionable come to see and be seen.”

  He wasn’t kidding. While some of the carriages were unadorned, some were absolutely pimped out. From elaborate crests to ridiculous frilly frills, they were apparently a way to show off your status and wealth and, she realized, judging from the amazing outfits of the people inside, your wardrobe.

  “We’re this way,” he said, leading her carefully through the traffic. Even so, they barely made it across.

  “It’ll be far worse this afternoon,” he said. “These are just the opening act.”

  They walked into what appeared to be a grove of trees. As they grew closer, Elizabeth saw water ahead.

  “The Serpentine,” Simon said. “The bridge your…friend’s friend referred to is undoubtedly the bridge that borders Kensington. It’s about a mile away.”

  He pulled out his watch. “We have an hour yet, so no need to rush.”

  Elizabeth leaned into him and enjoyed the walk. For the first time since they’d been here, they both felt solid on their feet. The whole mission had happened so quickly, so abruptly, it wasn’t until now that she started feel the reins in her grasp.

  They walked along a path on the edge of the lake under a canopy of large shade trees. It was an incredibly beautiful and peaceful place. There was a lot of hat tipping and polite nodding as they went. Victorian manners demanded no less.

  A few people in boats rowed lazily across the lake, basking in an oddly sunny London day. Elizabeth was about to ask if they could rent a boat when Simon stumbled slightly and came to an abrupt halt. He put a hand to his forehead, paused for a moment, and then stood almost frozen in place.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  He turned and looked down at her, the corners of his eyes tight with confusion.

  “Miss West?”

  Elizabeth nearly laughed. That was a blast from the past. He was being silly. But she stopped herself before it bubbled up. It was clear from the look in his eyes that he wasn’t joking at all.

  ~~~

  What was she doing here? What was he doing here? In…London? Simon put a hand to his temple and shut his eyes tightly. Hoping whatever dream he was having would end when he opened them again.

  It didn’t.

  “I think,” he said slowly, “I’m unwell.”

  Was he having a stroke? Had he gone mad?

  Elizabeth squeezed his arm and smiled up at him. “It’s all right, Simon.”

  When had she started calling him that? And when had he flown to London?

  He glanced around, the surroundings were familiar, but it still took him a moment to place them.

  “Hyde Park,” he whispered.

  “Yes,” she said at his elbow. “Why don’t we sit down?”

  He looked down at her again, poised to remind her he could think for himself, but there was something else off about her as well. Why in God’s name was she in costume? And not just her. Simon turned to make sure. Everyone, including himself, was in some sort of ridiculous period attire. What the hell was going on here?

  Set to demand an explanation, Simon turned back to her, but she smiled so kindly that he felt the knot in his chest ease just enough for him to breathe.

  “Over here,” she said and led him to a bench.

  He sat down, his head still swimming. He’d been in his office at the university, she….He glanced over at her and she laid a comforting hand on his forearm.

  “It’ll pass soon,” she said.

  He looked at her uncertainly.

  “Your memory,” she continued. “It’s kind of mixed up, right?”

  He nodded slowly. His memory was, indeed, mixed up. Images were missing and broken. He could feel the gap in them. He had the uncomfortable sense that something had been carved out of him.

  “What’s happened to me?”

  His hands gripped his thighs tightly. He would hold himself together by sheer will.

  She paused a moment, a small, curiously sad smile quirking the corner of her mouth. “I don’t know where to start.”

  “Miss West,” he said impatiently. “Either this is a dream or I have gone insane. Either way, I’d appreciate it if you’d start somewhere.”

  She smiled again, her eyes growing oddly moist. She nodded quickly and Simon reached out take her hand. It was forward and inappropriate, and felt right.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean…”

  He stared down at their hands. Her small kid gloves in his and he remembered. He remembered taking her hand a thousand times before. The feel of it in his. The strength it gave him.

  In an instant, his memories flooded back to him. He closed his eyes as the empty parts of him filled again.

  He remembered.

  He let out a quick short burst of relieved breath.

  “Simon?” she asked, her eyes filled with worry and the start of tears.

  “Yes,” he said, swallowing down his own emotion. “It’s passed.”

  “You’re you again?”

  He nodded and Elizabeth blew out a quick, bracing breath of her own. “That was terrifying.”

  He couldn’t have agreed more. Without warning, he’d suddenly lost the last year of his life. He squeezed her hand more tightly. He’d nearly lost the most important thing to him.

  “Well,” she said finally, “we knew it could happen. At least it didn’t last long.”

  Simon clenched his jaw and nodded. And when one did? When the changes in time caused memory gaps that lasted for hours, days? Or worse. What would they do then?

  ~~~

  They sat on the bench for another few minutes gathering themselves before continuing on. When she’d experienced her own mini-episode before they’d left, it had been strange and disconcerting, but it was much worse being on this end of it. Although, having seen the fear in Simon’s eyes, she wasn’t so sure.

  And Jack’s, she thought. She could still see his expression—confused and worried—as he disappeared in Council headquarters.

  They walked in silence for a few minutes before she glanced up at Simon and he turned his head to face her.

  “Still here,” he assured her.

  She laughed. “It’s like waiting for an earthquake, isn’t it?”

  He arched an eyebrow in question.

  “One’s bound to come, but you never know when it’s going to hit or how bad it’s going to be.”

  He nodded. “It won’t do us any good worrying about it either.”

  She knew he was talking to himself as much as he was to her.

  “Right,” she said. “And I think we’re here.”

  Just ahead was the Serpentine Bridge with its long stone balustrade and large sloping brick arches.

  Forcing herself not to dwell on what ifs, she and Simon made their way to start of the bridge. She scanned it as far as she could see and shook her head.

  Simon nodded and they started across. By the time they’d reached the other side, Elizabeth’s heart began to sink.

  “It’s just now two,” Simon said. “Give them a chance.”

  They walked back to the middle where they had a fairly good view of each entrance and waited. Elizabeth started to lean back against the railing, but her forgotten bustle got in the way. She couldn’t quite feel when she was touching it and leaned a bit too far. She felt herself losing her balance when Simon grabbed her arm.

  His eyes flared at her and she started to explain when she saw George.

  “There,” she said, nodding toward him.

  Simon gave her one last admonishing look before following her gaze. “And Druitt?”

  She scanned the people around George, but didn’t see Druitt and shook her head. “I don’t see him.
”

  George checked his watch and looked around expectantly. A moment later, a young boy ran up to him and tugged on his sleeve. George nodded and the boy handed him a note.

  He gave the boy a coin and read the note, his face falling as he did. With a sigh, he tucked the paper into his pocket and turned to stare out at the water.

  “Come on,” Elizabeth said, pulling Simon along.

  He caught up with her and she wove her arm into his, and they strolled past the spot where George was.

  “George?” she said casually.

  He turned around, his morose mood lifting immediately. “Elizabeth!”

  He took her hand and kissed it. “My fellow revolutionary.”

  Simon arched an eyebrow, whether it was at the hand kissing or the epithet, she wasn’t sure.

  “Simon, this is the man I was telling you about, George Roxbury. George, this is my husband, Simon.”

  George’s mouth quirked into an appreciative smile. “Is he?”

  Elizabeth stifled her laugh.

  “He is,” Simon said coolly, completely unaware of the subtext.

  “Oh,” George said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “He’s not going to challenge me to a duel, is he?”

  His face sobered slightly and he leaned toward Elizabeth. “Is he?”

  “No,” she assured him, although looking at Simon, he seemed to be considering the idea. She slipped her arm back through her husband’s. “He’s just a little protective.”

  George nodded sagely. “As he should be. You, my dear, are trouble,” he added with a smile.

  Simon grunted in agreement.

  Elizabeth sighed dramatically. “I’m interesting.”

  “You are,” George agreed. “Most people here are as dull as ditchwater.”

  “Somehow, I doubt that.”

  George hmm’d in reply. “You’d be unpleasantly surprised.”

  “Then come out with us tonight,” Elizabeth said quickly. “I know it’s short notice,” she added looking up at Simon, trying to silently urge him to participate.

  He cleared his throat. “Yes,” Simon said. “We’d love to have you.”

  His deadpan delivery almost made Elizabeth giggle, and would have if they hadn’t needed George to say yes.

  George sighed. “I can’t tonight, I’m afraid. I’ve got plans, theater and a party that’s likely to be as exciting as the Queen’s bath, but…” He frowned for a moment and then a broad smile took over his face. “Why don’t you come with me?”

  Jackpot. Elizabeth tried to look hesitant. “Are you sure?”

  He waved his hand. “Of course. I’ve got a box for the theater and you can be my guests at the party.”

  “We were going to try Monico’s in Piccadilly,” she said, casting a quick glance at Simon, hoping she sounded sufficiently reticent, but not too much so.

  “It’ll be beastly there tonight,” George said. “No, you must come with me. At least, with you along, the night won’t be a total waste.”

  Elizabeth smiled at the compliment.

  Even Simon smiled agreeably. “Very kind of you.”

  George clapped his hands together. “Excellent. Shall we meet at the theater at eight, then?”

  “Perfect,” Elizabeth said. “What’s the show?”

  “A new spectacle at the Lyceum. A bit macabre given the recent news and the most popular ticket in town because of it—Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde.”

  Chapter Eleven

  VICTOR TOOK A SIP of warm beer to help wash down the lump of chalk and gypsum plaster someone had sold him, billed as bread. It looked like bread and there was probably was some grain in it, somewhere, but the process of bread-making had become so adulterated that additives of all sorts, some more poisonous than others, had been incorporated to save costs. By the time the flour made it to a bakery, and the bread to a pub like this, it was barely edible. No wonder the people here were so sickly. What little they did get to eat had no nutritional value at all. With little to choose from, as bad as it was, it was better than nothing.

  He put the slice of bread aside and returned to his fried fish. They called them dabs although there was no telling what sort of fish was used. It was greasy and cold, but it was dinner.

  He wiped his fingers on the legs of his pants and tipped back his chair against the wall. The pub was busy; they were always busy. The noise from the crowd was boisterous and bawdy, with prostitutes clinging sanguinely to customers and everyone drinking away the day.

  He scanned the crowd looking for a murderer.

  No doubt many of them were, or would be. Life here was harder than even he anticipated. Thousands hovered on the brink of death in this slum every day. That sort of existence, living like animals, brought out the darkness in the human soul. Ripper could be any one of these men, he thought. Pushed beyond their own mind’s endurance and into madness.

  The sounds of the bar faded as he studied each face, reading their lives in the lines that scarred them. Red, angry burns on the side of a face from working near the hellish heat of a furnace day in and day out. Red, raw fingertips from separating bits of rope for hours on end in the workhouse. Or the so-called gin blossoms, red splotches on the nose and face caused by broken capillaries beneath the skin from too much drink.

  Red and raw. All of them.

  A man shouldered his way past a duo that had just arrived at the bar. The three exchanged unpleasantries and Victor let his chair rest on the floor again. One of the men was the one he’d seen at the inquest.

  Ignoring the other two, he made his way to the door. Victor waited a moment and then followed him out into the cool night.

  ~~~

  “I don’t know how I’m going to keep this clean,” Elizabeth said as she looked at herself in the mirror.

  The dress was gorgeous—silver silk with an elaborately embroidered chiffon overlay and pale blue lace trim. It had small poofs at the shoulders, and was beautifully tailored, but unlike her other dresses, had an actual neckline. Most of her décolletage was obscured by floofs of lace, but it was oddly thrilling to be wearing anything that didn’t go up to her neck in some sort of fabric prison. She twisted around to try to see herself from the back.

  She looked great coming and like she was smuggling a small circus going. If only she didn’t have to wear the darn bustle. Simon made an appreciative sound and she turned to give him the better of the two views.

  He, of course, looked perfect. With his black tailcoat and straight cut black wool pants, crisp white shirt, and white silk waistcoat and tie, he looked as though he’d walked off the fashion plate of some Victorian magazine.

  “You look beautiful,” he said, coming to her side.

  Elizabeth smiled and Simon turned to observe himself in the mirror, critically looking for anything out of place.

  “You don’t have to be so hard on George, you know,” she said. “He’s harmless.”

  Simon continued his inspection. “You said he had a reputation to uphold. A ladies’ man?”

  He turned to her and she nodded.

  “Well then,” he said, tugging needlessly on his perfect cuffs. “What serves him better? A husband who doesn’t mind his overly friendly nature with you or one who does?”

  He arched a knowing eyebrow.

  And here she thought he’d been actually jealous. “You sneak.”

  He laughed and then pulled her into his embrace. “I will say though, it is a part that comes very naturally to me. I don’t like to share.”

  Elizabeth felt the thrill that went with hearing those words. Unfortunately, they had places to go and people to meet. “We have the theater and a party and you have sore ribs.”

  He pulled her more tightly against him. “Which are much improved.”

  She sighed and put her hand to his chest. “Simon…”

  He sighed, picked up his gloves and guided her toward the door. As he opened it for her he said with a smile, “No party lasts forever.”

  ~~~

>   The Lyceum Theatre thrummed with excitement after the play. The two women who had passed out due to momentary hysteria were still being tended to as Simon helped Elizabeth on with her coat.

  The story was an age-old tale of outward honor and respectability, and inward evil and lust. It was the very dichotomy that defined the Victorian era. But it was more than mere social commentary. It was a study in man’s dual nature, the evil inside every man.

  The staging had been simple, straight-forward, and Richard Mansfield’s performance as Dr. Jekyll had been so flat, it was on the verge of concave, Simon thought, but his Mr. Hyde was an altogether different story. His on-stage transformation—talent aided merely with cleverly hued make-up and lighting—was impressive. He was repulsive, animalistic, and disturbing.

  The frightening duality of his personality and its parallels to Jack the Ripper were painfully obvious. Was the Ripper a man suffering from a split personality like the good Dr. Jekyll? It seemed far more likely to be the case than a man who could not hide his demon. It was not a comforting thought.

  Mansfield was on the suspect list Travers had given him. Although, like so many others, there was very little credible evidence to link him to the crimes. In some cases, merely being in London at the time seemed sufficient reason for suspicion. However, having seen him as Hyde now, Simon had to wonder.

  “I’d take you backstage to see Richard,” George said as they left their box. “But it’s nearly impossible to wend your way through the crowds down there. He’ll be at the party, I think. I’ll introduce you then, if he can pry himself away from his admirers. Which I cannot guarantee,” he added with a smile.

  He lifted the velvet curtain at the back of the box and held it for them to pass through. “My carriage should be out front. Why don’t you ride with me? We can send for a cab when you’re ready to escape.”

  Elizabeth looked to Simon for confirmation before agreeing.

  “Excellent,” George said, taking Elizabeth’s arm and winding it through his own. “And you can tell me all of the gossip from America. Do you know the Vanderbilts?”