A nod. If someone should try to harm the lady in future?
If you can intervene without revealing yourself, do so. Until I am sure of her part in all this, it is best she remain alive.
Yes, sir, William said, executing an abbreviated bow. After a spin on his heels, he made his way into the evening traffic.
Livingston tapped the head of his cane in thought. I wonder what it all means. Flipping open his pocket watch, he gave a satisfied nod. Time remained for an excellent supper before the play began at the Lyceum. He had much to ponder—there was a hidden player in this game, one with a penchant for murder.
It was becoming an evening ritual—Jonathon Keats at the front door, hat in hand. Tempting as it was to have Mildred tell the man to go home, Cynda couldn’t be that callous. His sincerity was endearing. Besides, in another day or two, she’d be back in her own time, and all this would just be a fond memory.
Jonathon shot to his feet the moment she entered the parlor, bowler clutched in his hands.
He cleared his throat nervously. Good evening, Jacynda. I wished to see how you were faring.
Good evening, Jonathon. I’m doing fairly well, considering.
Thank you for asking. She gestured and he returned to his place on the couch. Before she could take a seat, he cleared his throat again.
Ummm, if you are amenable, I would appreciate it if you would, ummm…close the door. I have something of a personal nature to discuss.
Certainly, Jonathon. She closed the door.
Cynda chose to sit in the chair, not on the couch, which caused a brief look of disappointment to flit across her visitor’s face.
I…uh… A tug on his shirt collar. Your shoulder, how is it today?
Stiff and sore, like something heavy tromped on it, she said.
Of course. His eyes darted around the room and then back to his hat.
Jonathon? she asked as sweetly as she could. Get on with it!
Alastair has informed me of the particulars regarding the death of your lover. I must strongly urge you to go to the police.
She shook her head. That is not possible.
I know it will be difficult, but––
This is not open for discussion. She rose. Now if you will excuse me…
He looked painfully uncomfortable. The hat did a quick spin in his hands. Please, sit down. I have something else I wish to speak to you about.
She lowered herself into the chair. Go on.
…I feel it is imperative that you return to New York as soon as possible. If money is an issue, I would be willing to purchase the ticket and escort you to Southampton to ensure your safety.
He rose before she could reply. I understand there is another issue at stake…ummm…and know that it would present a difficulty for you to return to your family in your…ah…state, he stumbled on, the hat now spinning in time with his agitation.
She gestured for him to continue, at a loss as to where this was leading.
I am fond of you, Jacynda, and have no desire that your reputation be sullied. I personally do not mind that you are…ah…experienced. Why should it be so morally indecent for a woman to have a lover, and yet a man may take as many as— He stopped abruptly, his face blooming crimson. Well, you understand.
Sit, she said, pointing at the couch, and please speak English, Jonathon.
He sank onto the cushions. Another tug at the collar, though plainly it wasn’t tight. The hat twirled. She gestured and he reluctantly handed it over. With nothing to muss with, his hands tumbled into a pile in his lap.
Go on, she ordered, her patience nearing what promised to be a tumultuous end.
I apologize; I’ve done this badly. I am here to offer my hand in marriage, to ensure that your…unborn child is not a…that he or she be seen as legitimate. I have personal knowledge of how…devastating that can be to a woman. He blinked in consternation. Not that I, personally, have caused such a situation, however… He hesitated and then tried again, We can wed as swiftly as the law will allow, and then you may leave for New York where you will be safe. With my name, you will not face criticism for your condition. Should anyone inquire, you may say the child is mine. I will come to visit you as soon as possible. We can make arrangements for your return once we are sure you are in no further danger.
Child? Marriage? Apparently, Alastair had shared his misdiagnosis with the honorable Mr. Keats.
The expression on Jonathon’s face was so serious she didn’t dare laugh. There was no deception on his part; he was genuinely offering to marry her and accept another man’s child as his own to protect her reputation. In 2057 it wouldn’t matter either way. To the Victorians, this was a big deal.
Clearly uneasy at her silence, he pressed his case. I have a steady position with a decent salary, though my hours are rather irregular. I rent comfortable rooms in Bloomsbury. We can move to another location if you wish, as long as it is within London. If, in time, you find me acceptable, I would like to have children of our own. I am quite taken with you, Jacynda, and do not make this proposal lightly.
Oh, heavens. Cynda lowered her eyes to the hat in her lap. Its solid and straightforward appearance was at odds with its owner—at least the man she remembered from the first night they’d met. The lighthearted Keats had vanished, and what was left behind confused her.
Why are you making this offer? There was something deeper here, but Cynda knew it would only cheapen his gesture if she asked. She took her time formulating the answer. When she raised her eyes, she found his riveted on her.
Rovers weren’t supposed to face this kind of thing. Just a Visitor, Never a Participant, that was the mantra. Still, how could she not be touched by such a humane gesture?
Cynda made sure her tone was soft and full of respect. You are an incredible gentleman, Jonathon. That earned her a smile. I am honored by your offer. However, I am not pregnant.
Frank surprise replaced the smile. Oh…oh…ah…but I thought… A perturbed frown. Alastair said he thought you were.
Well, Alastair may be a brilliant physician, but he is not always right. I’m not hatching. That garnered a chuckle. And I am not leaving for New York quite yet. The humor vanished.
Before he could protest, she continued, I’m staying a little while longer. I promise I will be careful.
Alastair said you would be difficult on that point.
He would be right about that.
Do you have any notion why someone would kill your lover or want to harm you? he asked.
No, I honestly don’t.
Keats drummed his fingers on a knee. And my offer of marriage?
Startled, she realized she’d not officially turned him down. I assumed it was contingent on me being pregnant.
He opened his mouth, and then shut it.
I am honored, but I must decline. We know little about each other and that is not a good basis for a marriage. You have no clue.
Jonathon gave a slow nod and then a wider smile of relief. I agree.
He rose and collected the bowler. As he did, he leaned close and brushed a kiss on her cheek. You are a remarkable woman, Miss Lassiter.
She lightly kissed his cheek in response.
Not as remarkable as you are, Mr. Keats.
Once on the street, Keats took a deep breath and slowly let it out. Instead of disappointment, he felt some odd kind of rapture, as if he’d narrowly escaped some hideous fate. That puzzled him.
Being married to Jacynda wouldn’t be a penance: she was an intelligent, enchanting woman and no doubt quite passionate.
And yet… Had his father thought the same of his mother, only to learn that she despised him and would not allow him to touch her?
I am not my father, he muttered, clapping the bowler on his head. Far from it. He marched toward the main road, whistling a tune, attempting to push his nagging doubts aside.
No, luv, never seen him, the woman replied. Sounds like a right nice lad, though.
Yes, he was… Cynda said, visualizing Chris in his Victorian finery.
Fancy an apple? the woman asked, holding up a prize specimen.
Yes, thank you. Cynda purchased the fruit and gave it to the first urchin she found. The child stared at her like she’d handed over the Crown Jewels.
Weary of trudging the same old route, and leery of Dorset Street, Cynda went west along Aldgate High Street toward St.
Botolph’s Church. She stopped at the first pub, The Bull Inn, and made the circuit inside. No Samuelson, and the publican didn’t remember Chris, either.
While trying to decide where to go next, Cynda leaned against the building, adjusting a boot. Horses came and went from the livery stable next door with a noisy clatter.
Two women exited the pub. One waved farewell and walked toward the church. The other remained by the entrance, adjusting her red neckerchief. She removed her bonnet and ran her fingers through her dark auburn hair. Though thin, her face had a puffiness that suggested ill health.
Troubles with your boot? she asked, noting Cynda’s battle.
The woman repositioned her hat and rammed the hatpin back home.
Cynda nodded. They pinch all the time. I just can’t seem to get them right.
The woman eyed her. You’re not from hereabouts, are you?
No. I’m from New York. Don’t worry, I’m not taking any trade tonight.
A shrug. Don’t bother me none. I got my doss money. What’s New York like?
Pretty much like here, Cynda said, straightening up. Good and bad.
A snort. If you’re not earning your crust, why are you here, then?
Looking for a particular fellow, Cynda replied, working on the other boot.
He do a runner on you? the woman asked.
In a way. She supplied Chris’ description.
Sorry, luv, I just got back from Kent. Been hoppin’. Not a good year for it.
Oh, I see. Sorry.
Right fine hat you got there, the woman added.
Thank you. Yours is quite nice as well.
A smile. Well, best be off to Shoe Lane before it gets too late.
Be careful, Cynda warned.
Oh, I’m not fretting about the killer, the woman said, winking conspiratorially. She sang her way up the street.
Then you’re about the only one, Cynda murmured.