Ripper

  To Amelia Caroline, my sassy, strong, beautiful girl.

  Amy Carol Reeves

  Woodbury, Minnesota

  Copyright Information

  Ripper © 2012 by Amy Carol Reeves.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Flux, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  As the purchaser of this ebook, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. The text may not be otherwise reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or recorded on any other storage device in any form or by any means.

  Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the publisher is a violation of the author’s copyright and is illegal and punishable by law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Cover models used for illustrative purposes only and may not endorse or represent the book’s subject.

  First e-book edition ©2012

  E-book ISBN: 9780738732701

  Book design by Bob Gaul

  Cover art © Dominick Finelle/The July Group

  Cover design by Kevin R. Brown

  Interior map illustration © Chris Down

  Flux is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  Flux does not participate in, endorse, or have any authority or responsibility concerning private business arrangements between our authors and the public.

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  Flux

  Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  2143 Wooddale Drive

  Woodbury, MN 55125

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  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Acknowledgments

  First and foremost, I would like to thank my incredible agent, Jessica Sinsheimer. If ever I’m trying to survive a sinking ship, I definitely want Jessica with me. And I owe so much gratitude to everyone at Flux: to my editor, Brian Farrey-Latz, for extensive help editing, to Sandy Sullivan for helping me tease through the final edits, and to my publicist, Courtney Colton.

  I am greatly indebted to my writing mentors throughout the years. Specifically, I would like to thank my creative writing professor, Dr. Del Doughty, for telling me ten years ago that I should be a writer. I would also like to thank my sage dissertation director and friend, Dr. Paula Feldman, for urging me on as a writer. And I simply cannot repay Dr. Dianne Johnson for encouraging me as I began writing books for young adults.

  I’d like to thank friend, fellow Anglophile, and writer Jamieson Ridenhour for reading part of an early draft and for giving advice. Jamie is awesome for knowing everything about London, vampires, werewolves, Aleister Crowley, and Ripper lore. A well of gratitude to my friend and fellow lover of Brontë novel hunks, Nicole Fisk; she sent me insightful and careful critiques for the rough draft of the novel and kept me sane and amused during this whole process.

  And this book simply would not exist if it weren’t for Team Reeves. My husband, Shawn Reeves, read draft after draft after draft of Ripper and provided honest and detailed feedback. Finally, I can’t forget to thank my children, Atticus and Amelia, whose paper airplanes, sticky fingers, and fake vampire teeth kept me from taking myself too seriously.

  PART I

  “I was weary of an existence all passive.”

  —Jane Eyre

  One

  London—August 1888

  Damn.”

  If the pickpocket had taken anything other than that, I could have let it go. But not Mother’s brooch. I had to keep that.

  Grandmother, in front of me and already stepping into the coach, heard the curse and clucked her tongue. Richard, her long-time servant, held the carriage door open for me. His eyes widened in exasperation.

  “Sorry, I’m so sorry,” I gasped to him and to Grandmother before running after the soot-streaked boy. This pickpocket was a slick one. Even as he ran from me, I saw him snatch a pocket watch from an unwary gentleman. I would not have noticed the thievery if it had not been for my years in Ireland where I had learned to pay attention to any and every feather-brush from passersby. The brooch had been an easy catch, exposed as I clutched Grandmother’s stack of new purchases—all the shiny boxes with hats and beaded gloves.

  “Arabella! Arabella!”

  Grandmother’s voice rang out from the open window of her carriage. I would get a tongue-lashing from her later: “Seventeen-years-old, Arabella! And running through the streets!”

  While I ran, I thought of the many times I had disappointed Grandmother since coming to live with her two months before. I thought of all the behaviors that she deemed necessary, of all the etiquette that she deemed proper. I had tried to comply, but most of her rules seemed nonsensical and as enticing as rotten fruit.

  Focus, Abbie.

  Running against the crush of late afternoon Knightsbridge shoppers, I was having difficulty keeping up with the boy. My heart pounded in my chest. He dashed across the Sloane Street intersection, and a carriage narrowly missed colliding with him.

  “Stop, please stop!”

  The boy continued, unhindered by my shouts, even quickening his pace. I ran faster, catching up with him a bit as we approached the corner of Hyde Park. I nearly overtook him there. But then I collided with a cluster of schoolchildren, and I lost sight of him.

  Dizzied, I stopped and scanned the scene around me. Like a bloom, evening’s pink flush spread rapidly across the sky. Children and dogs ran within the park boundaries. Shop owners closed their doors. The cacophony of city shouts and street noises seemed to ring out louder just as church bells everywhere chimed the five o’clock hour. When I was about to give up, I saw the boy again, running fast past the Wellington Arch and straight into Green Park.

  He continued east.

  “Stop!”

  Shouting was futile, and I paused, telling myself that this chase was foolhardy and useless.

  But I knew I would keep going, even against my better judgment. The brooch was a material connection to Mother, one of the few items of hers that I had left.

  I had to get it back.

  The chase continued, and I dashed after him into the park.

  The path was damp from a recent rain shower, and as we neared Buckingham Palace, the boy fell. I almost caught him, but he was up and running again just as I was about to grab his jacket collar.

  As we ran along the Strand, I stumbled twice—splashing mud upon my skirt. We ran down several more streets and rather than tiring, I began to feel renewed energy. I bolted after him, nearly catching him once again as we passed St. Paul’s Cathedral, but then, I almost lost him among the cheesemongers’ stands within the Leadenhall Street Market.

  With every passing block, we penetrated deeper into the East End.

  I smelled the odor of the slaughterhouses. Crowds of barefoot children dashed in and out of workhouse alleys. Women, their mothers perhaps, positioned themselves under streetlamps for their nightly occupations.

  At the base of a set of concrete steps, the boy suddenly stopped and turned around to face me. A large, worn brick building loomed behind him.
A shiny, newly engraved sign that had been bolted neatly into the bricks caught my eye: Whitechapel Hospital for Women. Est. 1883.

  I stopped, only a few yards away from the child.

  “I have money for you,” I said quickly, worried that he might take off. “Four crowns. You can have them. That brooch is worth nothing. I only want it back because it belonged to my mother. She’s dead now.”

  The child cocked his head, very serious about our exchange. He studied me from under his cap, and then I saw his gaze focus greedily on the coins on my palm. He wanted and needed the money. Now that I stood closer to him, I saw clearly his dirty, broken fingernails, that his cheekbones were too prominent for a boy in good health. I wondered what else he needed.

  “Are you hungry?”

  No reply. He was resolved to remain mute.

  The sky darkened, and I knew I had to return home. It was a long way to Grandmother’s house in Kensington, and I worried that she might contact the police if she had not already.

  “Here,” I said, taking one cautious step closer to the boy. “Drop the brooch, and I’ll toss the coins to you in this purse.”

  I dropped the coins inside the purse and tightened the drawstring.

  “Deal?”

  He remained silent, but I saw agreement in his eyes; he dropped the brooch when I tossed the purse to him. As I stepped forward and stooped to pick the brooch up, I expected him to bolt down the street. Instead, he stood still, facing me.

  Suddenly, I felt sucked into another place.

  The boy, the brick building, the street, everything before me melted away. It was as if I had been sucked into a black cloud. Then some of the darkness dissipated, swirled away a bit as I envisioned burning candles. Torches. Dusky-robed figures chanting something in a foreign tongue. I could see no faces, but I saw a chalice in the hands of one of the figures.

  Then I found myself once again in the street facing the boy.

  What had just happened?

  The boy stood where he was, but a glassy, sharp look had taken over his eyes.

  “Goodbye, dollygirl,” he said before running away.

  My heart pounded; I reeled and then steadied myself. The vision, the flash of change that had come over the boy, shook my core.

  Shouts from a nearby pub and a mangy pack of dogs running past reminded me that I had to return home, but I felt frightened and physically exhausted from the chase.

  A very large wagon stacked with wooden boxes rode past me—west. I hopped onto the back end, my limbs still trembling violently from my experience.

  Two

  While walking up the front steps of Grandmother’s grand house in Kensington, all of my alarm at the evening’s events faded momentarily as I prepared to face her wrath.

  I chewed my lip. Perhaps, like my mother, I could be a governess. After tonight, I could not imagine Grandmother allowing me to live with her any longer. She would almost certainly send me away. Light blazed from every window of her house, and I pictured the fury that seemed to burn Grandmother from the inside out whenever I embarrassed her. This evening would be the last straw.

  Richard opened the door for me. Relief washed over his face, lightening briefly the deep folds upon his cheeks. “Miss Arabella is here, Madame!”

  There came no reply from the parlor, where I knew Grandmother would be; instead, I heard only the cracking of the fire in that little room.

  I smiled guiltily at Richard. He raised his graying eyebrows in an expression of amusement and chastisement and embarked upon a gentle tirade: “Miss Abbie, your grandmother is very … put out. She has been waiting for you in great anxiety for the past several hours. She already has the police out looking for you. And you are most fortunate that Ellen has the evening off. Otherwise, you know the uproar she might have made about this.”

  Ellen, Grandmother’s other servant, had a little of the hysteric in her.

  Richard helped remove my coat. “And you missed dinner. I will have to see about reheating some bread and pork. But that will be after I alert the police that you are home. Safe.”

  At that moment, I saw my reflection in the entrance hall mirror. Not only had mud splattered upon my dress, but it had somehow become streaked down my cheeks. My hair flared out in wild red coils. I looked insane, like a madwoman—a bustle-clad Medusa.

  “Thank you, Richard. And I am very sorry for the trouble I have caused for you. Please tell Grandmother that I’m going to go upstairs to make myself a little more presentable.”

  “An excellent idea, Miss Abbie,” Richard said sharply. However, just before I turned to walk up the stairs, he caught my wrist. I grinned and, opening my fingers, showed him the brooch in my palm.

  “Triumphant,” I whispered.

  Richard smiled and shook his head.

  After placing the brooch on my bedroom dresser, I began washing my face in the porcelain washbasin. I splashed my cheeks with the icy water and then, on a split-second urge, plunged my entire head into the bowl. The rush of water into my eyes, my nose, brought no stinging relief to me. So I surfaced. I stared at the brooch as I dried my hair and wondered if I was sane. The chase into the East End tonight had been foolish, and then the vision, and the child’s changed expression—that had seemed impossible. Perhaps I was losing my mind from my grief over Mother’s recent death. Her illness had been brief and terrible. I stifled a sob. Memories of her loomed like a giant prism distorting, even occluding, my thoughts.

  The clock over the fireplace in my bedroom struck nine o’clock, and I knew that I would have to meet with Grandmother soon.

  After changing my clothes, I walked downstairs to face her.

  Grandmother sat near the heat of the parlor fire. Her back remained ramrod-straight while she stroked the belly of her pug, Jupe. In her hand, she held a small copy of Tenny­son’s poems.

  As she glared at me over her spectacles, I could see the proud forbearance that Mother must have endured before she eloped with my poor father. Grandmother wore her gray hair pulled into a perfect geometric knot at the back of her head. Her side hair swooped neatly over her ears, though not low enough to cover the dangling pearl-

  drop earrings.

  “Sit down, Arabella.” She gestured toward the cushioned chair facing her. She had lectured me many times in the past weeks. But this would be different. Something stony tinged her voice, and I knew that I would only have to wait a few minutes before hearing her banish me for good from her house.

  She sat silently, laying her book in her lap beside Jupe and staring at me.

  Overwhelmed by both shame and fury, I glanced sideways into the flames.

  I half-hoped for Grandmother’s dismissal; I had done nothing, felt nothing significant since coming here. It had all been hours of embroidering, card parties, and tea. And I knew that all of this life was purposed toward one point only—my eventual marriage. Then it would all be the same dance in a different household.

  But instead of decreeing an instant dismissal, she said nothing. I waited. Then, after she picked up her teacup and took a deep swallow: “You know, Arabella, that in these past two months, I have been trying to save you.”

  “From what?”

  “From what?” She set her teacup down with such force that the tea splashed up, spilling over the rim and onto the side table. “From yourself, Arabella Sharp, from your own naïvety, and … from your past.”

  “Save me?”

  I began to feel incredulous as I realized what drove all of this. Grandmother was seeking atonement for her own sins. She had banished Mother nearly twenty years ago for eloping with my father, Jacque Sharp. This was a ferocious haunt to her now.

  No, I thought disappointedly. She is not going to send me away.

  I remembered facing Mother’s grave after her burial service, contemplating where I would go next.
But then, in that Dublin graveyard, I had suddenly felt Grandmother’s hand, clawlike, upon my shoulder. Though I had never met Lady Charlotte Westfield, I instantly surmised her identity even under her full-mourning attire. Her aquiline nose protruded from under the dark crêpe veil; her poise remained undaunted by the falling rains. This woman was the stepmother in all of the fairy tales Mother told to me, the Fury in every myth. And I left that very day with her, for my new life in London.

  “Do you not understand the way things work?” Grandmother continued. “Your background is disgraceful. I have told everyone as little as possible about your mother’s life since she left me. Do you think I can tell anyone that she could barely make ends meet as a governess and that, after your father died, she moved you from town to town, always looking for some well-to-do family to pay her to give lessons to their young brats?”

  “But it was you, Grandmother, who refused to communicate with Mother anymore after she married my father. It was you who cut her off from … ”

  “Enough!” Grandmother raised her hand to silence me. I saw that she trembled.

  “I have saved you from a life of poverty. I have offered you a clean start, another chance. If we keep your background quiet, you might marry well, and you just might become respectable. But if you run through the streets as you did today, you will destroy everything that I am trying to do for you.”

  Ingratitude. That was the other element to this lecture.

  “You, Arabella, are completely ignorant of the way you must act in London. I do not even want to know where you ran to this evening. In fact, never tell me. But it was dangerous not only to your life, but to your reputation—which you must work harder than most to solidify. If anyone saw you … ”

  I began to feel suffocated, annoyed, and this did not go unmissed by Grandmother.

  She glared at me pointedly, “I have been debating whether or not to allow you to do something. But I am convinced that your blatant ingratitude and your unwillingness to display the dignity of your class demands that I permit it.”