“Excuse me,” I said to Mama as I rose. “I’m going to speak to Calan and Sir Rothschild. It looks like there is trouble.”
“Just as I said.” Mama lifted her eyebrows at me. “Instead of running away from trouble, you seem to run toward it.”
I smiled and left her side to approach my colleagues.
Both men were wearing tuxedos, and I’d seen each of them dance already that evening. Sir Rothschild had brought Bianca to the ball, and they were staying in a room across the hall from me. Bianca was a quiet, unremarkable kind of woman who sat on the edge of the room and observed rather than partook of the festivities. She watched me as I crossed the room to speak to her husband.
“I hope all is well,” I said to Calan and Sir Rothschild as I approached them.
They were talking in low tones, and I couldn’t make out their conversation, but they paused when I joined them.
“Is something wrong? Is there a problem at the museum?” I asked.
“It’s nothing about the Ripper exhibit, if that’s what you mean,” Calan answered. “I recently acquired a large collection of paintings for the Royal Museum of Scotland. But because the artist is English, Bryant has been working with the Royal Museum to get some of the paintings sent to the London Museum for a special exhibit.”
“It’s one of the reasons I asked Calan to join our team,” Sir Rothschild confessed. “I was hoping he could be a liaison between the two museums.”
“The Royal Museum is happy to loan the paintings,” Calan continued. “But it seems they have been lost in transit.”
Sir Rothschild’s face became serious again. “They were supposed to arrive yesterday, but there’s been a delay, and we’re having a hard time tracking them down.”
“Not only is there a huge monetary value involved,” Calan said, “but these paintings are one of a kind. Irreplaceable.”
“Who is the artist?” I asked.
The men glanced at each other, and then Sir Rothschild said,“I’d rather not say—just yet. I know you’re trustworthy, but if news of this leaks, we would be facing significant backlash. Please don’t say anything.”
“Of course not.” I frowned, curious about their secrecy.
“Shall we take a turn on the dance floor?” Sir Rothschild asked, surprising me with the sudden shift in conversation, as if he was trying to distract me.
“Of course.” I smiled as he offered his arm.
We walked onto the dance floor, where dozens of people were dancing a foxtrot.
“This is a pleasant change of pace,” Sir Rothschild said as he slipped his arms around me, and we melded onto the dance floor. “I can almost forget all of my other troubles when I’m dancing.”
He was a surprisingly good dancer, and it was a challenge to keep up with him, though I didn’t mind.
“I’m sorry about the paintings,” I said. “Is there anything to be done about it?”
“I sent a man to investigate. If he has not located the shipment by tomorrow afternoon, I will travel to Glasgow and see what I can find.” He smiled, and his mustache came up at the corners. “But I really don’t want to ruin this evening with worries about the paintings. We have much to celebrate. The Sudetenland is now secure, Germany has her people back where they belong, and not a single drop of bloodshed was required.”
“I had forgotten that you were in favor of Hitler’s acquisition of the Sudetenland.” I couldn’t hide the displeasure in my voice.
Sir Rothschild was quiet for a moment, and then he said, “Perhaps history will prove me wrong, but I believe Adolf Hitler is one of the most brilliant men to have walked this planet, and while I’m a Brit through and through and loyal to my king and country, I think we could learn some valuable lessons from the Germans. Is there anything wrong with that?”
It was a sentiment I’d heard from countless people in London, and it didn’t surprise me. Not anymore. Yet, I knew that history would prove that Adolf Hitler was a madman—whether he wasbrilliant or insane, or perhaps both, was up for debate. Grandmother Maggie had told us that she lived long enough in her 1940s path to see Hitler’s downfall, but it came at the expense of millions of lives. That didn’t seem brilliant to me.
“May I have this dance?” Calan asked as soon as I was finished with Sir Rothschild.
I smiled and nodded. “Of course.”
He took me into his arms, a little closer than Sir Rothschild had, as the band played “They Can’t Take That Away from Me.” Calan began to hum the tune, and I closed my eyes, imagining what it would be like to dance this close with Austen.
Melancholy struck me so quickly, it took my breath away. All I could think about was Austen—his passionate words in the garden. Then, his arms around me on Berner Street and his lips against mine, overwhelming all my senses until I felt as if I might drown in them. I wanted him here, to talk about the kiss, to ask him why it had taken so long for him to confess his feelings and why he continued to keep them locked inside. I wanted to introduce him to Mama and Papa and show him this other world I occupied, one that looked much like 1888 but where I was free to pursue the things I loved.
It suddenly occurred to me that perhaps Austendidknow this life.
