“I won’t. I promise.”
He nodded as he rose and drew me to my feet. “Because when I come back, I want to do this again.” He lowered his face to mine and gave me another kiss, this one as passionate as the last.
And then he was gone—and I was left with even more questions than before.
18
October 15, 1938
London, England
The day was clear and bright as I worked on the exhibit in the basement of Lancaster House. It had been eleven days since Austen had left, but I had endured twenty-two days without him. All I could think about were the kisses we’d shared in my father’s study on that stormy afternoon and his declaration of love before he’d left.
In 1888, London was still gripped by terror of Jack the Ripper, who was now known by his infamous name. Every newspaper in London, and many around the world, was carrying stories about the four murders, wondering if he might strike again. A vigilante committee had been formed in Whitechapel, and people didn’t go out at night if they could help it. I’d upheld my promise to Austen and not returned to Whitechapel other than to volunteer at Toynbee Hall, but I had gone to Bermondsey to the home of Anne Philips, who was Catherine Eddowes’s adult daughter. She had been leery answering questions, and I had surmised that she and her mother had not been close. On the contrary, she’d told me that Catherine had only come around when she needed money, and when Anne had given birth to her third child, her mother only agreed to help if Anne paid her.
When I’d asked Anne if she knew anything about the Freemasons or her mother’s trip to Jerusalem in 1874, Anne had laughed at the very notion of her mother traveling outside of London.
I had prayed more in the past twenty-two days than I had in all my life. And yet, I had no idea how God would orchestrate my future. Every time I felt panicky or hopeless, I reminded myself that I’d surrendered to His will and that I would trust Him. But it took all my willpower not to fight and push and force circumstances to go my way.
Sunshine poured through the thin windows at the top of the exhibit room, offering a bit of natural light. We’d gathered all the information we could find on Jack the Ripper and borrowed all the evidence from the Crime Museum that we wanted to display. Most of the artifacts were items that the victims had been carrying in their pockets on the nights they were murdered, and because they moved from boardinghouse to boardinghouse, they were many and varied. Bars of soap, combs, silverware, small tins of tea and sugar, pins and needles, and other various sundry items. We also had the piece of apron from Catherine Eddowes, the black bonnet from Polly Nichols, and a pile of clothes that were said to have belonged to Mary Jane Kelly, though I’d never seen them before. The brick façade of Buck’s Row was almost finished, and the glass display cases were being assembled. Calan and I were working for hours on end, trying to get everything ready for the grand opening in less than three weeks.
“Did you hear that the paintings have finally arrived?” Calan asked me as we left the lower level to take our lunch break at noon.
“The ones from Scotland?”
“The very same. Bryant is going through them now to make sure all of them arrived safely. They should have been here late last week, but he’s happy they’re here now.”
“Let’s go look at them,” I said to Calan. “I’m curious to see what all the fuss is about.”
We found Sir Rothschild in an empty room on the ground floor with three other men who volunteered in the museum. The roomwas used as a multipurpose space for events or temporary exhibits. There were four large crates, and Sir Rothschild was standing beside the only one that was open. He held a clipboard in one hand as he directed the volunteers to remove the paintings from the crate. There were three of them already leaning against one wall. Each was a pastoral scene of a beautiful landscape. I wasn’t familiar enough with art to know the techniques used, but they were breathtaking. The use of light was so realistic—yet there was a dreamlike quality to each scene. Gilded frames enhanced their beauty, but even if they’d been framed by barnwood, they would have been stunning.
I walked over to the three against the wall and stared at each one.
“Aren’t they incredible?” Calan asked me. “All of the artist’s paintings were done in Scotland from memory of trips he took to places around the world. I believe these are scenes from the Italian countryside.”
“Are all of the paintings landscapes?” I asked.
“Not all of them,” Sir Rothschild said from behind me. “There is one portrait amongst them. I’m looking for it now.”
Calan and I joined Sir Rothschild as he squinted at the list and then went back to the crate. “Here,” he said to one of the volunteers. “It should be the one in the back.”
“Who is the artist?” I asked Sir Rothschild.
“His name is Austen Baird,” Sir Rothschild said. “And this is the rarest of his paintings. It’s calledKate.”
Austen Baird?MyAusten?
As the volunteer lifted the painting and turned it around, my heart pumped wildly.
It was a portrait of me in a beautiful green gown with an intricately embroidered bodice of pink roses.
I stared at the likeness, stunned and at a loss for words. Austen was a painter? I’d had no idea. He had never breathed a word of it to me—and, for reasons I couldn’t identify, I felt betrayed. Why wouldn’t he share something this important with me?
“Good heavens,” Calan said beside me. “She looks just like you, Kathryn. And you bear the same name! What are the odds?”
Sir Rothschild looked from the painting to me and back to the painting, his thoughts inscrutable. “It’s uncanny,” he said. “The hair, the eyes ... the only difference is the clothing.”
“When was this painted?” I asked Sir Rothschild.
