Bryant looked at his clipboard and said, “1889.”
“So, it couldn’t be our Kathryn,” Calan said.
“Of course not.” My voice shook.
“It’s the most beautiful, emotional painting I’ve ever seen,” Sir Rothschild said as he took it from the volunteer and brought it to the wall, where he set it beside the others. He stepped back to admire it. “It is the stunning centerpiece in Baird’s collection. There is such pain and heartache in the model’s eyes, almost as if the artist was feeling the pain himself.”
My heart broke, thinking of Austen painting this portrait the year after I left him. It hadn’t happened yet in my other path, but the pain reflected in the portrait was the pain in his heart.
“I would love to know the story behind the painting.” Calan sighed. “She must have been the love of his life. There’s no other way to capture such a remarkable portrait. But it couldn’t have ended well. I asked Mr. Baird about her when I went to his home in Loch Lomond to inquire after this portrait, but he refused to say anything.”
“You spoke to him?” I asked Calan.
“Briefly. I was surprised he sold me the painting. It appeared to be very painful for him to let it go. He wouldn’t speak of the model.” Calan turned to Sir Rothschild. “Do you know anything about her?”
“I know nothing of the model,” Sir Rothschild said. “Not much is known of Austen Baird’s life.”
“How did you come across his paintings?” I asked.
“It wasn’t easy since they are unsigned,” Sir Rothschild said. “After the Great War, someone began to piece them together under the same artist. For a time, no one knew who the artist was, andthen a receipt attached to one of the pastoral paintings from a sale in 1888 was found. It identified the artist’s name.”
I could only stare, stunned and amazed at what I was learning about the man I thought I knew better than anyone. He’d kept this part of his life a secret from me, too. Perhaps that was what he was hiding in his study, and that was probably what he was doing when he went to his cottage or traveled abroad. The crates he’d sent out of his home the morning I’d come upon him weren’t paintings from his parents’ collection. They were more than likely commissioned works that he was sending to the buyer. The receipt that had identified him from 1888 could have been the receipt I saw him sign before the movers left.
A yearning grew so deep in my chest, it was a physical pain. I wanted to run to Austen and ask him why he’d never told me. And ask him about the portrait I didn’t know he’d painted. But if it was done in 1889, he didn’t even know about it yet. I couldn’t talk to the Austen of 1888.
But perhaps I could talk to the Austen in 1938.
“He’s still alive?” I asked.
“I believe so,” Sir Rothschild said.
“Does he live near Loch Lomond?”
“After several paintings were donated to the Royal Museum of Scotland,” Calan said, “I began to research and finally found that Mr. Baird had a home in London and a cottage in Loch Lomond. I visited him at his cottage and was able to acquire several more, including the portrait.”
“But he still has a home in London?”
“I believe so, but I don’t know where it might be.”
I had to ask Austen about the paintings.
“Will you excuse me?” I asked. “I’m taking my lunch, and I’ll be back as soon as I’m able.”
“Of course,” Sir Rothschild said. “Take all the time you need.”
I was almost out the door when Sir Rothschild stopped me. “I forgot to mention—I’ve been invited to consult at Versailles at the Musée de l’Histoire de France. I’ve been putting it off, waiting forthis shipment, but now that it’s here, I shouldn’t delay another day. If I’m gone before you return, please know that I will instruct the staff and volunteers to assist you in any way, and should you need me, you can contact me at the Hôtel Westminster.”
“I think we have everything under control,” I said, eager to get away. “When should we expect you to return?”
“A week, hopefully no longer.”
I nodded. “I’ll see you when you return.” I didn’t want to wait another moment but took the stairs up to my office and grabbed my hat and purse before I left Lancaster House.
I was breaking every rule and risking everything I held dear to look for Austen in this path. It was a foolish, headstrong, and impetuous decision—the very thing I’d promised him I wouldn’t do. But after seeing the portrait and witnessing the pain he’d painted into my eyes, my heart yearned to be near Austen. I needed to go to Wilton Crescent. I couldn’t explain it.
I just had to see him.
I’d never been so nervous before in my life. I didn’t know if Austen still lived at 12 Wilton Crescent or if he’d even be in London. Perhaps he was in his cottage at Loch Lomond or somewhere else entirely.
