When I left the restroom, I was near the portrait gallery, so I slipped into the long, narrow room to look at Austen’s paintings. It still amazed me that he had done this work. If we had more time, I would love to go to Loch Lomond and see his painting studio. Watch him create one of these masterpieces. It was a marvel how he used light to convey the mood of each painting, and how he could transport me to another place and time with his creations.
I stopped in front of the portrait of me. Of all Austen’s paintings, this one made me feel the closest to him. I could imagine him brushing each stroke of paint to create my cheeks, my eyes, my lips—almost as if he was caressing them with his fingers now. Warmth filled me at the memories of all the kisses we’d shared in the past couple of weeks.
But then reality washed over me as I thought about all the kisses we would be denied after I forfeited 1888.
Tears stung my eyes, and I had to work valiantly not to cry.
“It’s a stunning portrait, is it not?” Sir Rothschild asked as he entered the room.
I blinked several times before I turned to him and smiled, surprised that he’d found me here.
“This is the painting that first caught my eye,” he continued ashe looked from the painting back to me. “The one that made me interested in Austen Baird’s work. I’d already met you in Washington, and when I saw this, I was shocked at the likeness. I was convinced it was you, until I learned that Mr. Baird had painted it in 1889—and it couldn’t be you.” He chuckled and shook his head. “But it made me curious to see all his other paintings. I had assumed they would all be portraits. I was surprised to learn that this was the only portrait he’d ever painted.”
“It is an uncanny likeness,” I said, my voice weaker than I liked.
“I’m happy that it is,” Sir Rothschild said. “Because it led me to investigate this painter, and I was delighted at what I discovered. Nothing happens by chance. I’m convinced of that.”
I nodded, unable to find words to express my agreement.
“And now you’re here,” he said with a smile. “Not only have you created a spectacular exhibit, but you’re able to see this portrait for yourself. I had so hoped you could. It isn’t every day that we see a picture of ourselves from the past.”
I looked up at him quickly, but he was smiling happily as he admired the portrait.
“I suppose it’s not uncommon to have a doppelgänger—is that the word the Germans use?” He chuckled again. “With so many people in the world, both past and present, there has to be others who look like us.”
I swallowed my nerves and said, “I suppose so.”
“Well.” He clasped his hands, apparently ready to move on. “We should prepare to receive the king and queen. They will want a personal tour.” He motioned toward the door, and I preceded him out of the gallery.
Thirty minutes later, I was standing beside Calan, just inside the special exhibit room in the basement of Lancaster House when the king and queen were escorted in by Sir Rothschild. They were dressed in formal evening wear, which made me assume they had other plans beyond attending the grand opening. The queen’s jewelry sparkled, and the king was boasting a set of ribbons and medals on his chest.
I lifted my chin, determined to enjoy the culmination of weeks of hard work. Meeting the King and Queen of England was an honor I wouldn’t waste, even though my heart was filled with the weight of many concerns.
“Your Majesties,” Sir Rothschild said, “may I present our lead curator, Mr. Calan McCaffrey from the Royal Museum of Scotland, and our assistant curator, Miss Kathryn Voland from the Smithsonian Institute.”
I offered the king and queen a curtsy while Calan bowed.
“How do you do?” I asked them.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Queen Elizabeth said with a smile.
I rose from my curtsy. “It’s an honor to have both of you visit the museum today.”
“We’ve been apprised of the situation with your father,” King George said, rocking back on his heels slightly. “And I want you to know that everyone is cooperating to find him as quickly as possible.”
Tears threatened again, but I managed to smile. “Thank you.”
“Of course.”
“Shall we begin the tour?” Sir Rothschild asked as he motioned toward the exhibit.
I walked on one side of King George and Queen Elizabeth, while Sir Rothschild and Calan walked on the other.
“Miss Voland,” Sir Rothschild said, “would you like to give a brief history of what happened in 1888 in Whitechapel?”
“Of course.”
We’d set up the exhibit in sort of a timeline, starting near the façade of Buck’s Row, where the first murder had taken place. “In the early morning hours of Friday, August 31, 1888, the first victim, Mary Ann Nichols, commonly known as Polly, was found here at Buck’s Row in Whitechapel.”
