by Anna Larner
Newly appointed art curator Molly Goode is committed to diversifying her museum’s collection. When Georgina Wright, the museum’s aloof benefactor, asks for Molly’s help in identifying the provenance of a 19th century portrait of social activist Josephine Brancaster, Molly welcomes the opportunity, even if it means spending time with the standoffish financier. But passions soon flare as the women uncover the heartbreaking story of doomed lesbian love behind the watercolor painted by Josephine’s lover, Edith Hewitt.
As their love blossoms, Molly is determined to display Edith’s portrait of Josephine and to tell their story in the museum, but she needs the influential Georgina to help convince the board. When an unforeseen twist in the painting’s provenance forces Georgina to confront her own painful past, will history repeat itself, or can Molly and Georgina’s love prevail?
What Reviewers Say About Anna Larner’s Work
Highland Fling
“[This book] just kept surprising me at every turn! I had a few moments of ‘Really did I just read that?’ and ‘Did she just say that?’ I love when a book does this because you feel the writer is writing outside the box. …All in all, I loved Highland Fling and think Anna Larner will definitely be an author I’ll be watching out for.”—Les Rêveur
“…this is one of those books that breathes ‘good reading.’ The author Larner has the perfect ear for a certain type of LGBT space, and weaves a convincing queer & lesbian psychogeography into the narrative, and her own experiences and previous work with archiving and creating space for LGBT history to be shared gives this book an authentic feel, not just in tone, geography and accent but also the emotional honesty that marks this book out as such a charming read.”—Gscene Magazine
Love’s Portrait
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Love’s Portrait
© 2019 By Anna Larner. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-1-63555-058-0
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First Edition: April 2019
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Credits
Editor: Ruth Sternglantz
Production Design: Susan Ramundo
Cover Design By Tammy Seidick
By the Author
Highland Fling
Love’s Portrait
Acknowledgments
A heartfelt thank you to the BSB team, in particular, Len Barot, Sandy Lowe, and Ruth Sternglantz.
To my awesome beta readers, Bridget, Jen, Kay, Lis, Rita, Sue G, Sue L, thank you from the bottom of my heart for your continued amazing support.
To my wonderful partner, family, and friends—thank you, as ever, for your love.
To readers—a huge thank you! For when you support one author, you support us all, helping lesbian fiction to grow ever stronger so that our lives can be shared and celebrated with the turn of each page.
Dedication
For Ang
Chapter One
“Am I very late?” Molly wrestled free of her coat and squinted at the office clock through the mist of her steamed-up glasses.
“Well, let’s put it this way, you’re not very on time. Was it Daisy May again?” Fran asked with a tone that suggested she already knew the answer.
“It’s not her fault. She’s just not at her best, first thing.”
“You need to get rid of her.”
Molly took off her glasses and glared at her colleague. “Fran Godfrey. How can you say that?”
“And how can you own a car that won’t start in the morning, hates the cold, not to mention the wet, shudders at the merest suggestion of speed, and stalls at the hint of a hill?”
“Well, I find your remarks uncalled for and bordering on disloyal.”
The strip light above their heads fizzed and flickered. Molly climbed with a wobble onto her chair, took off her shoe, and banged the end of the light fixture, which gave a last fizz before returning the room to its headachy ambiance.
She dropped down to the floor with a sigh. “Daisy May, I feel sure, would speak very highly of you. If she could speak, obviously.”
“Obviously. The reason that car and I know each other so well is that I’ve spent more time than is decent pushing her backside. How long have you worked here?”
“Oh, let me think.” Molly proceeded to silently count on her fingers. “Seven months. You know, it seems like longer.”
“Seven months. And how many times have I had to push your car?”
Molly shrugged. “Once or twice maybe.”
“Four times. And in case it had somehow escaped your notice, I am not in the first flush of youth and such exertions are not only ungainly, but they are decidedly inadvisable.”
Molly winced with guilt at the memory of Fran, legs apart, bracing herself against the rear end of her vintage Mini. “Of course. And it goes without saying that Daisy May more than sympathizes and is very grateful for your assistance.” Molly rifled through the files and folders on her desk. “Don’t suppose you’ve seen my notes for the funding meeting? I’m certain I left them right here by my pencil pot.” Her heart sank as a sickening flashback called to mind the image of the papers resting underneath a jar of peanut butter on her kitchen table. Bugger.
Fran shook her head. “Sorry, no, and speaking of grateful, Molly Goode, Daisy May’s not the only one who should be thanking me. Evelyn was in here ten minutes ago asking for you.”
“What? Oh no, we were meant to meet before the meeting. I’ve no time to print my notes out again.”
Molly rummaged in the bin, picking through used teabags and browning apple cores for the last but one version of her notes. She flattened out the screwed-up ball of pages and brushed away the hole-punched paper circles that clung to the tea-stained sheets. “What did you tell her?”
“I told her”—Fran looked up and smiled sympathetically—“that you were probably held up by your work in the storeroom.”
“Storeroom. Excellent. Thank you. I owe you big time.” Molly took a deep breath. “Right.” She looked at the door and then at Fran.
“What now?” Fran asked, her eyes raised wearily at Molly.
“Was she in a good mood by any chance? Or was her neck all prickly pink?”
“Let’s just say I wouldn’t keep her waiting any longer.”
“That bad? Right.”
“Go!” Fran pointed to the door. “Oh, and Molly. Remember to impress upon them that the renovated annex would be the perfect venue for our community space. It’ll be a real push in the right direction.”
“Will do. Wish me luck.”
“Good luck.”
Molly hurried along the first floor corridor that led from the windowless office she shared with Fran to Evelyn’s suite of rooms resplendent in oak panelling and bathed in the soft caress of natural light.
The length of the corridor always seemed to shift, shrinking and expanding to fit the moment. If Molly was late, like this morning, it felt like miles. If she had reason to want to drag out her arrival, she always seemed to arrive at Evelyn’s door with alarming speed. T
he polished brass nameplate which read Ms. Evelyn Fox, Director never ceased to fill her with dread.
“Morning, Molly.” The efficient voice of Evelyn’s secretary Marianne had a comforting familiarly to it. She was the first person Molly had met when interviewing for her post as Curator of Fine Arts. It felt like yesterday that she had stood at Evelyn’s door mustering the courage to knock.
Molly glanced across to Marianne seated neatly behind her computer in her immaculate office. “Morning. I’m a little behind. Is Evelyn in?”
Marianne shook her head. “She’s in the conference room. The chairman arrived early.”
“He did?” Crap.
Molly stared for a moment at the closed conference room door. She could just make out the dull hum of discussion and then Evelyn’s joyless laughter that always, like her smile, seemed to end too abruptly.
Molly counted to three in her head before knocking politely and entering on command.
“Molly, wonderful. Please join us.” Evelyn’s words welcomed Molly, while her piercing eyes held the pointed question, Molly was sure, of her lateness. “And, of course, you’ve met Mark before.”
“Yes, indeed. Good morning, Mr. Drew.” Molly held out her hand and the chairman of the museum’s trustees shook it in a perfunctory way that spoke of his disinterest in her. Molly couldn’t decide whether his lack of interest was because she was not important enough to cause him concern or not glamorous enough to trigger his arousal. She suspected it might be both.
Evelyn gestured for Molly to take a seat opposite her at the large oval table.
“Mark, Molly has been bringing together ideas to develop the museum’s reach.” Evelyn’s focus returned to note making. “Isn’t that so?”
“Yes, absolutely.” Molly cleared her throat and tapped her notes together against the table in readiness to read out her thoughts. At once a flutter of tiny white paper circles drifted across the table to rest at Evelyn’s pen. One paper dot caught the air from God knows where and settled on the chairman’s tie. It would have been a joyful moment had it been a wedding.
Molly quickly flattened her notes against the table. Oh my God. Keep going. “The Heritage Lottery Fund has been very supportive of initiatives which promote diversity. In February each year, for example, museums nationwide participate in LGBT history month—”
Evelyn raised her pen just slightly in the air. The signal was clear: she was about to speak and that meant Molly was not.
Evelyn lifted her glasses away from her face and fixed her gaze beyond Molly. Molly resisted the urge to turn to look where she was looking. “Granted, it was organized before your appointment, but if you remember, Molly, we hosted a most stimulating talk this last February on the plays of Joe Orton. We couldn’t be more committed to celebrating L”—she replaced her glasses and checked her notes—“GBT history month.”
You couldn’t? “That’s wonderful to hear,” Molly said, not intending to sound so surprised. “And yes, I remember the talk, it was great.” Why had she been so nervous? For clearly here they were as one voice, one vision. “So then I would like to suggest that we place even more emphasis on this special month and really embrace the opportunity to reach out. I propose that we apply for funding to delve into our collections and work to discover—and indeed uncover—forgotten histories. And not just LGBT histories but all minority histories and give voice to those voices as yet unheard in our museum. I’m very keen to see us become a symbol, a flag bearer, if you will, for diversity. A place where all communities can see themselves reflected—”
Evelyn raised her pen again. “Thank you, Molly. Leading the way is something this museum takes great pride in.”
The chairman nodded almost as if he was personally accepting the praise for everyone else’s efforts.
“But, sadly, we often find ourselves bound by limited resources. Our aspirations clipped. The collections team are working day and night to meet the accreditation backlogs. At the end of the day it’s a question of balance.”
Molly’s heart sank. But then what about if she trimmed her plans? “Of course, I understand. Then perhaps we can invite the LGBT community, which is very vibrant here in Leicester, to create an exhibition highlighting their life experiences, their memories. They could even choose to express themselves through art or simply talking. Fran, I know, is keen to capture oral histories, and to hear people’s voices in an exhibition is always so thrilling and emotive. I would be happy to lead this—”
“I’m glad you brought up the subject of your time.”
You are? Molly could sense herself being drawn off track.
“Going forward I need your full attention to return to the Wright Foundation bequest. There have been developments.” Evelyn glanced at the chairman whose own attention seemed to have been drawn by opening the biscuit for his coffee. “Mark, would you find an update of progress with this particular bequest helpful?”
The chairman looked up with a start. “Yes.”
Evelyn widened her eyes at Molly. “Would you mind?”
“Oh, of course.” Molly turned to the page in her notes headed Benefactors and Funders. “Where shall I—”
“From the beginning.”
“Right. The”—Molly cleared her throat—“Wright Foundation have been supporting museums and education projects for many years—”
Evelyn raised a finger and looked at the chairman. “To be precise, the foundation was established in 1888 by the philanthropist and social campaigner Josephine Wright with the express purpose of promoting the endeavours of institutions of art and learning.” She returned her focus to Molly. “Please remember, details are always important.”
Molly’s cheeks stung. How did Evelyn always manage to humiliate her so effortlessly? “Yes, of course.” Molly gripped her notes. “Sadly, its head for the last thirty-two years, George Wright, passed away in March of this year. This is of course a great loss, as George Wright was an unstinting supporter of this museum.”
Evelyn leaned forward. “George contacted me in August of last year. He confirmed his intention to transfer his personal art collection to the Wright Foundation with the express purpose of also gifting the foundation’s fine art to this museum.” Evelyn stabbed her finger into her notebook with the words to this museum.
The chairman released a low, satisfied grumble.
Evelyn sat yet further forward in her seat. “George was at pains to tell me that the foundation’s collection was small. I was to understand that the foundation is primarily a monetary fund and has tended to discourage offers to it of artworks. And not only that, he said when they have received artworks they have immediately gifted them on to a museum. I have to admit I wondered at this point what we were being offered. Can I pour you some more coffee, Mark?”
The chairman sat up a little in his seat, offering his cup, which Evelyn filled while she continued, “Nonetheless, over the generations a select few of the great and the good of Leicester have slipped through the net, so to speak, and gifted to the foundation the work of celebrated artists to ease their tax burdens. Thank God for death duties—they are without question a museum’s best friend. The foundation has held on to these works, and they have been loaned out to national institutions. That is, until now. I will just say this: Auguste Rodin, John Piper, Paul Nash, and Vanessa Bell. A select but notable collection of international significance, and to acquire it is quite the coup.”
As if newly revived, the chairman said, “Yes, this was excellent news. The trustees were impressed that the museum had been chosen as the recipient of such a gift.”
“To be truthful,” Evelyn said, “I think George felt rather let down to discover that those national institutions who had works loaned to them by the foundation had stored them, as much as they’d displayed them. I promised to fulfil his express wish to keep the foundation’s collection together and accessible at all times to the public. He was of course much relieved. And despite his failing health and the tiresome paperwork, the necess
ary bequest forms to this museum were completed and signed.” Evelyn’s triumphant glow faded to a look of concern. “Six months have now passed since George’s death, and we are in possession of nearly all the foundation’s items, and yet George’s art collection remains in place in his house. Isn’t that so?” Evelyn looked at Molly.
“Yes, we are just waiting for Rodin’s Little Eve to come from the Tate.”
“Honestly, they are gripping that poor sculpture so tightly I would not be surprised if she arrives with fingerprints on her behind. And talking of gripping—and I do not mean to be unsympathetic at her time of grief—but George’s daughter seems intent on dragging her heels with the handover of the bequeathed pieces from the house. How many are we expecting?”
“In the house there are, let me see…” Molly counted down the list in her notes with the tip of her pencil. “Four paintings, one work in pencil, one bust, three pieces of early Staffordshire porcelain, and two photographs. So that’s…”
Evelyn let out a withering sigh. “Eleven. Out of?”
“A bequest of fifteen works in total.”
“I even sent a follow-up note after the funeral repeating my condolences and assuring her of our best intentions with regard to her father’s bequest in the hope that this might prompt matters. Nothing.” Evelyn took another sip of coffee. “However, this brings me to the development in question. I heard yesterday that grant of probate was completed early last week on George Wright’s estate, so the work to distribute his assets and settle matters once and for all can begin. This is excellent news, as I really feared we might be looking at next year. My earnest hope is that this stirs Georgina Wright into action, or at least into visibility. I do not think she has visited Leicester since her father’s funeral, let alone stepped into this museum. Could you open a window, Molly, and let some air in?”
