by Anna Larner
Molly’s hand felt warm and soft in hers.
Molly then took her place next to Evelyn. She slipped her jacket off and scooped soft curls of auburn hair away from her shoulders to rest at her back.
“Georgina, as agreed, I have asked Molly to come up with a plan to help you to learn more about the”—Evelyn leaned forward, freeing her glasses from her hair to squint through them to read her notes—“1832 watercolour portrait of Josephine Wright. Artist unknown. Now—”
“Brancaster,” Molly corrected. “Oh, I’m sorry, Evelyn, I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”
Evelyn placed her pen on the table and leaned back in her chair. “Not at all. This is your project. We are very much relying on you for the details of things.”
Molly swallowed.
Was Molly feeling under pressure? “You’re correct,” Georgina said. “She became Josephine Wright when she married William Wright.” Georgina opened her iPad and held up the screen for both Evelyn and Molly to see. “This is hanging at my father’s place. It is of Josephine and William Wright’s wedding day. Interestingly it’s dated 1833. Do you see? Her maiden name of Brancaster is recorded in brackets.” Both Evelyn and Molly leaned forward to take in the detail. “This tells us that they are the same woman. It also tells us the watercolour of Josephine was painted in the year before her marriage.” Was she saying too much? “I’m sorry, all this detail has been swirling in my head. I don’t mean to bombard you—”
“No, it’s great. Thanks.” Molly’s encouraging smile couldn’t have been more kind and reassuring.
Evelyn gave a slow nod. “So it might have been that William commissioned a painting of his fiancée. Yes, that makes sense.”
Molly moved to stand again with the painting and eased the wrapping free to reveal the painting beneath the glass. She began to examine it. With a tone full of thought, she said, “Except, well, where we have paintings commissioned by men of their fiancées, they tend to portray the woman concerned as an ideal of femininity, virginal almost. I always think these paintings are symbols of ownership and of masculine power over women.”
Evelyn cautioned, “But then we must take care not to read a work with personal bias.”
“No, it’s not so much my feminism clouding my judgement, although I recognize that at times it might.” Molly glanced at Georgina.
As their eyes met, Georgina encouraged, “Go on. Please.”
Molly sat again and continued, “What particularly struck me about the work was the informality of style which breaks down barriers to the viewing of it. By that I mean it encourages you to look. It has a non-possessive openness to it. It is like the painter was celebrating Josephine, not owning her. And it is sensual, yes, but without inviting judgement. Does that make sense?”
“Yes, yes it does,” Georgina said in firm agreement. “I’ve always found this painting captivating. As a child I would spend hours looking at her. She’s…”
“She’s beautiful.” Molly held Georgina’s gaze.
“Yes.”
“Well, we’ve certainly got a very interesting painting to explore,” Evelyn intervened, a hint of impatience in her voice.
“There’s something else that doesn’t quite make sense. That I wanted to mention.” Georgina glanced at Evelyn before turning her attention back to Molly. “My father has four portraits in total on his wall. They are all in chronological order except this painting. You see, it is hung third in line before a portrait of William as an old man. Would it not have made more sense for our painting to be first? Obviously it could have been mis-hung during redecoration and so forth.”
Molly studiously made notes as she listened.
“I have images I can send you.” Georgina lifted her iPad once again and thumbed through her photos. “If that’s useful?”
“That’s enormously helpful. Thank you.”
“No worries. I’ll do it right now.”
“Great.” Molly flicked to the last page of her notepad and scribbled down her email address. “That’s a capital M and capital G in my name. Although, you know, I never understand whether capitals make a difference or not.”
Georgina quickly attached the photos and pressed send. “Done.”
“Awesome—I mean, thanks.”
“So, your plan, Molly,” Evelyn prompted, with eyes that had grown wide.
“Yes.” Molly quickly returned to her notes. “So as with all investigations we’ll start with what we already know.” She looked at Georgina. “Anything else that comes to mind, just let me know. We’ll go forward on the basis that the watercolour reflects Josephine as a young woman, just before she married. We’ll check exhibition and auction catalogues as well as our museum records for any mention of the work. We’ll keep our searches centred in the UK for now. There’s a possibility that the painting was displayed at some point in this museum. Although Fran, our social historian, can’t recall the painting from the 1980s onward, but before then—”
Evelyn said, “I think that unlikely. It’s a little naive in style, amateurish.”
“Amateurish?” Georgina asked, looking at Molly.
“My initial review of the work doesn’t automatically suggest a well-known artist of that period.”
Georgina sighed. “I hope I’m not wasting your time.”
“Not at all. And all is definitely not lost because we do have a certain amount of information about Josephine herself. This is unusual because women as a rule tend to get lost in history.” Molly flicked through her notes. “My initial online research has given us basic timeline information, date of birth, family, et cetera, but even more interestingly, several articles mentioned that she was an important figure in the abolitionist movement. They even describe her as a radical.”
“A radical? Yes, actually now you say, I have a vague memory of my father saying that Josephine campaigned against injustice.”
“Yep. She sounds really kick-ass. Pioneering, I mean. And it’s perfectly possible that her various causes might produce some leads. The county’s records office might be important for us—”
Evelyn raised her pen. “This sounds a little more like something our social historian would deal with.” A rash of pink had begun to creep up Evelyn’s neck.
Molly said carefully, “But it’s about identifying the painting’s provenance, surely.”
“I’m just a little concerned about Molly’s time, Georgina. I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course I understand. My own time for this is limited too.”
Evelyn closed her notebook. “Well then, within our resources, we promise to give this our utmost attention.”
Evelyn and Georgina stood at the same time.
“Let me walk you out.” Evelyn opened the conference room door.
“Thank you. And Molly, thank you also. I look forward to hearing about what you have discovered.”
Molly stood. “Yes, of course, if I find anything, I’ll let you know straight away.”
“Great. Oh, before I forget. Can I have one of those forms you need me to fill in?”
“You want a form?” Molly couldn’t have sounded more surprised. “You don’t have to—I mean, where you’re concerned…”
“I’m not sure I understand why you’d make an exception for me. It seemed important to you for your records.”
“Yes, it is. Thank you. I’ll make sure you get one.”
“Wonderful, then everything’s in order.” Evelyn gestured into the corridor.
“Oh,” Molly said, “before you both go, I’m sorry, just one last thing, I promise. I wanted to seek your permission to remove the frame. There’s no sign of infestation. On the contrary, the frame appears sound.”
With a face of imperious judgement, Evelyn inspected the painting.
Molly added, “It’s just, I’m concerned about the slight discoloration of the mount.”
“You think the painting might be damaged?” Georgina rested a protective hand on the frame.
Molly quickly replied, “No, no
t at all. Removing the mount is just a precautionary measure. You see, mount boards can become acidic over time and potentially harmful to the work. But really the watercolour itself is in good condition. The colours are distinct and bright, and the canvas is without foxing.”
“That’s a relief. So yes, please go ahead and undertake whatever preventative measures you think necessary. My father would be pleased to hear that the watercolour is otherwise in good order. He greatly cared about his collection.”
“And please rest assured that we share your father’s concern, and we very much look forward to receiving his treasured works into our care.” Evelyn tucked the wrapping over one edge of the frame as a mother would replace a blanket over a child.
There it was. Georgina had wondered how long it would be before Evelyn made her move. Before she swept in, wings wide, claws out, her eyes fixed on her prey of the artwork in the house.
Georgina’s defences rose in an instant. “I’m sure you understand that my father’s concerns and my concerns differ. Greatly.”
“Of course.” Evelyn turned deathly pale.
Molly looked down at the floor, clearly embarrassed.
“I’ll see myself out.” Georgina turned and walked away, suppressing every urge to run.
* * *
“Hi, Fred. I’ve brought you a tea.” Molly placed a mug and a plate of biscuits on the reception desk.
“Much appreciated. I’ll have to forego those devils, though, as my wife’s got me on a diet.” Fred patted his stomach where his shirt buttons strained to the point of popping.
“Tricky. Well, I’ll step into the breach and relieve you from temptation.” Molly took a large bite of a chocolate digestive.
“That Georgina Wright of yours just came past. I’ve only just finished picking up the museum leaflets that blew off the desk in the gust of her rush to leave.” Fred shook his head.
Molly swallowed down a giggle. “Yeah, that might have been our fault. She’s just come from a meeting with Evelyn and me.” Molly shrugged. “It seems we have that effect on her.”
“I wouldn’t take it personal. Some people are just in too much of a hurry to be friendly.”
“Maybe.” But she had been friendly. In fact, Molly had enjoyed the meeting and chatting with Georgina so much, she’d forgotten it was Georgina Wright.
“Oh, and here, don’t forget to take your post.” Fred handed Molly a stack of letters along with a tan Jiffy bag.
“Okey-dokey, thanks.” Molly pulled the bag open and tipped it so its contents slipped into her palm. She stared at the oblong red and white key ring which read I heart New York. There was no accompanying note.
“Everything okay, Molly?”
“What? Yep.” Molly shoved the envelope into the pocket of her blazer. “Absolutely. I’m just going to pop out for a bit. Thanks, Fred.”
Nothing felt okay.
Arriving in the square, she pulled the Jiffy bag from her pocket and rested it on the bench beside her. Had it really been nearly a year since it had ended with Erica? So much had changed. A new job, for starters, with new responsibilities. Molly risked a glance across to George Wright’s house. All seemed quiet.
She’d forgotten that Erica still had her house keys, let alone that she would one day return them out of the blue. She hadn’t forgotten, however, how much she had been hurt.
Tears traced their way to her neck. She did her best but failed to brush them away.
“Oh, Molly, what is it?” Fran arrived at her side and slipped an arm around Molly’s shoulder causing her to cry even more. “Fred said you’d had a funny turn.”
“Sorry I’m being pathetic. I can’t remember the last time I cried.” Molly took the tissue Fran offered and dried her eyes.
“Well, you do not have to say any more. Tears are a private matter.”
“It’s my ex,” Molly said, fighting the urge to cry again.
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. Don’t feel you have to—”
“I got dumped nearly a year ago. I came home to a note and an empty house.”
“Goodness, that’s brutal.”
Molly blew her nose. “Yep. She was pretty cold. I had house keys returned to me today. Looking back, it had been over for a while before it ended, and I guess we were surviving on the vapours of good times.”
“Well take heart that when you meet the one, you will know.”
Molly sniffed hard. “How?”
“How? I’m not sure I can offer much advice on lesbian dating.”
“No. I meant, how will I know? Because I want to. I want to find the one.”
“Well what’s that old saying—you’ll meet them when you’re least expecting it. Anyway, forget about your ex. She’s an ex for a reason. Here have another tissue.”
“Thanks.” Molly wiped at her wet cheek.
“Your job is to remember that you’re beautiful, funny, intelligent, and wonderfully compassionate. You will note, I didn’t mention your appalling timekeeping, out of kindness.”
Molly laughed.
“That’s better. To be honest, when Fred also mentioned that a certain Miss Wright had rushed out of the museum, I feared the worst. I’m relieved she wasn’t responsible for your tears.”
They both looked over at George Wright’s house.
“Actually, she was less weird than before. I even enjoyed chatting with her. We shared loads of ideas. She did however bite back at Evelyn when she mentioned her father’s art collection. I had to look away.”
“I can imagine. I suspect Evelyn’s met her match.”
“It’s clear she really cares about her father’s art and the watercolour in particular. When I mentioned removing the frame, she looked so concerned. Actually, out of respect, I should have asked if she wanted to be there when the frame was removed. I may do that after lunch.”
“Yes, do. I think a bit of compassion in that young woman’s direction wouldn’t hurt.”
Molly nodded as their conservation slipped into silence and they both stared across again at the house. She recalled the first time Evelyn had shown her the house from her office window. Molly’s breath had caught at the sight of it. And the very thought that the Wrights had owned the house from the 1840s had filled her with awe. For everything about the house was beautiful. Ornate columns sunk flush into its facade evoked an air of classical formality. Light danced, caught like the stares of the passers-by, in the tall sash windows.
The house was the very embodiment of dignity, refinement, and grief. For if houses had a temperament, a mood, and Molly believed they did, then this house would say I am sad, I am alone, I am masterless.
The shaped hedges in the front garden, while still tidy, were losing their definition, their crispness. Soon, no doubt like people’s memories of George Wright, they would blend with the background blur of everything and become indistinct. After all, gardens were always the first sign of the emotions inside a house, the barometers of feeling. Molly imagined that if this garden could cry, it would, and the birds would bathe in the tears, their wings carrying the droplets of loss far away.
Chapter Five
Georgina dropped her running shoes onto the floor and scooped up the post. Beads of sweat ran down her back and itched at the curve of her jaw. Two hours earlier and wound up by the meeting with the museum, she’d had to force herself to concentrate on making lunch and then on calls and emails. But the only thing that would settle her was to run, and to run hard.
Exhausted, she sank onto the bottom but one step of the hallway stairs and sifted through the stack of correspondence, discarding the debris of pizza leaflets, fliers for local jobs for cash, and the cellophaned horror of the starving plastered over the charity bags.
The last letter stopped her short with its all too familiar handwriting which was more a scrawl of ink than individual letters. How the postman read it, she never knew. How many times had she’d hoped these letters would go astray.
She ripped the envelope open, not caring if it
caught the letter inside.
Dear Georgina,
I hope this letter finds you well, my darling girl.
I’m sorry that I have not written since your father’s death, but as much as I tried, it seemed nothing could free my stilted heart to find the will to write. And now so many months have passed, slipping away like nymphs in the night. But you have been in my thoughts as ever every day.
I hear the funeral was a success. I am pleased for you. Funerals are such awful occasions, and one does not wish to remember them for any mishap. I could not bring myself to attend and felt in any case that I would have been an unwelcome guest. I was holed up in Paris that day and found amongst the chaos of my life a quiet moment on the steps of the Sacré-Coeur, and would you believe, the bell tolled just at the time the funeral began. You were with me in that moment, darling, in my hopes and prayers.
I never know whether you read my letters, but I still look for your reply and resist the defeated sense that I am writing a diary of my thoughts rather than corresponding with you.
I know how busy you must be, but if time, that silent thief, allows please reply. The thing is, we need to talk. Or better still, I have taken an apartment in Paris for the autumn season—why don’t you come and visit? Any time at all.
Your mother,
Lydia Wright X
Georgina always read her mother’s letters. She’d received three a year since her mother left, each sent to her father’s house. They arrived with the change of season. In spring the tone of the letter would be bright and optimistic. What high hopes, Georgina, what hopes. In summer the letter would speak of her mother’s fatigue at the heat and the tiring length of the days. In the autumn, they would strike a reflective note and a mood of melancholy with the dark approach of winter. These short days it feels like one’s life is contracting, leaving one gasping for air.
She would hear nothing from her at Christmas. She’d always thought it cruel. The thought instilled a hatred which grew as she grew from a teenager to an adult. She had hated her mother for so long that the sharp edge of pain had become blunt, dull, the emotions a mere patina on the surface of her life.
