Love's Portrait

by Anna Larner

  But now with her father’s death, everything seemed to sharpen and her memories resurfaced with painful clarity.

  She looked into the living room through the half-open door. She could swear she could hear them quarrelling.

  They did not see her there, seated on the top step of the hallway stairs, listening. The door swung closed and now it was just muffled voices and odd words spat out with venom intended to wound and scar. Words flamed up again like sparks of hate, burning bright in the air. And then an awful silence. The sitting room door banged open, and Georgina watched her mother leave without looking back, her scarf billowing at her neck. Georgina followed the sound of soft sobbing as she went into the sitting room. Her father was standing with the portrait of Josephine held tightly in his arms.

  A bustle of schoolchildren passing by outside called her from her daydreams to the reality of the moment. She blinked several times trying to focus on now. Dark clouds gathered over the square and litter blew against the abandoned benches and the trees swayed in the gust of approaching rain.

  She turned the light on casting an urgent glance to the paintings. A peculiar panic rose in her chest at the sight of the empty space with the rectangle of grey dust marking the outline of where Josephine’s portrait had once hung. A sudden urge willed her to hold the painting tight in her arms just as her father had done.

  Rain tapped against the window. Georgina shivered. A hot shower would help. But just as she turned to go upstairs her phone lit with an email. It was work, wasn’t it? It was always work. She should leave it. Oh, for fuck’s sake.

  It wasn’t work. “Molly?”

  Dear Ms. Wright,

  Thank you for your time today and for your help with the research of your father’s painting. I wanted to ask if you wish to attend the deframing? I anticipate that it will take place at some point later this week, either Thursday or Friday morning.

  I look forward to hearing from you,

  Molly (Goode)

  Curator, (Fine Art), City Museum

  Had she said goodbye to Molly? In the heat of the farewell with Evelyn she couldn’t remember. But things between them had ended well enough, hadn’t they? Molly had promised to be in touch, and here she was keeping her promise. Yes, that matched every sense Georgina had about her. That she was faithful and honest, not to mention intelligent and good at her job if their meeting was anything to go by. She couldn’t have been more impressed. For it was like Molly really got the painting at an intuitive level. She hadn’t tried to impress or blind her with the science of her work or make excuses for why they might fail. No. Instead she had listened and worked with Georgina to find ways that might lead to discoveries. She’d left her with the sense that she would not give up on the painting. But most importantly of all she’d left her with hope.

  She replied, Dear Molly, Yes. Thank you. Thursday morning, say 11am? Georgina Wright

  The response came back in an instant: Great—come straight to the Victorian gallery. See you then. Molly.

  The rain that had threatened seemed to pass, and in that moment the darkness lifted and not just in the square.

  Chapter Six

  The Victorian gallery with its high ceilings and Regency period grandeur was reserved for the museum’s fine art collection. Depictions of rural and industrial landscapes hung side by side with portraits of the great and the good. It was as if all humanity had been squeezed into one room and Molly loved it. Even the imminent arrival of Georgina Wright couldn’t dampen the delight in Molly’s heart the space evoked.

  “Morning, General,” Molly said with a salute to the oil painting of General Lansdowne, of the Leicester Regiment. “Ladies, you are rocking those parasols.” Molly gave a thumbs up to the scene depicting a gathering of young Victorian era women at a picnic. She paused at the portrait of Saint Peter in a fishing boat. “Here’s hoping you catch something, fella. Oh, and any help this morning would be much appreciated.”

  Molly shook her head and stood face-to-face with the heavily varnished 1839 portrait of Josephine Wright painted by George O. Thorpe. She’d given no particular thought to the donor before but now the inscribed words, Donated by Lydia and George Wright, 1985, seemed to resonate out from the frame.

  The Hunt epitomized the country life of Leicestershire’s gentry. Josephine was dressed in a long black riding coat with her cream leather riding gloves and crop resting in her lap. She sat side-saddle on a chestnut stallion whose muscular flanks shone and rippled, his head bowed at her command. Everything about the character of the painting was formal and seemed as if in shadow. The heavy varnishing swallowed the light, and any glimpse of joy was enveloped in the gloom.

  Josephine stared steadfast past the painter and past the viewer to somewhere else in the distance beyond. Yet her expression was not thoughtful—if anything, it was vacant, empty.

  “You seem so sad. Don’t be sad, Josephine, you’re too beautiful for that.” Molly felt her own past hurts pressing against her chest.

  “It’s a very different painting, isn’t it?”

  Startled, Molly turned around to find Georgina standing at the entrance to the gallery, leaning against the doorframe with her head tilted to one side. Gone was the formal suit from Monday’s meeting. Georgina was now dressed in snug tan chinos set off with a tailored white shirt with the sleeves rolled up a little way, revealing her slim, toned forearms.

  Oh my God. How long had she been there? She was early. Of course she was early. Molly was now certain beyond doubt that any smidgen of respect or credibility she might have earned at their last meeting was now lost—just like her marbles. Talking to paintings…that settled it—she was certainly making an impression, exuding authority.

  Molly stumbled over her words, managing, “Yes.”

  Georgina walked confidently to her, holding out her hand and smiling. “Thank you for inviting me.”

  As Molly shook Georgina’s hand, she said diplomatically, “Thank you for accompanying me.” To Molly’s surprise Georgina blushed. How had she embarrassed her already?

  “I want to say straight off”—Georgina rested her hand for the briefest of seconds on Molly’s shoulder—“if at any point during this I look anxious, I’m just being overprotective.”

  “And I want to say straight off, that’s perfectly understandable. After all why wouldn’t you feel protective—the painting’s precious to you. Shall we head over? I’ve laid everything out on this table here.”

  Georgina stood staring at the image of Josephine captured in tender strokes of colour.

  “Okay. So, gloves.” Molly handed Georgina a box of blue vinyl gloves. She made a point of not looking at Georgina pulling hers on.

  The painting rested on a thin foam board that had been covered with several layers of tissue. “I had a chat with our conservator yesterday afternoon, and he was in agreement with the decision to replace the mount. I’ll remove the frame releasing the mount today, and he’ll take the next steps to undertake any further remedial preservation work as he sees fit. Work should be complete by the end of next week at the latest. Is that okay with you?”

  Georgina nodded. “Yes. That’s great, thank you.”

  “Okey-dokey. We’re of the opinion that the frame is original and most likely made of a material called compo which was popular at this time. The gild is tarnishing slightly, so it’s likely to be of an alternative metal origin, rather than gold leaf.”

  Molly gently turned the painting over. “Frames often tell us more about the work than the painting itself. For example if you look, there are no residual tape marks fixing the backing board to the frame.”

  Georgina leaned forward, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear.

  Molly forced herself to concentrate on the painting, not on how close Georgina’s chest was to her arm. “This suggests that the work hasn’t been subject to repeated reframing, and it strengthens the likelihood that not only the frame but the board and fixings are original as well. But what particularly struck
me was that there are no labels or stamp marks.”

  “And that’s unusual?”

  “Not for an artwork that hasn’t been exhibited or auctioned.”

  Georgina stood back a little. “So are you telling me that it hasn’t left my father’s house?”

  “I can only suggest what the work seems to indicate. Beyond that”—Molly shrugged—“we can’t be sure.”

  “Of course, I understand. I don’t mean to press you for answers. To be honest even though I manage risk every day, I’m not very good with uncertainty. I imagine you must have to work with uncertainty all the time.”

  “Well, it’s a balance really, between what we know and what we think reasonably likely based on evidence. And as for uncertainty, I tend to think of it as more possibility, if that makes sense.”

  Georgina held Molly’s gaze and smiled. “Yes.”

  Even her smile was perfect. And those smooth even lips that must be heaven to kiss. Get a grip. Stop staring at her. “Okay. Deep breaths. Here we go.” Molly teased out the thin metal fastenings and lifted the backing board carefully away to rest on the tissue. She had expected to see a plain canvas with a smudge or two of paint, maybe. “Yes, this is just what we would expect to find, nothing un—”

  An ink inscription had been preserved, clear and visible at the right hand corner of the canvas.

  “Have you seen something?” Leaning in, Georgina read out the words Molly was reading. “All my love always, Edith.” Georgina frowned at the inscription.

  Molly asked with a voice soft with intrigue, “Does the name Edith ring a bell to you at all?”

  With her gaze fixed on the painting, Georgina shook her head. “No, I’m sorry, I don’t recognize it.” She then looked at Molly. “Why would someone called Edith sign the back of Josephine’s portrait All my love always?”

  “That’s a very good question.” Molly reached for her phone and took several photos of the inscription. “And we will definitely add this finding to our research.”

  “Unless…you don’t suppose…?” Georgina paused.

  Molly’s chest tightened. Oh God, they were about to talk about girl-on-girl action, weren’t they? Molly glanced at Georgina, who seemed remarkably unflustered. Of course she’d be calm—she wasn’t the one battling with an inappropriate sexual attraction for the museum’s key funder.

  Molly tentatively suggested, “That they were…” How should she put it?

  Without hesitation Georgina suggested, “Lovers? It’s just a rather heartfelt note, isn’t it, for a platonic gesture?”

  Okay, straight to the point. “It’s possible. Definitely. There’s certainly nothing new about being gay. Although given the absence of mention of lesbians in history, you might think so.” Molly stared at the inscription, so full of meaning and so empty of explanation. “What I would say though is that, in truth, the note could have been written by anyone. Edith could be anybody, family member, best friend. And don’t forget passionate friendships, romantic friendships, were not uncommon during this period. Except a romantic friendship, if that’s what this note indicates, and we don’t know that it does, must not be confused with a lesbian relationship.”

  Georgina frowned. “No?”

  Molly shook her head. “We need to understand this history within its context, not misread it with our modern sensibilities. And moreover we may be at risk here of confusing speculation with facts.”

  “But surely the note is a fact, isn’t it? A piece of evidence?”

  “Yes, but sadly evidence of only what we don’t know. I’m sorry.”

  Georgina shook her head. “It just goes to show how little I know about Josephine. I wish I could be more helpful.”

  “You’re helping being here,” Molly said. “I’ve enjoyed your company. Thank you.”

  Georgina gave a nod in acknowledgement, and Molly’s cheeks tingled with the intensity of Georgina’s gaze upon her. Everything in that moment, including her heart, seemed to stop.

  And then Georgina turned away. It was like the sun had gone behind a cloud, as an instant chill descended and Molly winced with the sting of rejection.

  Oh no. She shouldn’t have said that, should she? But then, it wasn’t like she’d confessed, I fancy you so much. Although how she hadn’t said it, she had no idea.

  “I have to go now, Molly.” Georgina looked at her phone. “Work commitments. Sorry. Keep me updated?”

  Molly caught a glimpse of the full inbox of Georgina’s emails.

  “Yes, certainly.” Molly tried and failed to muster a nonchalant tone. Did she sound as hurt as she felt? “Goodbye then.”

  “Yes, goodbye and thanks again.”

  Molly watched Georgina leave, and then she was gone. She turned to the painting lying there utterly dismantled and exposed, just like her.

  Get a grip. Georgina Wright was an important stakeholder and she was meant to impress her, not pine after her or feel wounded when she didn’t…didn’t what? What on earth was she hoping for? For Georgina to ask her out, was that it? Or did she expect her to kiss her with those perfect lips. You are making a fool of yourself. What on earth would Evelyn think? Enough.

  She took a deep breath and with care she lifted the mount away from the canvas. She wrapped each separate piece in tissue, supporting them with tissue wads to rest safe within a large plastic container.

  “The conservator will look after you now, Josephine. You’ll like him, although you’ll have to overlook his taste in jumpers.” A flicker of laughter in her heart burnt out immediately as disappointment, merciless and instant, stamped on the spark of her smile.

  Chapter Seven

  Georgina woke Friday lunchtime with a start. How had she overslept? It was noon, for God’s sake. Noon.

  Her night’s sleep had been fitful and disturbed by dreamlike thoughts about Josephine’s portrait and about All my love always and about the woman who had written it.

  Who was she? Why such passionate words? What did it tell them about the painting and about Josephine herself? What was it they were missing? Only the thought that research just might reveal the truth had stilled the persistent questions. And in the silence that followed, it was the thought of Molly caring so capably and so tenderly for Josephine that brought Georgina to somewhere near sleep. Yes, Molly would find the answers. Molly. She’d been right to leave the meeting then and there, hadn’t she? For what if Molly had seen in her eyes how much she meant to her? How much she’d enjoyed her company too. What then? Their work for that day was done and everything had been agreed. She had no right to keep Molly, and she had no right not to want to leave.

  She’d worried herself to sleep and now she was awake—awake and late.

  Rubbing her eyes, Georgina went downstairs and into the sitting room. The closed deep burgundy velvet curtains shrouded the room in a mournful darkness. Georgina drew the heavy material back to let in the day and watched as fine dust particles floated in the air. There was an ever-growing stifling emptiness to the space. The room, the house, was losing the presence of her father with every day, every week, and every month that passed. She’d kept on her father’s housekeeper to call, now and then, to clean and keep an eye on the house, but she knew with a quiet dread that each time she returned the smell she’d cherished of her father’s cologne and of his laundered shirts and suits, and the sweet herbal notes of tea just poured, would have faded to something stale, musty, and lifeless.

  Georgina looked out at the busy square and at the passers-by hurrying to work or school. Outside the walls of her grief, life was continuing. I need a coffee and a run.

  * * *

  “I think Josephine Wright might have been gay.” Molly turned to face Fran who was wearing a woollen hat and scarf tightly wrapped around her neck. A sly cold breeze unsettled the square and blew Molly’s hair across her eyes, and she brushed it away.

  Fran tucked her jacket closer around her and sneezed. “I thought two days off would sort this cold. I blame my weakened state entirely
on the storeroom. It’s all very well and good preserving the objects at a stable chilly degrees C, but what about preserving the health of staff? Anyway. I’m sorry, what were you saying…Georgina’s a lesbian?”

  “No. I mean. I don’t know. No. Josephine. You know, Josephine Wright, the woman in the watercolour.”

  “Oh. That’s quite a development. I almost don’t like to ask how you have formed that conclusion.”

  Molly turned in towards Fran, tucking her legs up to sit cross-legged. “There’s a handwritten inscription on the back of the canvas of Josephine’s portrait. All my love always, Edith.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, I know. I was thinking about it in bed last night, and the more I thought about it, the more I got this intense feeling that we might have been the first to see this message for many years, if not generations. That’s really amazing, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. And Georgina? I imagine she didn’t know what to think.”

  “Funnily enough she took it in her stride—at least that’s how it came across. She was the one, in fact, who brought up the lovers possibility. I explained to her that it was possible this Edith, whoever she is, had a romantic friendship with Josephine but cautioned we hadn’t necessarily discovered a lesbian romance. Or at least, we couldn’t be sure either way or indeed read it that way with our modern eyes. Would you like some of my corn on the cob?”

  “No, certainly not. Thank you anyway.”

  Molly bit into the corn and between mouthfuls she said, “I mean the chances of us even finding out who Edith is or, for that matter, whether even finding Edith will help us know who painted the—” Molly fell silent at the sight of Georgina emerging from her father’s house dressed in a running outfit of tight leggings and T-shirt. A dribble of herby sauce trickled down Molly’s chin. Georgina paused at the top of the steps to place her earphones in and to fiddle with her phone strapped to her arm. She then proceeded to jog along City Walk in the direction of Victoria Park. Molly watched her until she disappeared out of sight.