Love's Portrait

by Anna Larner

  “It could be Edith Hewitt,” Fran said matter-of-factly. “She’s very fit, isn’t she, Georgina?”

  “Sorry? You know who Edith is?” Molly mopped at her mouth and chin with a napkin.

  “Her father was fit as well, kept himself trim. ”

  “What? I’m not remotely interested in Georgina’s Wright’s fitness levels.”

  “Uh-huh. If you say so.”

  “I do. I am, however, interested in the fact you know who Edith is.”

  “I know who Edith might be. There was an Edith Hewitt who worked alongside Josephine when they were both in their early twenties. They were ardent abolitionists and actively encouraged women to take part in their campaigns. They ruffled feathers.”

  “I love the idea of that.”

  “We did a temporary exhibition, some years ago now, on Leicester’s political radicals, and Josephine’s treatises and tracts featured. It was very popular. If my memory serves me right, Edith and Josephine worked from a borrowed office in Josephine’s father’s chambers in town. Charles Brancaster was a solicitor, and so of course was Josephine’s husband, William Wright. Indeed the Wrights go forward to breed generations of solicitors. Apart, of course, from Georgina, who seems to have broken the mould.”

  Molly glanced in the direction of the park. “Political radicals. That’s so fab, isn’t it? I’m imagining them marching the streets, demanding the freedom of all slaves in the British Empire.”

  “Yes and no. They were resourceful, educated women, and they did so much more than march. Josephine in particular wrote tirelessly, lobbying politicians and anyone and everyone of influence. Not only that, but they rallied the support of local businesses to stop selling sugar from the West Indies, putting pressure on the plantation owners by threatening their market.”

  “Clever.”

  “But most effectively they galvanized women by getting them to boycott resistant businesses and to sign petitions. They collected thousands of signatures. They were effective and ignored, at least largely, by history. When we think about the abolition of slavery, we think Wilberforce.” Fran tucked her scarf more closely around her. “It’s frankly chilling.”

  “That’s so unfair.”

  “It’s even worse for your Edith, I’m afraid.”

  “It is?”

  “You see, Josephine’s family, I suspect, were better off and her status has helped her gain some visibility in history. It would sadly not surprise me if Edith’s work has been swept up in Josephine’s archives. They were both remarkable women. It just goes to show that history neglects as much as it preserves.” Fran poured tomato soup from a flask into a cup.

  “I absolutely hate the thought of that. It’s so helpful, Fran, that you know all this.”

  “Steady on, I don’t know much. The exhibition only scratched the surface. It was just outlines and discovered very little about Edith. You should try the records office. You’ll probably have more time to spend there than I had—in fact, I remember now, time was so tight for me I sent a volunteer in my place. Sadly, if she missed anything I wouldn’t have known.”

  “Yes, a visit to the records office is my next step. Although, to be honest, talking of time, I don’t know how much of my time Evelyn wants to invest. She got a bit tense at the mention of research beyond the museum itself. I don’t suppose you kept the research for the exhibition, did you?”

  “Yes, it’ll be somewhere. I’ll have a look for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So dare I ask how you and the woman you’re not remotely interested in are getting on? Have you wooed her with the many curatorial talents of Molly Goode?”

  “That’s the thing. I haven’t got a clue. Take yesterday, for example—the meeting was going really well, and then out of the blue it’s like these barriers go up and she becomes instantly distant and I feel instantly incapable. Maybe it’s me? Maybe I’m being too familiar with her?”

  “Too familiar? In what way?”

  “I told her I enjoyed her company.”

  “Surely that’s just lovely, and I’m sure Georgina would have thought so too. My take, for what it’s worth, is that you’re being oversensitive to her, over-reading every little reaction. Evelyn is expecting you to impress her, and you’re constantly worried about not impressing her, and therefore you are left wondering what Georgina Wright is thinking.”

  Was that what was happening? “Yeah, that makes sense and explains why I can’t stop thinking about her. It’s really annoying.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “I mean, who is that immaculate? Her perfect face and voice. The way she tucks her hair over her ears. I bet you her tousled is most people’s tidy.”

  Fran raised her eyebrows. “Tousled? I see. And of course, there’s those long legs of hers, particularly in those leggings. I mean, how dare she.”

  “Yes, exactly.” Molly paused. “I mean, no. Oh God, I don’t know what I mean. I think it’s best I try to somehow wriggle out of spending time with her. I’ll pop to the records office, do a quick summary of findings. We’ve done a little bit of remedial work on the painting. Job done.” Molly brushed her hands together. “Over.”

  “I think you’ll find it’s not quite over yet, as Georgina is heading our way.”

  “No, really?” Molly’s napkin blew off her lap as she turned, at the same time awkwardly untangling her legs, to see Georgina slowing from a running pace to a walk towards them. Molly jumped to her feet to prevent the napkin from becoming yet another piece of litter. The napkin rested to a stop at Georgina’s feet.

  As Molly bent down to pick it up, she breathlessly said, “I think litter’s terrible. I pick it up when I see it. Unless it’s covered in something horrible—then I leave it. Obviously. Hello.” Molly shoved her napkin in her pocket.

  “Hello,” Georgina said with a smile. She raised her hand to acknowledge Fran who waved back.

  “Fran and I are just having lunch. We’re keen picnickers.” Okay, that just sounded…weird.

  “Right. Yes. It’s a beautiful square to be in.” Georgina gazed up into the tree. “I can see why you’d want to take your breaks here.” A peculiar expression washed over her face.

  Had Georgina just blushed, or were her cheeks pink just from running? Running very hard…Molly watched a bead of sweat as it travelled down the edge of Georgina’s cheek to the curve of her jaw to the sweep of her neck to…Stop staring.

  Molly cleared her throat. “Please join us. If you want.”

  “I won’t. I mean, I need to keep moving or I’ll seize up and get cold.”

  “Of course. I understand.”

  “You run too, then?”

  “Run? No. Well, when I’m late, I sometimes have to. The other day I overtook a group of joggers trying to get to a meeting. My meeting, not theirs. I was in flip-flops too.”

  Georgina laughed. “I’m impressed.”

  “Thank you.” Molly giggled and then fell silent. She braced herself for the cold look away, but it didn’t come. The barriers, for whatever reason, remained down.

  “I came over because I’ve been thinking about Josephine’s portrait—the inscription we found yesterday.”

  “Oh yes? Funnily enough, Fran and I were just chatting, and I have news about who Edith might be.” Molly saw that Georgina had begun to shiver.

  “That’s great. Can we meet again then? For an update? The only thing is, I’m back to work from next week. I’m London based, you see. I suppose we could Skype or FaceTime?”

  “London?” Molly hadn’t meant to sound so disappointed.

  “Yes. I’ve had time off to deal with my father’s estate. You don’t think Skype will work?”

  “What? No, I mean…” Molly tried to gather her thoughts. She was obviously confusing Georgina and making her wonder what was wrong.

  “Or”—Georgina looked back at her father’s house—“I’m due to return again next Friday afternoon. My father’s colleagues have had a plaque made in his memory. It
’s being put into the Cathedral. It should be over by three, half three. If I came to you at four, would that fit at all?”

  Georgina began to jog on the spot which, quite frankly, wasn’t helping Molly to concentrate on the question in hand. Don’t look at her boobs.

  Molly looked down and, speaking at the ground, said, “Next Friday. Let me see, yes, that would fit.”

  “Perfect. Look forward to seeing you then.”

  She was looking forward to seeing her again? Or was she just being polite? Molly looked up to see Georgina smiling. Returning her smile Molly said, “Okay. Great.”

  “Excellent. I’m off for a hot shower. Goodbye Fran.”

  A hot shower? Molly’s thoughts began to stray to steamy shower cubicles. She pinched at her leg. Where the chuff is your self-control.

  “Yes, goodbye, Georgina,” Fran replied, an amused smile teasing at her lips.

  And with that Georgina jogged away and up the steps to her father’s door. She paused with the key in the lock, only to then turn and wave. Molly’s cheeks tingled as she and Fran waved back.

  “Yes, how annoying,” Fran said with barely concealed sarcasm. “And the way you wriggled out of that meeting.”

  “She caught me off guard.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “She did.”

  * * *

  “Come in!”

  Molly opened the door to Evelyn’s office and stepped just inside its threshold. “Hi,” she said breathlessly. Somehow she never felt she had quite enough breath whenever she arrived at Evelyn’s door.

  “Molly,” Evelyn said, removing her glasses.

  “I hoped to have a quick chat with you before you left for the weekend,” Molly said. “Do you have a moment?”

  “Of course. Please, take a seat.”

  Molly sat down and gripped at the edge of the chair. “I wanted to update you on progress with the Josephine Brancaster portrait.”

  “Very good. And what has your research revealed? Do we know who painted it?”

  “No. But we did discover an inscription written on the back of the canvas during the process of removing the frame.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. It reads All my love always, Edith.”

  “Edith?” Evelyn sat back in her chair. “I see.”

  “Yes. Georgina didn’t recognize the name. Fran, however, has suggested that it might be Edith Hewitt, who worked alongside Josephine at the time the painting was painted or commissioned.”

  “Edith Hewitt.” Evelyn looked beyond Molly, her gaze no doubt fixed elsewhere along with her thoughts. When she returned from wherever she’d gone, she asked, “And so you’re keeping Georgina Wright up to date then with your findings?”

  “Actually she was with me when the inscription was discovered so—”

  “You invited her to watch you work? Good thinking—keep her invested. Take every opportunity to impress her. Excellent.”

  Molly’s heart fluttered with pride. “She certainly seems very connected to the painting and very interested in our research.”

  “Really? That’s wonderful. It’s so important the museum has made this connection with Georgina.” Evelyn sat on the edge of her seat. “Now our focus must be on moving this connection forward. Yes, now is the perfect time to mention to her our plans for the Wright room. Understood?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Great. Thank you for the update. Close the door on your way out.” Evelyn reopened her notebook and began making notes. It was as if Molly had already left.

  Molly didn’t move. Evelyn eventually looked up.

  “Was there something else?”

  “Yes. So the portrait—”

  Evelyn raised her pen and said, “I think we’ve given that project all the time we can. We’ll have completed the remedial work for the painting itself. Is that right?”

  Molly nodded.

  “And you’ve done some background research illuminating more about Josephine, and we’ve even been able to identify the individual who likely gifted the painting—”

  “We don’t know for sure it was Edith Hewitt. That’s why I’d like to visit the records office—”

  “No, no, no. That’s really not appropriate. I admire your enthusiasm, your keenness, indeed. But like I said, it is time to move on.”

  “But we haven’t answered the one question Georgina asked us to. We still don’t know who painted the portrait. I’m due to meet with Georgina again—”

  “And do you think you will be able to find out? I mean, for certain? Do you think you will find in the records office that piece of paper, that item of correspondence that says, I, Edith, let’s say Hewitt, commission you whoever to paint Josephine Brancaster? Tell me honestly.”

  Molly looked down and shook her head.

  “Then goodnight. Fresh pastures now, Molly. When you meet with Georgina next, I want your focus to be the Wright room. Deliver me Georgina’s commitment.”

  Without another word Molly left Evelyn’s office feeling dazed. She numbly waved goodnight to Fred in the foyer and walked the few hundred yards across the square in a daydream and climbed into Daisy May.

  Was Evelyn right? Had they probably discovered all they were ever going to find out about the painting? Fran certainly hadn’t seemed confident that she would find out much more about Edith. Fran. How on earth would Molly tell her about the Wright room? She couldn’t put it off any longer. What could she say? I tried and failed. Surely all Fran would hear is I’m art and status not integrity and community.

  Molly dropped her forehead to rest on Daisy May’s steering wheel.

  If the prospect of raising the subject of the Wright room with Fran was bad, then trying to find the words to use to talk about it with Georgina was surely impossible. She’d seen her reaction when Evelyn just mentioned her father’s art, and it wasn’t pretty. Was it still somehow just too soon for Georgina to talk about the things her father cared about? It took no imagining to understand that would hurt, and Molly didn’t want to do that to her.

  And in any case, she still had to break the news about the decision to draw a line under the research for Josephine’s portrait. What could she say? Could she tell her it just wasn’t meant to be, and that the beautiful watercolour was destined to keep her secrets hidden under her frame? And the inscription? Could that be just a romantic question unanswered, and Edith would remain the mysterious, passionate woman who once had loved Josephine for always?

  Molly lifted her head and turned the engine over. Daisy May started with just a hint of complaint from her carburettor.

  Across the square the chandelier light flickered on in George Wright’s sitting room.

  “Let’s go home, Daisy May,” Molly said with a sigh. “Take me to the peanut butter.”

  Chapter Eight

  Molly was determined to be ready for her next meeting with Georgina. She knew by now that Georgina would be on time if not at least five minutes early. She’d decided that she would be there at the museum entrance to greet her on her arrival. She would be poised and prepared.

  So when Friday arrived and the clock in the office ticked past quarter to four, Molly raced downstairs and sat waiting in the foyer on the hard wooden visitor bench, expectant, everything tensed with anticipation.

  “Hiya!” Molly leaped to her feet at the sight of Georgina strolling in through the sliding doors. Wait, did that just sound disrespectful? After all Georgina had just been to a church ceremony in honour of her father. She needed to calm down.

  “Hello, Molly.” Georgina brushed at the rain that had speckled the shoulders of her coat. “The weather’s terrible. Oh God, look at me.”

  Molly did her best not to. She tried and failed—just as she had tried and failed not to think about Georgina all week and not to imagine this very moment when they would meet again. Georgina was dressed formally this time. Her tan mackintosh looked so elegant with its collar turned up and the front falling open to reveal the hint of a tailored suit. She
’d arrived no doubt from the chic bustle of London straight to the sombre formality of the cathedral, and now she’d come here directly after, as promised. She wasn’t dressing to impress in an empty way. No. She was dressed to be who she was: impressive and in demand.

  Should she ask how the ceremony went? Or say, perhaps, how sorry she was about her father’s death and that she understood how hard it must be? But would that be too familiar? She should keep her focus on work. Yes, that was best surely. “Shall we go to my office? It’s this way up the stairs.”

  “Sure. After you.” Georgina looked past Molly to the sweep of the stairs that curved away above their heads. “It’s a grand building, isn’t it.”

  “Yes, definitely. It’s early Victorian in origin, built in 1836, so it also has that late Regency neoclassical feel to it which I love. The entrance porch is just amazing, isn’t it, with those imposing columns. Fran reliably informed me on my first day that the porch is a pedimented portico.”

  “Impressive.”

  “Yep. The architect was that chap Hansom, who was of course responsible for the Hansom cab.”

  Georgina fell into step beside Molly. “Yes, I think my father mentioned something about that once.”

  Molly followed Georgina’s gaze as she stared up to the ceiling with its ornate gold leaf mouldings framing the features of the arched glass roof.

  Molly paused halfway up the stairs. “It started its life as a school, would you believe, and became a museum in 1849. It is without question a public building built to inspire an obedient awe.”

  She glimpsed Georgina’s hand resting flat on the banister just inches from hers. A thin orange rubber bracelet rested around Georgina’s wrist. Wasn’t that the logo of the Young Women’s Trust?

  “I ran a half-marathon for them.” Georgina lifted the bracelet for Molly to see.

  “Sorry, it just caught my eye. I’d love to do more community outreach here at the museum, particularly for young women. In fact next March for women’s history month, Fran and I are hoping—or rather were hoping—to invite an inspiring local female figure to speak.”