by Anna Larner
She glanced at Georgina who’d begun to gently leaf through a volume.
She looked up at Molly. “Looks like Edith was religious, as there are lots of what read like prayers spanning several years.”
“Really? I thought it was poetry? Does it confirm anywhere that these are her prayer books? Is there anything in the front matter, on the title page perhaps?”
“Yes. She’s written Edith Hewitt, Leicester, and the date. This one’s August 1831. On first glance there’s one volume per year until 1833.”
“Okay, good. Everything helps us build a picture. I was just thinking—”
“That Edith’s archive might have gotten mixed up with Josephine’s? After all, Fran mentioned a scrapbook, didn’t she? And it’s not here.”
“Yes, exactly. I’m very sorry if I’ve wasted your morning.”
Georgina briefly rested a hand lightly on Molly’s back. “It’s been fun. Let’s see what we can discover in the next half hour. Then why don’t we come back when we both have more time. Yes?”
“That sounds like a plan. It’s just…”
“Just what?”
She needed to tell her that Evelyn had asked her to draw a line under the research for the painting. And every minute she sat here with Georgina without discussing the Wright room she was surely risking the wrath of her boss. But then she didn’t want their research to end—not for Edith and not for them. Because then they would have to talk about the Wright room and everything would change, wouldn’t it? She didn’t want things to change. She wanted Georgina to look at her as she was looking at her now, with no barriers between them. “Nothing. Yes, let’s come back.”
“Great. Although to be honest, Friday afternoons are still best for me. I’m guessing they won’t open on request?”
“Sadly, I wouldn’t think so. I tell you what, I’ll come again at some point this week. I’ll request all of Josephine’s archive to review and we can meet up at the museum on Friday for me to report back. Four, again? What do you think? Unless you’re not due back—”
“No, I can come back then. Excellent. Thank you.” Georgina looked directly into Molly’s eyes.
Molly got the sense Georgina wanted to say something else, but she let her gaze fall away back to the prayer book.
As Georgina began to leaf through the pages again a piece of paper folded into three along its length slipped out from between the cover and the title page. She picked it up and unfolded it. “Could this be something?”
Molly carefully inspected the loose paper. Just as with the discovery of Edith’s inscription, she had the most peculiar sensation that she might have been the first person to open the paper since it had been folded and tucked away.
The creases were ingrained so deeply Molly was aware that she needed to take the utmost care not to cause the fragile paper to tear at its folded edges.
“Can you tell what it is?” Georgina asked.
Speaking at just above a whisper, Molly said, “It’s a page from some sort of petition for the, quote, immediate abolition of the institution of slavery conducted for the”—Molly lightly traced her forefinger underneath the words—“London Female Anti-Slavery Society.” A note had been written in pencil at the top right hand side. It read, 3,025 signatures, time not allowing more. 1833. E.H. “E. H.—Edith Hewitt.” Molly cast her eye down the page to see a whole list of women’s names, with Leicester addresses. “Edith collected about three thousand signatures from women in Leicester petitioning for the abolition of slavery. Wow.”
“Can I see?” Georgina gently took the page from Molly. “That’s a lot of signatures, although it looks like someone changed their mind.” Georgina tipped the page towards Molly. Sure enough, one name, Mrs. Charlton, Granby Street, Occupation: frame-knitter, had been scored through.
Molly stared at the woman’s name crossed out.
Spring 1833
Josephine and Edith’s office
Chambers of Brancaster and Lane Solicitors, New Street, Leicester
“How dare she change her mind. Can the poor enslaved souls change their minds? No.”
“Edith, please calm down.”
“I’d like to think more on the subject. I fear I have acted in haste. That’s what she said when I challenged her. In haste?”
“You challenged her. Edith, no, we spoke about this. Only this morning.”
“Haste? If we do not act with haste. If we do not demand the immediate abolition, then those, and we both know who I mean, will be content to drag their heels to satisfy the will of plantation owners. It is a farce to suggest that slavery will die a natural death—a gradual end is no end. We must sign slavery’s death warrant once and for all.” Edith raised the pages of the petition in the air. “Mrs. Charlton notwithstanding.” Edith flopped onto the chair at the table where Josephine sat quietly writing a letter.
“Have you finished?” Josephine asked, fighting the smile pressing at her lips.
Edith plucked the letter from Josephine. “I have only just begun. Why are you writing to that prisoner yet again?”
“I am minded to believe that my letters offer succour in between my visits.”
“How you can face to be in those places is beyond me.”
“He has no one, Edith. No one cares.”
“Could that not be a good thing? Surely it is a mercy if no one is waiting for the release and pardon that will never come. Too often more than just the prisoner find themselves incarcerated by hopeless hope.”
“I for one will never abandon hope. It is all we have. How you can have such tireless compassion for the slaves of the West Indies and such little sympathy for the prisoner on your doorstep? Now give me back my letter, Edith. Give.”
Edith stood holding the letter high in the air. “Because the slaves’ only crime was the misfortune of their birth.”
“And my father argues the same each and every day for the prisoners here.” Josephine reached up, only for Edith to stand on tiptoe. “I do not have the time for your games. Edith, for pity’s sake.”
Edith moved the paper from hand to hand, just avoiding Josephine’s grasp.
“Well, if that is how it is to be.” Josephine pinched at Edith’s waist causing her to scream laughter into the air and to bend double, allowing Josephine to grasp the paper. She moved to turn away and Edith held her by the wrist.
“Wait,” Edith said softly. “Please.” Edith pulled Josephine into her and wrapped her arms around her and buried her face in her neck.
“Please let me go, Edith. Don’t you understand it is an intolerable agony to be close to you.”
“And don’t you understand that not touching you and endeavouring just to be colleagues and no more than best friends is an agony I cannot tolerate.”
Josephine held Edith away from her. “But we agreed and we have done so well—”
“I did not agree. Why would anyone in their right mind agree to lose a love? But how could I not continue to see you?”
“You have not lost me. You will never lose me.”
“But that is not true is it? Is it?”
Josephine shook her head. “I will not lie to you.”
“But yet you are content to deceive your own heart?”
As Molly carefully refolded the petition, Georgina flicked to the last few pages in the volume of prayers. “Goodness.”
“What?” Molly looked at Georgina’s face creased with a frown.
Georgina shared the open page with Molly, showing her the prayer she had stumbled upon. With a hushed voice Georgina read, “Lord, today I have been burdened with such sadness that I cannot bear to utter even my own name. To speak, to write is to feel pain. I ask no more than tomorrow my burden will be lighter and my grief more tolerable. I ask this in your name.”
Molly sat silently with Georgina. They were so close now she could feel the brush of Georgina’s sleeve against her arm.
Georgina eventually said, “That’s so sad.”
“What was the date for
this volume? Yes, there.” Molly found the title page for Georgina.
Georgina leaned in. “Twenty-eighth of August, 1833. So that was the year after Josephine’s portrait was painted.” Georgina paused and quickly rechecked the dates in the other two volumes. “This was the last volume. It makes you wonder what made Edith so sad, doesn’t it?”
Molly silently nodded as she reread the prayer. “That’s so strange. Don’t hold me to it, but I’m pretty sure that this prayer is more or less the same time that the Act of Abolition received royal assent. Surely she would have been celebrating?”
Georgina gave a heavy sigh and leaned back in her chair. “We’re certainly missing something, aren’t we? We know so little about her. We don’t even know how old she was. Is there any way we can find out?”
“Yes, I may be able to. I’m guessing she’ll feature in the local parish registers. I’ll try to get a sense of her for us.” Molly stood. “So…do you want to risk a lift home? There’s a taxi rank just over the road if you’d prefer to grab a taxi.”
“Won’t Daisy May be offended?” Georgina rested the prayer book back with the others.
Molly laughed. “Yes, possibly.”
“Well, Daisy May it is then.” Georgina’s smile lit somewhere deep in Molly’s heart and she could feel it burning bright. It took all of her self-control to turn away to catch the assistant’s eye and signal they were finished.
Within a matter of moments the prayer books had gone again, back into the store, back to where they kept the past dark and silent.
* * *
“So how long does it normally take to get her going?” Georgina asked, amused at Molly’s mortified expression.
“I am so, so sorry.” Molly was looking around her. Rain had forced her back into the car from having her head stuck under the bonnet. “Normally I blow on something or oil something or tighten something or say something encouraging, and we’re off again. She does have a thing about rain, though.” Molly shrugged. “I’ll ring the AA. I’ll understand if you want to call a taxi.”
The last thing Georgina thought to do was leave Molly stranded alone. “As I see it, we’re in it together.”
“Thanks, and thanks for being so cool about everything.”
“You didn’t think I would be?” Georgina wanted to know what Molly thought of her. This question felt, in that moment, so important. Was Molly enjoying being with her as much as she delighted in the mere mention of Molly’s name?
“Funnily enough, I haven’t given any previous thought to the scenario where I’ve broken down in my car, all but hijacking one of the museum’s most important funders. And I’ve no prawn vol-au-vent or glass of chilled Sauvignon blanc to offer.” Molly shook her head. She could only imagine what Evelyn would say.
As Molly made her call, Georgina wanted to ask, Is that how you see me—as an important museum funder and nothing more? But then, she was an important museum funder, and how else could Molly think of her? Right there and then, she just wanted to be a woman in the car with the woman from the square, telling her how beautiful she thought she was. Telling her how much she had meant to her this last year and, moreover, how much she meant to her now.
“All done,” Molly said with a bounce in her seat. Her movement disturbed an empty frame, which slipped from the back seat to rest between them. “Oops. I’ll just shove that back again.”
Georgina felt the warmth of Molly’s body briefly press against her as Molly stretched to slot it back into place.
Molly’s car shared the same appearance as her office. It was crammed full with the extraordinary and the ordinary. Several large unfinished paintings rested against the back seat, propped up by an apple crate containing unfired clay pottery of all shapes and sizes. Plastic boxes were crammed with art materials, particularly half-squeezed tubes of paint of all colours and types. Molly just caught a wicker picnic basket that threatened to slide into Georgina’s lap.
“You weren’t kidding”—Georgina looked at the basket newly wedged behind the back seat—“when you said you were a keen picnicker.”
Molly laughed. “Nope. I’m impressed you remembered.”
Georgina felt her cheeks burn. She felt as if she’d be found out. As if Molly could tell that she could remember pretty much word for word every conversation they’d had. It wasn’t as if she was even deliberately remembering—it was more she found them impossible to forget.
Molly’s curls had frizzed a little in the humidity and her freckled cheeks were matched with a few remaining speckles of rainwater. She looked simply beautiful. How Georgina managed not to reach across and brush Molly’s fallen hair from her face she did not know. How she stopped herself from stroking the droplets of rain from her cheeks she could not say. And how she didn’t tell Molly that she was simply the most natural and beautiful woman she’d ever met, goodness only knew. Instead she sat there smiling back at Molly as Molly smiled at her.
Molly’s smile faded.
“What is it?” Georgina asked.
“Oh, nothing,” Molly replied, with a shake of the head.
Georgina could tell Molly was lying and that something was on her mind. But it wasn’t any of her business. She should change the subject. “You certainly have a full car.” Georgina gestured to the back seat.
“It’s not usually quite that full. I’m running some art education sessions at a local school who tend not to visit the museum. I don’t know whether it’s the teachers or the parents who are resistant to visiting, but I figured it wasn’t fair on the kids to miss out on the benefits of art. So I’ve invited myself round, so to speak. They kind of couldn’t say no.”
“I imagine you’re hard to refuse.” Georgina stopped herself short. That definitely sounded like a flirtatious comment, but before she had chance to qualify what she meant, Molly replied with a mischievous glint in her eye.
“I can be very persuasive.”
But then Georgina noticed that the glint faded quickly along with Molly’s smile once more.
“What is it? After all, you have me captured. My full attention is yours.” And it struck Georgina that for the first time in however many years she hadn’t looked at her phone or drifted off mid-conversation to more important thoughts. She was utterly captivated and it felt really good. “Molly? It’s okay. Just say what’s on your mind. Only if you want to of course.”
“Well, there is something. Something…” Molly began to fiddle with the seat belt. “It’s something Evelyn wanted me to raise with you. For what it’s worth, I think it’s a good something.”
Georgina’s stomach tightened. “Evelyn? Go on.”
“It was important, as you know, to your father that the artwork bequeathed by the Wright Foundation to the museum should be accessible to the public. We promised this to him and we earnestly want to keep that promise.”
“Okay.”
“We want to dedicate a permanent exhibition space in the museum for the bequest. Evelyn wants to call it the Wright room.”
“I see. And this of course requires me to hand over the remaining bequeathed works in the house so the museum can fulfil their promise to my father.”
“Possibly. Well, yes. But I can only imagine how hard it is to let go of his things. I’m not sure if I was in your position that I would want to either.”
Molly looked really uncomfortable. It was not the expression of someone trying to manipulate someone.
“Clever woman.” Georgina’s father had met with Evelyn on many occasions. He described her to Georgina as shrewd. He’d respected her as one respects the guile and cunning of a fox. Fox by name, fox by nature. It was a plan she couldn’t say no to, and what’s more it had been asked of her by Molly. Had Evelyn seen something in Georgina’s reaction to Molly? Had she been read like a book? Her tell revealed?
“I find her intimidating.” Molly shrugged.
“I can imagine. So the time you’re giving to the portrait and today at the records office—all part of her master plan?”
Molly shook her head. “No, today was something I wanted to do for Edith and for…well because it’s the right thing to do, isn’t it?” Molly turned in her seat to face Georgina with her knees resting towards her. “Imagine painting a portrait that has hung on a family wall and no one knowing that you painted it. And if, for argument’s sake, she was Josephine’s lover, then Edith has been just blanked out, erased as if she’d never mattered. And she would have mattered—she would have mattered to Josephine.” Molly cheeks flushed. “And it’s not just Edith. There are so many minority histories that have been lost, and their voices silenced. And do you know what’s really crap, sinister even? Museums know this. They pay lip service, with temporary exhibitions and so forth, but do they embed real change, real awareness in their permanent displays, are they going back into records and actively looking for these histories? No. Or at least, very rarely. They blame resources. I blame them.” Molly brushed back her hair from her face. “I’m sorry. I’m ranting.”
Georgina shook her head. “Don’t apologize for caring.”
“I do care—very much. It’s something that I want to focus on with my work. Do you know what worries me the most? It’s that they’re not taking rigorous enough measures to prevent this invisibility from persisting into the future.”
Georgina sat up further in her seat. “What measures should they be taking?”
“Well, one measure going forward would be for the Arts Council to make gender, sexuality, race, and religion specific and required fields in the records database. Simple, effective, achievable. As things stand at the moment, if a museum chooses not to specify and enforce the collection of this sensitive data”—Molly shrugged—“then ultimately, beyond the skeleton information required to be recorded for an object, what is collected or rather omitted is entirely at the discretion of the individual museum.”
“So this measure would enforce some sort of positive discrimination?”
“Not quite. Cataloguers can note down white, male, Christian, and heterosexual if it fits the history. But only if it fits the history.”
