by Anna Larner
“So I take it you despair at the focus remaining on the privileged history of white males?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
“And so the plans for a room dedicated to art gifted by generations of wealthy white men to the Wright Foundation to reduce death duties are at odds with what you believe?” Molly swallowed hard and her cheeks drained of colour. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to catch you out. I can see it’s not fair of me to put you in this position.”
“It’s okay. I’m not naive. I understand that the museum needs the support of important benefactors.” Molly paused. “Your support. And that bequests are fundamentally important to a museum. But it upsets me that other initiatives, such as community orientated projects, can sometimes not be seen as a priority. You see, they want to put the Wright room in the annex which was originally earmarked as a community space.”
“I see.”
“But then of course it was your father’s wish to gift his collection, and that’s important too.”
Georgina nodded. “Well, I think our first meeting on the subject of the Wright room has been very useful. Thank you.”
“That’s great.”
“And for what it’s worth”—Georgina’s breath caught in her throat as an urge to cry surprised her—“my sense is that my father’s collection will be in good hands.”
Molly blushed deeply. “Thank you.”
A loud bang on the window made them both jump. The windows had steamed up and Molly wound down her window and squinted into the rain.
A large man in a fluorescent jacket leaned down to look into the car. “You don’t see many of these on the roads any more,” he said, patting the roof. “Any idea what’s wrong, love? Control said it just stopped.”
Molly shouted, “She’s not very keen on the rain and cold!”
The man laughed. “I’ll warm my hands then, shall I?”
Molly said, with an expression of complete seriousness. “Yes, I think that would help.”
* * *
As Georgina’s train to London drew away from the platform, she couldn’t help but notice that her chest felt lighter. It almost seemed easier to breathe. Spending time with Molly felt like such a relief and a complete breath of fresh air. And more than that, Molly’s passion for justice had renewed an energy in Georgina. It was the same energy that had dissipated the very moment her father had told her he was dying. She’d lost so much that day, including hope and positivity and even the reason for everything she once cared about. Nothing seemed to matter until perhaps now.
She looked out at the eclectic city diluting to the mundane suburban sprawl. She turned away from the window, opened her laptop, and began tapping a quick reminder note. She paused for a second and sat staring at the screen. Her thoughts drifted again to Molly and to her earnest expression as she had confessed her worries and hopes.
“Tickets, please.”
The sweep of the door to first class closed behind the approaching conductor. She typed a few words before he arrived at her side.
Instinctively she half closed her screen from view, casting into shadow the words the Wright Community Room and Gallery.
* * *
“I’m very late, aren’t I?”
Fran looked up at Molly and then at the clock. It was just before two o’clock.
“Surely your question to me should be has anyone noticed your absence for the last three and a bit hours?”
“Yes, answer that one. I’m starved.”
“No.”
“Phew.” Molly sat heavily down on the edge of Fran’s desk.
Fran reached down with a groan and rummaged in her bag. She retrieved an apple and handed it to Molly.
Through a large bite of apple, Molly mumbled, “Thanks.”
“So I take it that it went well at the records office, given how long you were there?”
“Define well.”
“You found everything you needed to know about Edith, including the painter of Josephine’s portrait, and at the same time you won over Georgina Wright.”
“Sort of. We did come across a random page from a petition on behalf of the London Female Anti-Slavery Society which was really interesting and confirmed Edith’s part in campaigning.”
“Did you? That’s excellent. I don’t remember anything like that.”
“That’s probably because it was tucked inside one of Edith’s prayer books. It literally all but fell into Georgina’s lap. But honestly, Fran, although the petition was great, it was a prayer that Georgina came across which was so incredibly sad. It stopped us in our tracks.”
Fran nodded. “Yes, that happens. Once you start to explore an archive and become invested, I’ve often found it can be incredibly moving and, be warned, darned addictive. You have to be clear what you are trying to achieve to prevent yourself from getting lost amongst its treasures.”
“Yep. I get that. Don’t worry, I’m absolutely focused.”
“And absolutely covered in oil.” Fran pointed to Molly’s oil-stained dress. Molly watched as Fran’s eyes grew wide. “Oh, Molly, please don’t tell me you took Georgina Wright in Daisy May and then broke down.”
“No, no, no. It was a good thing, as it happened.” Molly began hunting for a cloth to clean her dress.
“I’m struggling to see how Georgina Wright stranded in Daisy May was a good thing. Try in that box.”
“It was good because it gave me a chance to talk to Georgina about the plans for a Wright room, and I think I may have helped Evelyn. At least I hope I have.” Molly’s stomach dropped at the recollection of all the critical things she’d said about the museum. “I got on my hobby horse about equality and museums and might have suggested that the museum should be doing more.”
“Well, yes, they should.”
“But what if it gets back to Evelyn?” Molly dug out a square of material left over from a medieval monk’s habit and dabbed at her dress, only to give up and rest again on Fran’s desk.
“Let’s hope it does. So there’s going to be a Wright room then?”
Bugger. Was it too late to say no? “Yes. I’ve been trying to build up the courage to mention it.”
“I don’t understand why would you need to build up the courage.” Fran’s expression fell into a stony fixed glare. “Unless of course—”
“I tried to say the annex had been reserved for community use. I promise I did.”
“I believe you. I don’t for a minute blame you Molly. So did Georgina approve of the idea of a Wright room?”
“I think so. I ranted on so much it’s hard to tell what she thought.”
“Well her father’s bequeathed his art to the museum, so she might as well hurry up and hand it over, whether she likes it or not.”
“Actually she said she thought her father’s collection would be in good hands.”
“Really?” A smile broke through Fran’s frown. “Then I think you’ll find you’ve won Georgina Wright over. So what’s the next step?”
“I’ll go back to the records office sometime this week. I have half a memory they open late one night. I think it was Tuesday.”
“Wednesday. They’re open until seven thirty.”
“Really? Excellent. I was thinking after work would be better, less…complicated. And then I’ll be ready to update Georgina when we meet again on Friday.”
Fran raised her eyebrows. “She caught you off guard again then?”
“No, I mean we—What are you implying?”
“I’m not implying anything. I’m merely observing that you’re spending a lot of time with someone you don’t want to spend time with. And it has not escaped my notice that Georgina is also giving a lot of time to this research.” Molly shrugged. Fran continued, “I would have thought she’d want it all wrapped up as soon as possible—all of it, the portrait, the bequest. Job done. And then she could return to her life in London.”
“I suppose.” Molly folded her arms, suppressing a sudden ache in her chest sparked by t
he thought of not seeing Georgina again. “She does seem really keen on our work together.”
“Yes, she does, doesn’t she?” Fran’s eyes twinkled with suggestion.
Molly stood up. “It’s just work.”
“Of course. Although I am wondering how you plan to keep working on the portrait when if I remember correctly you said that further research made Evelyn tense.”
Molly looked at the ground. “She’s told me to stop work on the portrait.”
“Molly. Evelyn has expressly asked you not to, and you’ve carried on anyway? What are you thinking? You know you can’t keep avoiding her.”
“I’m not avoiding her.”
“You all but ran down the corridor earlier. I thought there was a fire.”
“I was late.” Molly put her hands on her hips. “Anyway, I figure I can do what I want with my own time. Hence Wednesday night.”
“Oh, Molly, please tread carefully. Whilst I’m all for acts of defiant rebellion, you need to be honest with yourself what this is all about and whether it’s worth the standoff.”
“It’s for Edith. And of course it is.”
“Are you sure it’s just for Edith?”
Molly went quiet. She wasn’t sure. Since meeting Georgina, she wasn’t sure of anything.
“I’m going to say something else.” Fran folded her arms. “You need to remember that Georgina Wright is an important funder for this museum. There’s a lot at stake.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
Molly moved the pile of paper wallets and slumped down in her chair. There staring her right in the face, resting wrapped on her desk, was Josephine’s portrait.
“Josephine’s portrait is back from the conservator,” Molly said. “Did you know?”
“We pretty much share the same air molecules. I know everything that happens in this office whether I wish to or not.”
“I don’t like to unwrap it.” Molly hovered her hands over the outside.
“Then my advice is to return it as is to Georgina. You know it’s time.”
Molly shook her head. “But I haven’t finished my research.” She began to feel a terrible panic. Returning the painting would feel like saying goodbye. But goodbye to who? Josephine and Edith, or Georgina? Either way Molly wasn’t ready to let go.
Chapter Ten
What had changed? At what point had her perception of Georgina shifted from the frosty woman who had undermined her in front of Evelyn, to the woman her heart now ached for? Molly tapped her pencil against her bottom lip.
At what point did someone enter your heart and become so precious to you that you panicked at the thought you might not see them again or you might somehow let them down or disappoint them? When did they become the default person for your fantasies and hopes? And when did a stranger become the person you suddenly decided to take risks for?
Molly had so many questions fogging her thoughts that acting without thinking too much about what she was doing was helping.
It helped her to form a rudimentary plan. If Evelyn confronted her about progress with Georgina, then she would say that she had spoken to Georgina about the Wright room and that she was hopeful of the outcome. Furthermore, if pressed about the painting, Molly would reply that the matter was in hand, which it was after all.
It helped her to make the call to the records office to book this evening for her research and to request Josephine’s and Edith’s archives ahead of her visit.
Sadly, there was nothing to help her not feel a little daunted by the pile of paper that sat waiting on the long desk in front of her.
She glanced around the deserted reading room. She’d chosen the same seat that she had occupied just a few days ago. She couldn’t bring herself to look at the empty chair next to her.
Right, focus. She would look for anything that might link Edith to the painting. Every small detail would matter.
But where on earth should she begin?
Sifting through the archive, her attention was immediately caught by a small tan leather notebook. A thin piece of cream ribbon frayed at its end bound the notebook closed. Could she open it? Should she? Teasing the ribbon apart and releasing the pages to flutter free was like releasing an undergarment. It felt illicit and deeply intimate.
It seemed to be some sort of logbook. Her breath caught at the sight of the initials EH marked in pencil on the back of the front cover. Why had this just been swept up in Josephine’s archive? This was Edith’s book. Edith’s, not Josephine’s. How easily and how indiscriminately Edith’s past had been absorbed away.
She took a long deliberate breath. Her anger wasn’t helping Edith.
She returned her focus to the contents, where every now and then a page was given a date and the dates seemed to run sequentially. Molly turned a page to find a drawing of a man with a really big nose. WW was written in small letters underneath. William Wilberforce? It was more a cartoon than a piece of art. She couldn’t help but smile. By the side of the man were the words And you say we are brazen faced? On the opposite side was the drafting of a poem, declaring female resistance and call to duty. It was titled “Onward Defiance.” It was a good drawing. Wait, Edith could draw?
Where was the scrapbook Fran mentioned? With renewed purpose Molly began to leaf through the archives once more, setting each item carefully aside. And then, half buried, revealing itself like the seabed in the ebbing tide, was the unmistakable shape of a scrapbook.
Molly’s heart thumped.
She looked at her watch. It was seven o’clock. In half an hour the records office would close. Please let there be something in here.
She carefully opened the scrapbook, and a world opened before her. There were programs for events and rallies along with pressed dried grasses and flowers. A note, a line of memory had been written with each item fixed to the stiff textured paper. A blade of pressed dried grass was accompanied with the line A wonderful picnic and walk with Jo in Bradgate Park. Chanced upon a sleeping doe. This was Edith’s scrapbook. These were her treasured memories.
Clippings from newspapers had been pasted next to each other. Molly leaned in further and read the Leicester Chronicle’s passage on the lighting of the first gas lamps on City Walk. Crowds had gathered, the article said. The future had been lit before them. She checked the date. The faded ink read September 1832. For some reason the clipping had been scored with a heavy pencil border. Molly knew that every mark and every underline meant something, but what? Evelyn was right. What on earth did she think she would find?
Dispirited, she eased the scrapbook to her side, and with a heavy heart she bent her elbows and sank her arms flat against the table, resting her head against her hands with her cheek pressing against the cold wood. She stared at the scrapbook, now level with her eyes. Wait a minute. What was that? Towards the back, a corner of a page protruded, and there was something marked out on it. It couldn’t be. Could it?
Molly sat up straight and drew the scrapbook to her once more. At the point of the protruding edge of paper and tucked so deeply in as to be invisible to the casual glance was a collection of charcoal sketches. A couple of the sketches had become unfixed and Molly lifted them gently to rest in front of her.
“Josephine.” She lightly traced her fingers just above the soft dust of charcoal lines that defined neck, chin, and the blush of lips.
Was this Edith’s work?
Molly searched each sketch for Edith’s characteristic EH. Nothing. This was her scrapbook—there was no question that its contents contained her life with Josephine. It had to be her work. It just had to be. If only she could find some evidence.
Think, Molly Goode. Think. Her gaze drifted with her thoughts once more to the logbook open at the drawing of Wilberforce. She lifted the logbook to rest in her palm and turned each page slowly sensing as much as reading and alive to the shape of the letters that formed the word portrait. Where was the loop of the P or the curl of the R? Or the word Josephine with its gentle sweep
downward of the J.
Josephine’s name was on nearly every page. It was as if Edith had noted every day they were together and every day they were apart.
Molly looked at her watch. It was twenty past seven.
She urgently scanned every page, and then on almost the last turn of the last page, logged with the date 4th April 1832, was the entry Molly doubted she would ever find.
Words today burn at my lips to speak and smoulder in ink on the page as I write. For I have captured our love in every shade. The sweet stroke of brush upon canvas, the exquisite memory of us. I long to paint you again and know you yet more with every new glance until no part of you is foreign to me.
“Blimey.” Molly stared once more at the sketches as doubt in the heat of evidence evaporated away.
April 1832
Chambers of Brancaster and Lane Solicitors, New Street, Leicester
“Please tell me you have finished, Edith. My neck is stiff, not to mention other parts of me which are quite bereft of feeling.”
“Just wait and let patience soothe your pain. I’m nearly done.” Edith stood back and shook her head.
“I take no confidence from your words when they are undermined by your gestures.”
“It is the background. It is too dark. I need something, a wash of white perhaps, to offset the depths of blue. There, yes. Yes.”
“Good, then we are done.” Josephine slipped from the stool and stretched, holding the small of her back, her chest expanding, while she found new rest in Edith’s arms.
“We will never be done.” Edith drew Josephine into her body, pressing as if to never let go. “Tell me that much, Jo.” She breathed her words between soft kisses brushing against the delicate curve of Josephine’s neck.
“Are we quite content that we locked the door?”
“How you worry.”
“And how you don’t. We will surely invite speculation if we spend too many evenings working late. Please, Edith. We must take care, lest these passions overwhelm us. The choice for our future is not ours to make—you know that as well as I, if not more. It is time for us to see reason. Surely it is time. We must…” Josephine’s words were lost with her breath in the moment.
