by Anna Larner
“Will you be my guest, Miss Brancaster, on such an auspicious occasion?” Edith took Josephine’s hand and kissed it, finishing the action with a low bow.
Josephine laughed. “I shall be honoured. But now I must work and so, Miss Hewitt, must you.” Josephine released her hand from Edith’s and sat at her desk. She sighed. “I always feel so behind.”
Edith sat on the edge of her desk. “Is this the latest newsletter? What! Brazen-faced!” Edith squeezed her lips together as if the words which forced at her mouth were molten and threatened to burst and spurt with fury. She held out the offending article in front of her.
“Edith. Wilberforce is unwell.” Josephine glanced up from her writing.
Edith stood straight backed and indignant. “But yet he finds the energy in his state of infirmity to mock our efforts and to call us brazen-faced for taking a stand for ourselves. Does he imagine that the progress towards the freedom of slaves is entirely of his achievement? A male conquest.”
“Probably,” Josephine said matter-of-factly.
Edith began to pace around the room. “Well, I will write. No, I will compose a hymn and sing it at the top of my lungs. I will call it ‘Onward Defiance.’ Yes. Its fierce notes of rebuke will carry on the air to London and rest upon ears who will hear and listen and condemn him.”
“I doubt such a man will be condemned, Edith, as history will not remember him as the man of your hymn. It will remember him as the man who ended slavery in the British Empire.”
“You cannot be sure of that. And why are you so easily persuaded to resign yourself to things? You give in as if all things are inevitable.”
“How can you say that? I campaign, I write protests, I have dedicated my life to social justice. I do not just give in.”
“Don’t you?” Edith moved to Josephine. She rested her hand against her neck, leaning forward to place a kiss on her throat. “You give in every day to your fears of what a life lived with me, as us, would mean.”
Josephine sat fixedly in her seat. She closed her eyes. “I will not talk again on this matter. Your delusions are obsessional.”
Edith moved in front of Josephine, kissing at her closed eyelids. “If love is delusional, then I am mad indeed.” Edith tipped her chin to the ceiling and howled like a dog.
“Edith!” Josephine looked urgently at the door. “If you are seeking to provoke me—”
“I am seeking no more than to love you.”
“That is not true though, is it? You have my love. What you seek is a commitment from me that I am unable to give.”
“And that is where you give in.”
“No, it is where my heart breaks.”
Georgina folded her arms. “It’s difficult to know what to trust, isn’t it? At the end of the day, all you have is your instinct.”
“Yes. On the subject of trusting your instinct—a few weeks back now, Fran gave me some research she had done for a previous exhibition some years ago which featured Josephine. It contained a list of Josephine’s writing.”
“Okay.”
“I noticed something a little bit odd, but I’m not sure if it means anything, which is why I haven’t mentioned it before now.”
“But your instinct makes you think it does?”
“Yes. You see, there’s a gap of about two years where Josephine stopped writing completely. She’d been married six months or so by this point. I can’t shake off the sense that something happened that made her stop. And I keep wondering as well if that something also affected Edith. What if by answering this question about Josephine, we get new answers about Edith?”
“Yes, I get that—a new way in. Do you think it was William? Could he have somehow forbade Josephine from writing?”
“Maybe. It’s possible. But then, why fall for someone only to stop them being the person you fell for? What’s more, she started writing again a few years later. I think I need to go back to the records office and have one last look. Just to settle myself.”
“Will you let me know if you find anything?”
“Of course.”
The noise of the staff closing doors outside their gallery prompted Georgina to reluctantly say, “We should go.”
Molly looked at her watch. It was just after ten o’clock. “Yes, I can’t really risk missing my train.”
They walked in silence down the stone steps. Each step for Georgina was agony because it was a step closer to goodbye. They collected their coats and Georgina’s brolly which she opened up over Molly and herself as they stepped out into the busy streets of London. The rain had eased a little, but the air was still wet to breathe and damp in their lungs.
Georgina raised her arm, bringing a passing taxi to a halt. She opened the passenger door and leaned in and said, “St. Pancras, please.”
She held the door for Molly who hesitated.
“This evening has meant so much to me.” Molly rested her hand over Georgina’s.
Georgina tipped her brolly just enough to offer a little privacy as she pressed her lips tenderly against Molly’s. “And finding you means so much to me.” She took a deep breath and stood back to allow Molly to climb into the taxi and out of the cold.
“Goodnight then,” Molly said. “See you soon. I’ll text when I get home. Perhaps we can make plans for the weekend?”
“Yes, definitely. Goodnight, safe journey.”
Georgina waved back at Molly as the taxi pulled away. The red of its brake lights caught in the puddles as Georgina’s heart ached at the sight of the taxi turning the corner and taking Molly away. She stared after the taxi long after it had disappeared, for if she didn’t look away, then the spell of their magical night in London would not be broken.
But then the spell would always break, wouldn’t it? For Molly didn’t belong in London. Erica had said so, and Molly hadn’t corrected her. She had simply looked down as if the truth was hard to face.
But then could she leave London and return to Leicester for Molly? Georgina didn’t have to kiss her to know that Molly was in every way her future. But then there was her past.
Painful memories of her childhood and thoughts of the cold emptiness of her father’s house swept in with the rain, chilling Georgina to her core.
She quickly turned to look out to London. It was more than just a city. It had been her refuge from hurt and in every way the glittering hostess who had clasped Georgina to her heart when her own mother had been nowhere in sight.
Chapter Twenty
“Molly, can you pass that rule, the metre rule. I’m not sure whether Vanessa’s watercolour of Charleston’s gardens and George’s photograph of the house from the garden should go together or not. Underneath each other perhaps?” Evelyn’s voice bristled with frustration. “A riot of rich colour is one thing—a chaos of gaudiness is another entirely. What do you think?”
Molly quickly placed her hand over her mouth to hide the yawn that had slipped free. Thinking after last night was proving a challenge, let alone concentrating on anything other than She kissed me.
Evelyn snapped her fingers and extended her palm in a dramatic display of emptiness.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Here you go.” Molly handed the ruler to Evelyn. “Yes, I love those two works together absolutely, but perhaps that space would also be excellent for our introductory panel. It almost has a natural shape for text.”
“Yes, you may have a point.” Evelyn scratched her head. “I have never curated an exhibition of such diverse pieces not only in their subject matter but in chronology. What possessed George to collect so randomly?”
“Perhaps he didn’t think of his work as a collection but just chose objects he enjoyed.”
“In my experience enjoyment is always flawed as a rationale for anything.”
Blimey. “There are some quite strong themes coming through which may work well with the notion of the room as a community space that will be great for schools and local interest groups.” Molly picked up a piece of A1 paper stamped with a dusty
shoe print and left over from the final measurements for the cabinet. She found a marker pen that had rolled under a bench and began to sketch out the room. “We could tell a story of war, by grouping the Nash, the Piper, and Hugo Wright’s sketch. Georgina was telling me about the tragic history of Hugo’s death at the Battle of the Somme soon after he’d completed his drawing. We could highlight George as an important local figure and pair the Leibovitz photo of George with the bust of Thomas Cook, another local of importance, and we could include the John Flower piece as Flower was a well-known local artist who concentrated on the city’s history.”
Molly wasn’t sure what Evelyn’s silence meant, and having mentioned the word community, she couldn’t bring herself to look up to check, so she carried on regardless. “I was telling Georgina how keen I was to display her family portraits from the 1800s together just as they have hung for all those years in George’s sitting room. I think there is a real opportunity to engage visitors with the lives of the people in the portraits. We could explore the fashion of the day and highlight customs such as baptism and marriages and notions of love in all its forms. As you know, we’ve already done a lot of work to uncover the history behind Josephine’s portrait—”
“No, no, no.” Evelyn all but collapsed onto a bench. “If we progress along those lines then the individual works are lost, subservient to theme. And that is always ghastly. This is an exhibition celebrating the work of great artists, not an exhibition focusing on local individuals and the needs of the national curriculum. And given George’s notoriously unfortunate history, certainly not an exhibition focusing on marriage. Actually that reminds me—replies to invitations are starting to pick up, but we have a few unknowns. Not that I expected Lydia Wright to be prompt to reply to hers.”
What? No. Lydia Wright?
“Don’t look so stunned—exhibitions arise from the energy of debate and discussion.” As she spoke Evelyn’s gaze was drawn to outside.
“No, it’s not that,” Molly said. “It’s just, did you say—”
“Oh God, I have five minutes before that awful woman from town planning pours officious scorn on our plans for the grounds. Did I tell you that we’ve been told we can’t separate off the terrace area by the annex and that she doubted the practicality of Italian flagstone. Ignorant woman. After all, the charm in the stones is their natural patina. They are laid now and I’m not taking them up. And I won’t be deterred from the plans for the formal rose bush border. And if that landscape design sets itself apart from the rest of the square, then I will consider that a triumph. What was your question?”
“I didn’t realize we’d invited Georgina’s mother.”
“Yes, there was no question that we wouldn’t. Lydia was and remains influential, less so in my opinion as an artist more as a, how shall I put it, cultural arbiter, a voice to which key figures in the art world listen. Even though she’s always seemed to seek refuge abroad, she cannot be underestimated.”
“But as she’s divorced from George, I would imagine it might be upsetting for her to attend. And of course there are Georgina’s feelings to consider.”
“Add to that it was a particularly painful divorce.” Fran arrived with a tray of coffees. “Not that any divorce is easy.”
“Well, there you are.” Evelyn narrowed her eyes at the sight of the councilwoman looking back at them from outside. “I imagine Lydia Wright might wish to attend to lay some ghosts to rest and even seek a closure of sorts. Sentiments, particularly hurtful ones, have a habit of lingering, after all. So we can but hope to tempt her to accept. Molly, don’t go anywhere—I want to talk merchandise. And please reimagine the layout chronologically, as I do not want any sniff of a theme. This won’t take long.”
Struggling to take in the news of Lydia’s invitation, Molly stood instead with Fran sipping at their drinks and trying in vain to not watch the woman from the council nod in evident stunned agreement to Evelyn’s plans. It was cruel really. The woman was left standing, dazed, as if someone had spun her round and round and she was trying to orientate herself. She walked off unsteadily as if in shock, stumbling against a bin on her way back to the promenade.
“I’m guessing they’ll send someone else next time,” Molly said, concerned.
“An unmanned device probably,” Fran said, without a hint of humour.
Fran looked at the A1 sheet lying on the floor, mapping out how each section of the space would look. “It’s coming on.”
Molly shook her head. “Too thematic.”
“You mean too community?”
Molly shrugged and yawned again.
“I take it that yawn is an indicator of a late night. I honestly thought you were going to burst like a pinched seed pod yesterday afternoon, you were that excited. All you need to say—success or nightmare.”
“She kissed me.” Molly clutched her mug of coffee to her chest. They both looked to the door to check for the imminent return of Evelyn.
Fran rested an elbow against a plinth in response. “I see. Things are progressing then.”
“I was too excited to sleep. I can’t stop thinking about her.”
Fran smiled affectionately. “Well, that’s nothing new, is it?” Fran lifted the empty tray in preparation to leave.
“I’m worried though…”
Fran turned back to Molly.
“It’s just, what do I do about Lydia Wright? Georgina doesn’t know that she’s been invited to the opening. It will hurt her terribly. I need to tell her. But then if Lydia doesn’t come, and I’ve warned Georgina that she’s been invited, could it jeopardize the museum’s relationship with the foundation? And I would have hurt Georgina with mention of her mother for no reason. But if I don’t tell her and Lydia comes, then it will not only jeopardize the museum’s relationship with Georgina—it will jeopardize mine. I can’t risk it. Can I?”
Fran pinched at her brow. “So basically you’re asking me, do I think Lydia will come?”
Molly nodded.
“All I can say, Molly, is would you come back to the place where you caused such pain? To endure the humiliation of everyone knowing what you did and wondering what you’re doing there? Be given a tour of an exhibition of those belongings on display that could have been yours? To face a daughter who hates you?”
“When you put it like that…”
“Such a cold-hearted invitation for the museum to have sent.”
“And reckless,” Molly said. “Why would Evelyn work so hard to earn Georgina’s trust and respect and then do this? It makes no sense. Georgina will be furious.”
“It doesn’t make sense, does it?” Fran said, tapping softly at her chin. “Unless in Evelyn’s mind she’s taken a pragmatic view that if the museum took regard of everyone who didn’t get along, then issuing invitations would be near impossible.”
“Yes, but even so—”
“Right, where were we.” Evelyn returned in a bluster of post combat and without a single battle scar. “Oh yes, merchandise. Time is so pressing upon us that we need to decide today and place our order before the close of play. I was thinking a small supply of glasses cases, cushions, and those long draught excluders.” Evelyn paced up and down the room. “Are you making a note, Molly?”
“Oh yes, sorry.” Molly ripped a slither of paper from the A1 sheet at the same time mouthing, “Bye,” to Fran who quietly slipped away. “Got it.”
“In addition, please tell the shop to order our usual stalwarts that always sell so well, mugs, tea towels, fridge magnets, key rings, and of course tote bags. Postcards, notelets, and posters, and unframed and framed prints are a given. But the question for us is which one image from the objects on display in the Wright room will captivate visitors? This will be the exhibition’s signature image. They’ve sent through a photo of the Rodin.” Evelyn stared at an empty plinth. “I don’t know.”
“I really don’t think you could do better than Josephine’s portrait.”
Evelyn replied, “Yes, Josephine�
��s painting, a wonderful work, but leading with fox hunting is such a contentious decision—such a divisive subject. We don’t want to narrow our audience.”
Fox hunting? She couldn’t mean The Hunt, could she? Was Evelyn intending to display it in the Wright room? “No, sorry. I mean the watercolour. The one we’ve been researching. It ticks all the boxes. I can see everyone falling in love with the beauty of it. And its story is so—”
Evelyn lifted her finger in the air as if she’d just remembered something. “We have the acrylic of St. Martin’s, but then again, too common. It could have come from the cathedral’s gift shop. No, I think I am decided—everyone loves a Rodin.”
No. “But isn’t the Rodin also generic. I mean, I love a Rodin of course, but we have something very special with Josephine—”
“And with the Rodin we have something exceptional that will bring people to the museum. And as you have raised the subject of the watercolour of Josephine, whilst I admire your passion for the work, it is not appropriate for the space.”
Not appropriate? The sting of injustice pierced Molly’s heart. She watched dumbfounded as Evelyn turned to leave.
“Thank you for your contribution this morning, Molly.” Evelyn peeled off her acrylic gloves and discarded them along with their conversation in the refuse sack by the door. With a half glance over her shoulder, she said, “Please make the arrangements with the shop. Oh, and I want the cushions to have a tweed design on the back. Light in tone, classic rather than Celtic.”
“No. Please wait. May I ask why?”
Evelyn turned back to Molly with her gaze a terrifying blend of frustration and incredulity.
“Of course.” Evelyn’s strained tone suggested she was holding on to something that might break, most likely her patience. “We already have a most excellent example with The Hunt of the work of George O. Thorpe which captures Josephine in her prime. There really is no need for another work concentrating on her. To exclude The Hunt in favour of the watercolour would be unthinkable. It is far superior in maturity of style and composition. Furthermore its full provenance is not in doubt—”
