Love's Portrait

by Anna Larner

  Molly added quickly, “But neither is the watercolour’s. You see, Edith Hewitt is the painter of Josephine’s portrait. I found evidence in the records office that confirms Edith as the artist.” Oh. Tricky.

  “I’m sorry, it seems I’m missing something, as I could have sworn that when we last spoke on the matter of the portrait we agreed to the conclusion of further research. Did we not?”

  “I might have conducted a little more research—but on my own time.”

  Evelyn narrowed her eyes in reply. “Furthermore, The Hunt fits perfectly in the chronology to hang in line with the other paintings from the 1800s. It is meant to be.”

  “But to omit Edith’s painting is neglecting a most important history—”

  “But it is Josephine’s history. It will only serve to distract and derail George Wright’s own story.”

  Molly shook her head. “You’re wrong.” The words were out before Molly could take them back. Molly’s organs squeezed together in panic. “I don’t mean you’re wrong-wrong. Obviously.”

  Evelyn’s neck began to flush pink, as she replied, “Obviously.”

  Mustering courage Molly continued, “It’s just, Georgina said she remembered Edith’s painting hanging in line with the other portraits in the sitting room when she was a little girl. It clearly meant a lot to George, and it certainly means a lot to Georgina. So it’s the Wrights’ history surely.”

  Evelyn seemed to have aged in the course of the debate as a shadow of weariness cast over her face. Even her voice seemed weaker, as she said, “I have taken everything into consideration and all reasonable argument points to the inclusion of The Hunt.”

  “But—”

  “I have made my mind up.” Evelyn held up the palm of her hand, stopping like a policewoman the flowing traffic of their conversation. “And please do not mention this matter to Georgina Wright. For I feel sure she will understand that final curatorial decisions lie with me.”

  Molly hung her head. “Of course.” When she looked up again Evelyn had left the room.

  * * *

  “Hello.” Molly lay with her head on the kitchen table with her phone more or less flat against her ear. She answered the phone without looking at the caller ID.

  “Hey. It’s Georgina.”

  Georgina? It was only just seven o’clock. Molly sat up. “Hi.”

  “So how was your day? Have you recovered from last night?”

  “Almost. I’m having to tell myself I didn’t imagine it.”

  “I know what you mean. But then I don’t think I could imagine anything quite so beautiful.”

  Georgina’s heartfelt words caught at Molly’s heart. “I loved it when you kissed me. I’m sorry, that’s very—”

  “And I loved kissing you. Really, I did. I felt so sorry when the evening ended. Watching you leave, well.”

  “It was horrible, wasn’t it? I resorted to reading the Metro from cover to cover before moving on to a discarded Times and a half-completed crossword just to try not to engage with how much I didn’t want to leave.”

  There was a moment of silence of the kind where words offered no consolation.

  Georgina cleared her throat. “So did you get a thousand questions from Evelyn?”

  “Do you know, she didn’t ask me how it went. But then her focus is the Wright room.”

  “Yes, I can imagine.”

  “We’re making good progress. In all fairness to Evelyn, she’s sweeping up all the loose ends. Frankly, I’d hate to be the Tate.”

  “You’re still waiting on the Rodin?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well let me know if you need my help. Have invitations gone out? I sent Evelyn a list at the end of last week.”

  “Invitations?” Molly swallowed down nausea. “I’d have to check on that for you. I mean, I’m sure they have.” Quick, change the subject. “We ordered a draught excluder today. That’s how organized we are.”

  “Okay. Not sure I quite understand…?”

  “Exhibition merch.”

  “Oh. Of course.”

  “And if you think a draught excluder a little random, then wait till you see the glasses case.” Molly gave an amused sigh.

  “Right. I’m picturing it as we speak. So I’m guessing they’ll feature an object from the exhibition?”

  Molly’s heart ached. Could she mention Edith’s portrait of Josephine? Georgina would sort things in an instant, wouldn’t she? No. It would be career suicide, for there were surely only so many times she could defy Evelyn, and she would risk embarrassing her and undermining her in front of Georgina. She would make her position untenable and this would show in the next round of museum cuts for sure.

  “Molly?”

  “Sorry, yes, we’ll have postcards of every object. And then we’ll use the better-known images across the selection of merchandise.” Molly took a deep breath. “Evelyn has selected the Rodin as the iconic image for the exhibition as a whole.”

  “Okay, that makes sense. Everyone loves Rodin, after all.”

  Molly said, blankly, “That’s what Evelyn said.”

  “And you don’t agree?”

  “It’s just, well, for example, there’s Hugo’s lovely sketch from your father’s sitting room window into the square. I should have mentioned that, but I didn’t. But then it would likely have still not been impressive enough.”

  “You sound kind of defeated.”

  “I’m not—well, maybe a little. I love my job but sometimes…I don’t know.”

  “I know the feeling. It can seem frustrating and unrelenting can’t it?”

  “Yep, definitely. So how about we see each other tomorrow evening? Forget about work for a while? If you can’t make it to Leicester, maybe I could come to you? Although I had half thought I might go to the records office on Saturday morning.”

  “Yes, do that. I’ll try to come tomorrow night, but I think it’s going to be more likely Saturday lunchtime.”

  “Sure, no worries. Shall I come to your father’s place then, when I’m done researching?”

  “Yep, sounds good. I’ll text when my train arrives in.”

  “I can’t wait to see you again.”

  “Me too. Goodnight then.”

  “Goodnight.” Molly held her phone in her lap and lay with her cheek against the table. She closed her eyes and softly whispered, “Goodnight, Georgina Wright.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  You have to be clear what you are trying to achieve to prevent yourself from getting lost amongst its treasures. As Molly sat at what had become her favourite desk at the records office, Fran’s words of warning replayed themselves in her head.

  She cast her eye over Josephine’s and Edith’s archives spread before her once more. The parish registers sat directly to her side. The answer to why Josephine stopped writing between August 1834 and November 1836 would surely be here, hidden somewhere, just waiting to be found with the turn of a fragile page.

  Inexplicably, nerves unsettled her. Everything’s fine. Concentrate. She tucked her hair away from her shoulders to rest at her back. Right. She would start with what she already knew.

  Molly reached for her notebook. She found the notes she’d made from the portraits on George Wright’s wall. There was no baptism portrait for Adelaide Jane. But there would have been a baptism surely?

  Molly reached for the baptism register and turned to the pages for 1834. It was unlikely that she would have been born earlier than November given that her parents had only married at the end of the previous December. She traced her fingers down the lines of records. Yes. There it was. Her heart surged at the entry that read, Baptism 10th December 1834. Adelaide Jane daughter of William Wright, and his wife, Josephine. Born 10th November 1834.

  Why no commemorative painting then? She closed the register. Think, Molly Goode. Think. What else did she know for certain? Molly looked at the archives spread about her. She gazed at the scrapbook, remembering the sketches of Josephine hidden like their love
. Edith’s passionate words written indelibly on the back of the painting flooded Molly’s questioning mind. All my love always, Edith. Edith had promised to love Josephine for always. Hadn’t she? Was Josephine Edith’s forever one? But then Josephine married William. Did Edith stop loving her? But then, could you just stop love? Was that what the heartbreaking prayer was about?

  Molly lifted the volume of prayers, searching for the entry that had upset Georgina and her so much. The words seemed to resonate from the page, shining out, each letter leaping from the text as if restless and alive with meaning.

  Her gaze rested upon the last lines of Edith’s prayer. To speak, to write is to feel pain. I ask no more than tomorrow my burden will be lighter and my grief more tolerable.

  To write is to feel pain. Molly looked up. “Grief,” she said into the hushed room. Was that it? Was Josephine grieving? And like Edith just a year earlier, had Josephine felt pain when trying to write and just stopped, her loss too great to endure?

  The nerves that had been at the edges came closer with their unsettling breath at her neck.

  What had Josephine lost—or rather, who?

  * * *

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.” Georgina pressed her phone closer to her ear. “Where did you say you were?” As she spoke she rested her weekend holdall at her feet and dug in her pocket for her keys. Her train from London had been on time and Molly’s call came in just as Georgina had arrived at her father’s door.

  “St. Mary de Castro.” Molly’s voice sounded peculiar and oddly distant. “Will you meet me there?”

  “Yes, of course.” Georgina dropped her holdall just inside the house and turned around. “I’m setting off now. Is everything okay? You sound strange.”

  “I think I know why Josephine stopped writing.” Molly’s blank tone expressed anything but relief at her discovery.

  A terrible sinking feeling rose up cold in Georgina’s blood. “Okay. It’s something to do with Edith, isn’t it? Molly?”

  “Yes.”

  Ten minutes later Georgina found Molly standing in the middle of a graveyard under the protective boughs of an oak tree. She was gazing at a sandy coloured gravestone, crumbling a little at its edges and half claimed by the suffocating embrace of the tendrils of ivy.

  “Molly?”

  Molly seemed not to have noticed Georgina’s arrival. Instead she was leaning forward, pulling away at the leaves of ivy to fully reveal the inscription. She brushed with her fingertips at the words that read, Edith Hewitt, 1808–1834.

  Georgina stared at the inscription and at the name Edith Hewitt. “Edith,” she said, her name escaping her lips like a prayer.

  Up until this point Edith had been a figure of myth. She was just the glimpse of a woman revealed in slim volumes and notes, and sketches in a scrapbook. Her emotional life evoked and brought to life in ink on the back of a canvas with the words All my love always, Edith. Her passionate words as proof that her love existed, vibrant and alive. Edith’s heartfelt words passing through generations to Georgina, in every way the heir through Josephine of Edith’s heart and of her feelings spent and lost.

  Georgina turned to Molly and said with a quiet disbelief, “She was only twenty-six. She died so young.”

  Molly looked at her with a face shadowed with sadness, the smile that always greeted Georgina and that lit her heart with joy now heartbreakingly absent.

  “Yes,” Molly said. “And the inscription on her gravestone is so cruelly brief, isn’t it? I mean, there’s no mention that Edith was a campaigner. No words of affection from her family or any loved one. Nothing. With such omissions and such silence they condemned her to be lost forever.”

  Georgina moved to Molly and slipped her hand in hers and said, “She’s found now. You’ve found her.”

  They stood silently looking at the grave with their unspoken thoughts, cast against the background rustle of the wind in the surrounding trees, blending in uneasy harmony with the sound of the city.

  1st August 1834

  Chambers of Brancaster and Lane Solicitors

  “Listen!” A flushed-faced William stood at the window with his hat held at his chest. “Can you hear the sound of the city? It is alive! Listen to the church bells. It’s St. Martin’s, St. Nick’s, and St. Mary’s. They’re in tune with each other. What a sound! And the cheers, Josephine. They are chanting freedom. Do you hear? Such celebrations indeed. We must hurry as we will miss the parade. Jo?”

  “I shall wait. Yes, I think that’s best. She may yet come. Both letters cannot have been misplaced.”

  “She will know where to find us. Come, where is your bonnet?”

  “No. I am minded to wait.” Josephine sat with her gloves in her lap. William bent down in front of her and rested his palm against her cheek.

  “I fear you will wait in vain,” William said, his kind eyes glistening with compassion.

  Josephine shook her head. “Then I shall go to her. Her lodgings are not far. We shall follow on.”

  “Please, I simply can’t allow it. The crowds this day are too much for you to walk alone. You risk being crushed. My responsibility is not to Edith, but to you, both of you.” William placed his hand against Josephine’s pregnant belly. “Let her come to you when she is ready.”

  “But it has been almost a year, William. She has not replied to my letters and continues to refuse to see me. But today of all days she may bear to look upon me. I miss her so. And my father has only seen her but just a handful of times, the most fleeting of encounters.”

  A jumble of voices, male and female, in the hallway called their attention from their discussion to the door. And then they listened as an eerie silence fell before the front door banged too.

  “Who is it?” Josephine said. “Can you see, William?”

  William leaned against the glass. “There are so many people—I can’t quite see, but it was a woman.”

  “Was it Edith? Could it have been Edith?”

  “William, could I have a word?” Charles Brancaster’s voice came echoing from the hallway as the door to their room swung open.

  Josephine stood with her hand resting on her belly and strained to see into the hallway. “What is it, Father?”

  “Dear Jo, please let me speak to William.”

  “Oh Lord, no. Please no.” Josephine placed her hand across her mouth at the sight of her father stepping from the shadow of the hall, ashen faced, holding a painting awash with watercolour. Tucked under his other arm and spilling against his chest were papers and notes bundled loosely together and balancing on top of a scrapbook.

  Josephine sat heavily in her chair with both hands now covering her mouth.

  “Mrs. Hewitt called. She was very sorry to inform us of”—Charles swallowed—“of her daughter’s passing. Just this last week. This Tuesday in fact. There’s a note. It is addressed to you, Jo.” He gestured to his waistcoat pocket. William dutifully lifted the folded paper and walked with sombre steps towards his wife. He offered the note to Josephine who shook her head and closed her eyes.

  “Do you want me to read it to you?” William asked.

  Josephine nodded with her eyes clamped shut.

  William unfolded the note and with unsteady voice began to read. “It is from Mrs. Hewitt. It is quite short. Let’s read it another time.”

  Josephine opened her eyes, which flooded in the first swell of grief. “No, please. Read it now.”

  William looked at Charles who gave a simple nod in reply. He took a deep breath and read, quietly, “I have no place for these. Mrs. M. Hewitt.”

  If anyone spoke thereafter Josephine didn’t hear. In fact if life continued in the following months, it continued for someone else, for Josephine felt utterly absent from it. People became shadows, voices. Even the cry of her newborn daughter seemed remote. No doctor could help, for there was no help where there was no hope.

  Josephine knew one thing clear and true as the dark clouds of grief shrouded her in black: two li
ves had been lost the day Edith Hewitt died.

  “Let’s go back to my father’s place,” Georgina said, mindful to be respectful to the memory of Edith and of all that she was and all that life took from her.

  Molly looked away from the grave with her cheeks streaked with tears and her head bowed against her chest.

  Georgina’s heart ached at the sight of Molly so distraught, but death was a dragon that no one, not even wearing the armour of love, brandishing the sharp sword of justice, had ever been able to slay. Georgina wrapped her arms around Molly and held her tight against her.

  After a few moments Molly moved slightly away. Wiping her eyes she said, “I had a feeling, but I somehow never thought…”

  “I know.” Georgina touched her hand to Molly’s cheek with the back of her fingers softly brushing her cold skin. She then placed her arm around Molly’s waist, guiding her away from the gravestone and away from the shadows of the overgrown graveyard, and out into the glare of the streets where no one cared and no one remembered yet another life forgotten.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Molly stood in George Wright’s sitting room staring numbly out into the hallway in the direction of the kitchen where Georgina was making coffee.

  “I feel a bit foolish to be so affected.” Molly’s voice drifted in small echoes into the hallway.

  She had tried so hard to keep a professional perspective and to approach all matters relating to the watercolour with dispassionate interest. She had made sure to fix into context each and every discovery as if she were solving a puzzle, the completion of which mattered to someone else.

  But then that someone was Georgina, and she could sense with each time they met that her emotions, soft and urging, had begun to envelope fact into feeling, muddling her intention and engaging her heart.

  As she had stood in front of Edith’s gravestone, something had snapped in her. It was the intangible restraint which had held her emotions in place giving way under the increasing pressure of each new discovery. And now Molly felt weak and ridiculous for feeling so distressed, for this was not her grief and not her loss. It felt mawkish and sentimental, and embarrassed her. And yet she could not shake off the feeling that Edith’s story was her story, a universal one of terrible injustice.