by Anna Larner
“Yes,” Fran said, staring at the petition. “That works.”
“It’s great that it shows how passionately and effectively Edith and Josephine were as campaigners. Vitally, here are Edith’s initials. It evidences Edith working alongside Josephine.”
“Good. So is your plan then for all these objects to go in a display case with the portrait and the explanatory panels hung alongside?”
“Yep. I checked, and we’ve got spare plastic rests, book cushions, and sleeves. So we are officially good to go.” Molly gave a small clap. “I’m excited.”
“Uh-huh, you don’t say.” Fran smiled. “Let’s get these safely wrapped and packed into that container. Can you hand me some tissue?”
“Sure.” Molly’s heart sank at the sombre sight of the parish registers overlooked in all the excitement. “Bugger, I forgot about the registers. I was going to take photos of Edith’s entries. It’s great that we’ve been able to track down her baptism entry from her burial record.”
Fran looked at her watch and frowned. “Definitely. Although it’s almost lunchtime, so please be quick.”
Molly meticulously took a photo of the front of each register. She began with Edith’s baptism record photographing the whole page of those who were born in more or less the same time period as Edith. Heartbreakingly Josephine’s baptism recorded in May was at the top of the page, and Edith’s July record was the last but one on the bottom. It was perfect in a terrible way. Molly leaned in to take a focused snap of Edith’s individual record: Baptism 31st July 1808. Edith daughter of John Hewitt, Businessman, and his wife, Margaret. Born 29th June 1808.
Molly released a heavy sigh.
“You okay?” Fran narrowed her eyes at Molly.
“Not really.”
“Try not to think. Just do.”
Molly nodded. She took a deep breath, pausing before opening the register of burials. But how could she not think or hope? She had the ridiculous notion that just maybe if she opened the register, this time Edith’s name would not be listed for that untimely date. That if she managed to find her again at all, then she would be a feisty old lady who died of old age, worn out by a life full of joy. Yes, she could have been mistaken. Couldn’t she? Mistakes happen, after all? In fact if she went right now to the churchyard, could it be possible that she would find the date on the grave corrected, or the words Loved for always hidden beneath the ivy? Or could she wish it, cross her fingers tight behind her back, that there was no grave at all, only grass browning in the shade of the trees, stillness in place of bones? Was Edith Hewitt merely a figment of Molly’s deep-seated dread of not mattering to anyone?
Molly opened the heavy leather binding, feeling the familiar weight of the cover and the brush of the musty pages against her fingers. She hesitantly turned each page. Don’t be there, don’t be there…
Her heart sank at the sight of the record she dreaded to rediscover: Buried 5th August 1834. Edith Hewitt, daughter of John Hewitt of Leicester (deceased) and Margaret. Age 26, Influenza.
Molly rested her hand on the fading line of ink, before reaching for her phone and taking a photo of the entry and then of the page. Molly closed the register.
She slowly shook her head. “This entry is not the sum of her, or the gravestone. I won’t let it be.”
“Good for you, Molly,” Fran said. “Good for you.”
With their work complete and Edith’s archives stored away in their travel container, Molly drove back to the museum, doing her best to avert her gaze from Fran’s strained expression and tight grip on the dashboard. There was nothing she could do about the potholes. Swerving to avoid them didn’t seem to be helping either.
“For goodness’ sake, I would be most grateful to arrive back at work with at least one bone unbroken.”
“I’m so sorry.” Molly wiped watery streaks of condensation from the front window. “Look, we’re here. Well done, Daisy May.”
Molly carried the archives into the museum, and Fran led the way with their bags over her shoulders, opening the sliding entrance doors.
“Coming through,” Molly said. “Hi, Fred, I need to rest this here at reception for just a second.”
“Morning, ladies.” Fred cleared space for the container.
“I’ve left the store keys on my desk,” Fran said, looking exhausted.
“No probs. I’ll get them.”
For some reason Fran then blinked at the stairs and her mouth fell slightly open.
“What?” Molly turned round to see Evelyn descending the stairs with Lydia Wright by her side. They were chatting as old friends might do. Lydia was dressed from head to toe in a cream fur coat which shimmered under the museum lights. Wait, was she carrying a painting?
“Ah, Molly, you’ve arrived back at last,” Evelyn said. “Of course you have met Ms. Wright at the opening of the Wright room.”
Molly gave a wary, “Yes.” She stared at the wrapped painting in Lydia’s arms. It couldn’t be, surely?
“Molly. It is good to see you again.” Lydia held out her hand, greeting Molly with a warm smile. “I hope I find you well. You look a lot better than when we last met.”
Molly shook Lydia’s hand. “Yes.” Yes was all Molly could seem to manage.
Evelyn quickly stepped in. “Well, it is with great relief all round that the mystery of the full provenance of the beautiful watercolour has been solved. I wish you every happy enjoyment of the piece.”
What? Molly struggled to pull together her thoughts. Full provenance? Was this something to do with why it was missing from the bequest? Was Lydia claiming that it belonged to her? Why on earth would George gift the portrait to the woman who broke his heart?
“Thank you, Evelyn, for its safe care.” Lydia held out her hand which Evelyn shook with the care of someone who was trying not to leave a fingerprint.
“It has been our pleasure, such a charming work. Safe journey home to Paris.” With that Evelyn turned and headed upstairs.
As Lydia proceeded to leave, Molly reached out and lightly held her arm. “Please don’t take the painting.” Molly cast a quick eye up the stairs to the disappearing figure of Evelyn.
Lydia turned slowly to Molly. Molly dropped her hand to her side.
“Why would you ask such a thing?” Lydia said, her tone curious rather than offended.
Molly swallowed. Lydia Wright wasn’t just one of the most influential critics and arbiters of modern museums—she was Georgina’s mother.
“Answer me, please.” Lydia looked over to Fran and Fred, who quickly looked away.
“It belongs here.” Molly swallowed. “With the other paintings. You see, it belongs to Edith—that is, it used to.” Molly knew she was making no sense as her words choked in her mouth, thick and cloying.
“Who is Edith?” Lydia gestured to the foyer bench where she took a seat, resting the painting beside her. “I don’t understand.”
Molly perched next to Lydia. “Edith Hewitt. She was the painter.”
Lydia raised her eyebrows. “A woman called Edith Hewitt painted the watercolour of Josephine?”
“Yes. But she wasn’t just any woman. We think, we’re certain—well as certain as we can be—that she was Josephine’s lover. The painting has survived alongside the other family paintings from that period for many years.”
“I see. And you don’t think it can survive in my care?”
“Oh God, no. No, that’s not what I’m saying.”
“Then what is it that you are saying, Molly, for I am no clearer.”
“We’re having a display of Edith Hewitt’s work and life. She campaigned alongside Josephine on so many matters of social justice, but she is hardly known, let alone remembered. And what’s more her gravestone has no inscription, as if she did nothing, loved and was loved by no one.”
Lydia looked down. “How sad indeed.”
“You see, the watercolour was going to be the focus point. It has an inscription hidden underneath the frame. It says All my lov
e always, Edith. And then Edith died, at just twenty-six, we think of a broken heart, only a few months after Josephine married.”
Lydia looked up. She stared out beyond the sliding doors to the promenade, and her face had fallen with what Molly could only assume was the weight of her thoughts. Could she be reconsidering?
Lydia turned back to look at Molly. “I had no idea that such a tragic story existed behind the work. George’s solicitors mentioned that it was due to appear in a display, but I hadn’t appreciated that it was to be the focal point or that it had such meaning to you.”
“So please don’t take it.” Molly rested her hand briefly on Lydia’s arm. “At least not until after we have displayed it. Until after we’ve told Edith’s story. Please.”
Lydia stood and swept the sides of her long fur coat together with her belt. “I admire your passion, and also I am convinced of your plea.”
“Really? That’s wonderful. Thank you so much.”
“But if I agree to lend the painting to the museum, I’d be most grateful for something in return.”
“An exchange?”
“Quite.”
“I would have to check with Evelyn. There’s a possibility of a Cezanne—”
“I want to see my daughter. I want you to arrange a meeting for me.”
What? “I can’t do that. Sorry.”
“Why not? You haven’t made things up with her? Oh, please don’t tell me that my daughter has inherited her father’s stubbornness.”
“No. I mean, yes, we’ve made up. Look, I’m sorry. I’m really not sure how I can help.”
“You don’t need to be sure of anything. All I ask it that you try. Please.” Lydia gathered the painting tighter in her arms and moved to walk away.
There was something oddly undemanding about Lydia’s demand. It seemed so heartfelt and more like a plea than a threat. “How will I contact you? Through Evelyn?”
“I’m staying at the Belmont.”
“The Belmont Hotel just off the promenade?” It was just a few hundred yards away. So close.
“Yes, sentiment got the better of me.” Lydia turned away. From over her shoulder she added, “You should know, I leave for Paris in a couple of days. So until we meet again.” And then with a swish of her coat she was gone.
Without waiting another heartbeat, Molly rushed back to the reception desk and rummaged in her bag for her phone. She dialled Georgina’s number. “Come on, pick up.”
“You have reached Georgina Wright. I am unable to answer your call. Please leave a message.”
“Georgina, it’s me. When you have a moment, can you ring me back? Thanks. Bye.”
“Well there’s a turn up,” Fred said.
“How much did you guys hear?”
“Enough,” Fran said. “I don’t understand—what right does Lydia have to take the portrait? Do you think Georgina knows?”
“I don’t know—on both counts. Hopefully she’ll ring back soon. There’s no way Georgina’s going to meet with her. Do you think Lydia will be so hurt that she’ll refuse to lend the painting?”
“Well, let’s put it this way.” Fran shrugged. “We didn’t think she’d turn up to the opening of the Wright room, did we. She’s unpredictable.”
Fran was right. Who knew what Lydia was capable of. The only thing Molly felt sure she could predict was an unimpressed Georgina. Molly couldn’t ask Georgina to do this just for the painting, just for Edith, just for her. Could she?
Chapter Thirty
“Hey.”
“Hey.” Molly checked her watch. It was just after ten when she answered Georgina’s call. She had even wondered whether Georgina would ring that night. Just because they had spoken every day since Christmas, and just because Georgina seemed to take every opportunity to return to Leicester to see Molly, this in no way committed Georgina to a daily routine. In fact she hoped that Georgina didn’t feel obliged to ring out of an established habit, but that she wanted to ring her, and like Molly, she could not bear the thought of a day passing without hearing her voice.
“Sorry I couldn’t get back to you straight away.”
“That’s okay.” Molly closed her laptop and folded her arms resting them against her kitchen table. “It was hectic at work anyway. We collected Edith’s objects from the records office. And then I had an after-school visit. Oh, and I wanted to mention that we’re going to put Edith’s display in the foyer for maximum impact and footfall.”
“Okay, makes sense.”
“Although we’ve been squashed up a corner half under the stairs, so we don’t block the exit. But I’m going to get some artwork blown up for the wall. I was thinking maybe a copy of Edith’s handwriting to provide that personal connection to reach out to visitors.”
“Good idea.”
“Thanks. The opening is scheduled for the first of Feb to coincide with the beginning of LGBT history month. Wow, that’s just over three weeks away.”
“The first. Okay. I’ll get it in my diary.”
“Fab.” Molly couldn’t bring herself to mention Lydia, at least not for a few more precious moments. “So enough about me. How’s your day been?”
“The usual. Although I did manage to grab lunch with Estelle Oberon. She really has a particular soft spot for you. I was to be sure to send you her best wishes and to thank you for your card. I didn’t know you’d sent her a card.”
“Just a thank-you notelet for having me at New Year’s. I felt bad because I’m pretty sure I might have been the reason they ran out of cheese.”
Georgina laughed. “You’ll be relieved to know it didn’t come up in conversation. I was telling her about Edith’s display, though. She was impressed.”
“That’s encouraging.” She couldn’t put it off any longer. She would have to tell Georgina about what happened today. She would keep it low-key. “There’s something else I wanted, well, needed to talk to you about.”
“Sounds ominous.”
“It’s just we had an unexpected visitor at the museum.”
“Okay.”
Keep it breezy. “Your mum, as it happens.”
“My mother? Today?”
“Yep. This morning. It was quite a surprise in that she had come to collect Edith’s portrait of Josephine.” Molly felt herself tense. “It seems she’s under the impression that it belongs to her. I don’t know how she convinced Evelyn—”
“Really?” Georgina let out a long deep sigh. “I’m so sorry. She’s used the letter. The one from my father.”
What, you knew? “I’m sorry, what letter? I don’t understand.”
“Do you remember I had that phone call just before Christmas from my father’s solicitor? I rang them back last week. They said my mother had been in touch with them and explained that she has a letter from my father gifting the painting to her.”
“But that doesn’t make sense.”
“Nope.”
“If he’d done this, why would your father not mention it to you, why make it such a mystery? And for that matter, why gift something so precious to someone who hurt you so much?”
“I have absolutely no idea.”
“What did the solicitor say?”
“He said there was nothing to suppose that the letter wasn’t genuine. At the opening my mother did mention something about a letter from my father that she wanted me to read. At the time I didn’t think it meant anything. I’m sorry, Molly.”
“It’s hardly your fault.”
“I promise, I tried to make it clear to the solicitor that she couldn’t just take the painting, and that it was part of a museum display, but as she’s the legal owner, I guess she can do as she pleases, as she always has. I didn’t mention this to you before because it is such a magical time for us, and everything to do with my mother brings drama and upset. For some reason I thought she wouldn’t just turn up out of the blue and take the painting, and that I would have time to find the right moment to tell you.”
“As it happens, I aske
d her not to take it.”
“You did?”
“I begged her actually. I explained about the painting’s history and how much it meant. She said she knew about it featuring in a display but not how important it was.”
“Right. And I take it that didn’t change her mind?”
“Well, not exactly.”
“Okay, why do I sense a catch?”
You have to tell her.
“Molly?”
“She is prepared to lend the painting for Edith’s display in exchange for—”
“What does she want?”
“To see you. I guess she’s worked out we’re together, and I suppose she thought I might be able to persuade you.”
“And if I don’t see her, what then, she’ll take the painting and walk away without looking back?”
Molly could feel Georgina’s anger resonating on the line.
With her voice newly inflamed Georgina said, “Did she honestly imagine that she could use the painting and how much she now knows it means to you to get to me? Well she can keep it. I won’t play her games and I certainly won’t be blackmailed.”
Molly didn’t know what to say.
“I’m sorry. I hate that you have been affected by this,” Georgina said, softening her tone. “You know that, don’t you?”
“Uh-huh.” Don’t make her feel bad, not like last time. “It’s okay. Really. I wouldn’t expect you to speak to her. In fact I’ve already reimagined the display to feature the sketches in place of the portrait, so no probs.” It was a small white lie. At least now she knew that she would have to.
“Right, well, that’s good to know.”
That was enough heartache for one phone call. She just wanted to focus on them. Just them. “Do you have time to meet at the weekend? I know it’s Monday and we only saw each other yesterday—”
“I was thinking tomorrow evening? I’ll work on the train back to London the next morning.”
