Love's Portrait

by Anna Larner

  “And yet you left me. Despite all your loneliness.” Georgina’s voice broke. Her mother went to comfort her and Georgina stepped out of reach.

  Her mother sat on the stairs with a weary sigh. “I begged to see you. Your father told me you didn’t want to see me, and that I had forfeited my right to you. That I had made my choice.”

  “Hadn’t you? You chose that man. You cheated on us.”

  “And not a day has gone by that I haven’t regretted it. The affair was over before it began. It was more a cry for help than anything.”

  “Help? With what? Your awful privileged life with a husband and child who loved you? How you must have suffered.”

  “Your father didn’t love me or at least not in a way that can be recognized as true love. He owned me like the artwork on his walls.” Her mother pulled at the collar at her neck. “I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t work. I couldn’t remember who I once was. Jean Claude gave me a glimpse—”

  “I don’t want to hear about him. All of this My husband controlled me and yet you still waited for his written permission before you came to me? You’re pathetic. I’ve wasted so much of my life…” She wouldn’t cry. Not in front of her.

  “But you refused to see me. He must have poisoned your mind.”

  “I was a teenager. The facts spoke for themselves. Everything he said about you was the truth.”

  “No, this was when you were in your twenties. I came to the house one Christmas. I was determined to see you. I stood on the doorstep and he repeated that you wanted nothing to do with me. He said you didn’t celebrate Christmas because of me. I was horrified. He told me that if I really loved you, I’d stay away.”

  “So you gave up on his say-so.”

  “No. I never stopped writing. And when you never replied to my letters, I could only think—”

  “So, what, your absence from my life is my fault somehow?”

  “No. I am just trying to explain. It took all my strength to keep writing, knowing you’d never reply.”

  “Then you should have stopped.”

  “Never. It was all I had.” Her mother shook her head as if steeling herself once more. “Look, I am not expecting miracles or for everything to suddenly be all right—”

  “Good, then you won’t be disappointed.”

  “Georgina?” Molly stood at the top of the stairs. “I’m so sorry to disturb. I have to go to work. Lydia—hello again.”

  “Molly,” her mother said. “How lovely to see you.”

  Molly gingerly descended and Georgina held out her hand to her as she reached the bottom step. Molly whispered into Georgina’s ear. “Do you need me to stay?” Georgina shook her head. “Will you come and see me before you get your train?”

  “Yes.” Georgina kissed Molly, stroking softly at her cheek.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m fine. Go.”

  Georgina watched Molly close the door behind her. She hated watching Molly leave. The wrench she felt was almost unbearable.

  Georgina rubbed at her forehead. “I need a coffee.”

  Her mother followed her to the kitchen and continued to the French doors and looked out to the garden. “My how the cherry tree has grown. I used to love to see the blossoms, and that lavender has such a beautiful fragrance when it flowers. How everything has changed and is yet the same.”

  “Nothing’s the same. Everything changed the day you left.” Georgina handed her mother a coffee and leaned back against the worktop, studying her mother as she studied the garden with her focus fixed rigid upon the outside. “You ruined our lives. Just to be clear.”

  Without flinching her mother just stood there staring out. Had she said all she could bear to say? A heavy silence rested between them. It was a silence where there was too much to be said to be able to say anything at all. When the only way to speak was to try to find questions that would hurt the least to answer.

  “He never mentioned to me that he’d gifted the painting to you.” Georgina looked at her mother.

  Still staring out, her mother said, “We had just gotten engaged. It coincided with your grandfather’s death. We inherited this house and began to prepare for the move from London to here. There was no question of George renting or selling it. I found leaving London hard. It felt like I was leaving a part of me behind. It turns out, I was leaving all of me.” Her mother took a sip of coffee. “Your father did his best, I suppose, to help me see that this could be home. We moved a lot of items into the attic to make way for our belongings, and that’s when I found her hidden away up a corner, facing the wall as if she should be ashamed somehow.”

  Edith’s painting was in the attic? “Sorry, are you telling me that Edith’s painting hasn’t always hung with the other portraits?”

  Her mother walked over to a stool and took a seat. “I obviously don’t know about its past. Your father had not seen her before. I fell in love with her immediately. I felt a kind of kinship with her. So he gifted her to me on our wedding. I encouraged George to replace The Hunt with Josephine’s portrait. It fit, as it helped with inheritance tax to gift The Hunt to the museum. I felt so sad to see Josephine’s portrait absent from the Wright room.”

  Georgina winced at the memory of Molly begging her to display the portrait with the other paintings. What would Molly think to learn that the portrait had been buried away in the attic?

  “Right,” Georgina said. “That explains why it hung out of chronological order. Hold on, why didn’t you claim it that night at the opening, there and then?”

  “I hadn’t spoken to your father’s solicitors. In many ways I was still taking everything in. If you remember, I was trying to ask about it. I tried with you and Molly, but you were both so vague, and then, well, we both know how that night ended. For what it’s worth, I didn’t come to the opening for the painting or to succumb to Evelyn Fox’s fawning. I came to see you.”

  “Yes, because my father told you to. We’ve already been through this, Mother.”

  “No. When I heard that your father had died, I felt such a sense of liberation. I knew I must see you, but for some reason I couldn’t. I couldn’t even write to you. I think I was frightened to be rejected again.” Her mother swallowed hard and paused to finish her coffee. “And then the letter came, and something burst in me, something angry and defiant. It made me sick to my stomach because I knew this would make it seem that he was the good guy making everything right.”

  “I don’t understand. You’ve been divorced from him for so many years. Why would you suddenly feel liberated?”

  “Not my liberation, Georgina. Yours.”

  “That’s nonsense. I wasn’t captive to my father.”

  “No, but you loved him, and there is no greater bond or hold on a person than love.”

  “So, again, you’re trying to blame me—”

  “No, I’m not. I’m trying to explain that while he was alive we would never have had a chance.”

  “What makes you think we do? You seem to overlook all the years that have passed. The memories that have haunted me and that haunt me still. I watch you leaving again and again in my nightmares.”

  “When did you see me leave?”

  “That night. The Christmas Eve you left and never returned.”

  “You saw that? I’m sorry you had to witness that. I didn’t know you were there.”

  “I found my father in the sitting room with Josephine’s portrait in his arms, sobbing.”

  “We were rowing over the painting. He had been telling me that he would see that I would be left with nothing. Which he very nearly did. I reminded him that he’d gifted Josephine’s portrait to me. I tried to take it, and he snatched it from me and held it tightly to make the point that he would never let me have it. Your father was crying for himself, Georgina. Not for our relationship. After all, we mostly cry for ourselves, don’t we? One might even say tears are selfish.”

  “Selfish. Really? So when I cried myself to sleep every night for yea
rs after you left, I was being selfish? You know, on second thoughts, can you leave? I’ve heard enough. You know the way out, after all, don’t you?” Georgina left the kitchen and went into the sitting room, closing the door behind her. She slumped down with her back against the door. She could sense her mother standing on the other side.

  “Georgina. Please. I cried too. Every day. My grief for you has made me ill. I have missed you so much.”

  Georgina felt tears sting and blur. “Please leave.”

  “I have told you the truth. Not a version of it. The truth.” Georgina heard the door open, and then a moment of silence fell, shortly broken by her mother calling out, “I love you, Georgina, whatever you may think. I always have.”

  As the door closed, Georgina looked out to the promenade to see her mother walking away, her tall fragile frame bracing against the British winter she hated so much.

  * * *

  “Georgina—hi, how did it go?”

  Georgina stood at Molly’s office door. She arrived unannounced and couldn’t have looked sadder or more forlorn. “I didn’t get the painting for you. I failed. I’m sorry.”

  Molly rushed to the door and hugged Georgina. “You haven’t failed me. It doesn’t matter about the painting. All that matters is that you’ve survived seeing your mum again.” Molly gestured into the office. “Come in and have my seat. Can I get you anything? Some water perhaps?”

  “No, thank you.” Georgina sat on Molly’s chair. “I just needed to see you.”

  Molly perched on her desk, and Georgina turned her chair to face her and rested the side of her head against Molly’s thigh.

  Molly stroked Georgina’s head in a slow comforting action. “I’m here.”

  Georgina mumbled, “As much as I struggle to understand my mother, I feel certain that she will care for the painting.”

  “Me too.”

  “She found Josephine’s portrait in the attic, would you believe? She fell in love with her then and there, apparently.”

  Molly momentarily stopped stroking. “The attic? Really? So she wasn’t hanging on the wall with the other paintings?”

  “No. According to my mother, she hung Josephine there in place of The Hunt which was given to the museum.”

  “I feel a bit silly now, as I had this romantic notion that Josephine had the painting framed and hung, maybe after her husband had died, and that it had remained on the wall with the other family portraits unchallenged until you brought it to the museum. It just underlines again how little one ever knows about the past.”

  “It’s still a romantic story,” Georgina said softly, “in that it has survived all these years.”

  “Yes.” Molly entangled her fingers in the hair falling at Georgina’s neck. “I reckon Josephine’s so beautiful, no one would want to cover her up.”

  “My mother says that she found her all but hidden away and facing towards the attic wall. She made some melodramatic comment about that making Josephine look like she was ashamed.”

  “Oh no. I hate the thought of that.” Molly swallowed down the sense of loss. She would have to find a way to accept that she would likely not see the original work again, and that her part in caring for Josephine was done. She took a deep breath. “Anyway, I think you’ve been really brave to face your mum. And maybe it’s even good that you’ve had this chance to get things off your chest and to tell her how you’ve felt all these years. I think it will help.”

  “Molly’s right, Georgina.” Fran bustled into the small room with her arms full of Victorian costumes. She dumped them in the dressing-up basket, and then all but collapsed into her chair with a sigh.

  Georgina quickly sat up straight and fussed with her hair clearly embarrassed at their intimacy exposed.

  Fran didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. “It may not feel like it now of course. I’m interfering—I’ll shut up.”

  “No,” Georgina said. “If it wasn’t for your earlier intervention, I might never have seen sense. Thank you.”

  “Nonsense,” Fran said. “You would have gotten there eventually.”

  “I don’t know. When it comes to emotions, I’m not very good at seeing my way through.”

  “What you’re going through’s hard.” Molly gave Georgina’s hand a quick squeeze. “Anyone would find it tough.”

  “My mother’s trying to say my father was controlling and poisoned my mind against her. She even said I had been captive to him just by loving him. I mean, that can’t be right. Can it?” Georgina looked at Molly and Fran in confusion. “And the stuff she said he said to keep her away was true. She did ruin our lives and I didn’t want to see her. And surely if my father was trying to prevent contact between us, he would have destroyed her letters, wouldn’t he?”

  “But then he knew you never replied to them,” Fran said. “Am I right?”

  Georgina nodded.

  “Sometimes,” Fran said, “and I’m not saying your father did this, although I do know that he was understandably bitter, by not defending someone and by not building bridges between those who cannot build their own, you conspire to perpetuate hurt. All your father had to do was nothing—just repeat the truth as you both saw it. And do not misunderstand me—I am not defending your mother’s actions, and I am not accusing your father of being malicious.”

  “But he was. I mean, you’ve explained perfectly what he did.” Georgina shook her head. “And he used the fact that I loved him—that’s what my mother was getting at—so I wouldn’t even question things.”

  Fran raised her voice slightly to say, “No, Georgina, I knew your father as a young man and he was a good man. In my opinion he just met and married a passionate girl he couldn’t entirely handle. They were ill-suited and hurt each other and unfortunately you, as a result. But do not begin to doubt for one moment their love for you. The sad truth I’m afraid is that human beings are far from perfect.”

  “That’s what my mother said, that none of us is perfect.” Georgina turned to Molly. “She even said that whether I believed it or not, she loved me.”

  Molly swallowed the lump in her throat. “She did keep writing to you and stood in the Wright room that night, facing everything, which must have been pretty hard. I think you’d only do that for something as strong as love.”

  Georgina smiled. “You’re just saying that because you like her.”

  “No, I only say things for a Mr. Brown’s breakfast.” Molly rested her palm to Georgina’s cheek and Fran coughed.

  They smirked guiltily.

  “Molly.” Marianne’s head appeared round the door. “Lydia Wright is in the foyer asking for you.”

  “She is?” Fran and Georgina looked at each other and then at Molly. “Okay, I’ll come down now. Thank you.”

  Georgina turned ashen and shook her head. “If she’s looking for me—”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll tell her you’ve already gone back to London. I’ll be straight back.”

  Molly ran down the stairs trying to anticipate what Lydia might want. Was she hoping to strike another deal perhaps? Georgina hadn’t said how she left things, but it didn’t take a genius to guess not well. Molly couldn’t have been more surprised by the sight that greeted her.

  Lydia was standing in the middle of the foyer with Josephine’s portrait resting beside her.

  “I’m sorry to take you from your work,” Lydia said. Molly hadn’t thought it was possible for Lydia to look any frailer. “But I wanted you to have the painting. After all, I promised.”

  “That’s awesome. Thank you so much. If you can wait one moment, I need you to fill in an object entry form. It’s the process we have to follow when someone lends an object to the museum.” Molly leaned over the reception desk trying to find the forms. “They should be here somewhere.”

  “I’m not lending it to the museum.”

  Molly slipped down from the desk. “You’re not?” Here we go.

  “I’m gifting the work to you.”

  “You are?” />
  “I want you to have it. You seem to feel the passion that I felt for it, and that is what is important to me.” Lydia lifted the painting into Molly’s arms. “I know you will love it and care for it, just as you are clearly loving and caring for my daughter.” Lydia glanced beyond Molly to the stairs.

  Molly turned round to see Georgina walking towards them.

  “Your mum’s returned the painting to us,” Molly said, wondering what had made Georgina join them and what she might be thinking.

  “To be precise, I’ve gifted it to Molly,” Lydia corrected.

  Georgina raised her eyebrows and her face lightened with surprise. “I see.”

  “I thought you’d approve.” Lydia tilted her head slightly as if to gauge Georgina’s reaction.

  “I do. Very much.”

  “Good. Well, trains won’t wait. My best wishes for the display, Molly. Perhaps you might let me know how it goes?”

  “I will. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Lydia glanced at Georgina. “Goodbye then.” Lydia took a deep breath and turned to walk away.

  “It opens on the first,” Georgina said. Lydia stopped without turning round.

  Molly looked at Georgina. Good for you. Her heart drummed in her chest. “Yes,” Molly added. “If you let me have your address, we can send you an invite.”

  Lydia cleared her throat, and still without looking back she said, “You’ll find my address in my next letter.”

  “Great.” Molly said, all but bursting with relief. She hugged the painting to her chest and felt Georgina’s arm slip around her waist. They stood in silence together, watching Lydia leave.

  As the doors slid closed, Molly said softly, “I’m so glad you came down.”

  “I just had to. I was sitting in your office.” Georgina looked out towards the exit. “And I felt a terrible sense of panic. It came from nowhere. But I knew what it was. It was the thought of her leaving. That I wouldn’t see her again.”

  “I get that,” Molly said. “She’s your mum.”