Love's Portrait

by Anna Larner

  Georgina nodded and then looked at the floor. “I can’t believe I’ve got to go now. I hate leaving you.”

  “I hate you leaving.” Molly swallowed down the urge to cry. “Although I’ve got to go too. I’m amazed Evelyn hasn’t sensed that I’m not working. Ring me tonight?”

  Georgina looked up. “I’ll ring every night.”

  “Yeah, that’s a bit clingy.”

  Georgina laughed. “What can I say—I’ve got it bad.” Georgina kissed Molly with the painting pressing between them, resting against their hearts.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  “Down a bit, left a bit. Stop. That’s it. Perfect.” Molly leaned forward and reached behind Edith’s painting, which was being held up by a perspiring Fran. Molly carefully marked with a pencil the areas where the fixings would be hammered to the foyer wall.

  “Hurry up, Molly. Whilst I’m in favour of perfection, I’m less in favour of a hernia.”

  Molly mumbled through a mouthful of nails, “Nearly there.” She hammered the hooks to the wall, fixing the painting securely. “All done.” She stepped back, placing her hands on her hips, and exhaled a deep breath of relief.

  “The blue for the title banner works really well.” Fran gestured to the strip of navy vinyl lettering stretching along the wall above the display case. “I see now what you were saying about wanting to pick out the deep blue background of Edith’s painting.”

  “Yes, I’m properly chuffed with the final result.” Molly gazed up at the title of the display. Her heart caught as she read aloud, “Edith Hewitt, 1808–1834. Radical campaigner and artist, a life remembered.” Molly shook her head. “I can’t quite believe we’ve got to this point. That Edith’s story is being told. And tonight.”

  Fran stood beside Molly and gave her a squeeze. “Yes, the day has come. Well done, Molly Goode. The display looks great. You’ve done Edith proud.”

  “I hope so. I really do. Thanks for everything, Fran, and sorry I’ve dragged you into drama now and then.”

  “Nonsense. What is life after all without a little bit of drama? And I mean it when I say you should be very proud. Your determination is impressive. Nearly as impressive as these panels, which are certainly hard to miss.”

  “They’re fab, aren’t they? I love them.” Molly rested her hand against one of three brightly coloured explanatory panels hanging alongside Edith’s painting and filling the entire corner space with interest and energy. “My aim was for them to be visible pretty much from the entrance.”

  “I suspect that they’re pretty much visible from space,” Fran said with an amused smile.

  “Well that’s even better.” Molly glanced at her watch. “Bugger. It’s nearly one. Now have I forgotten anything? So we have the Campaigning panel. Check.” Molly moved along the wall with her arms outstretched as if directing a plane to land. “Then Edith the Artist on this panel. You know, the photos of the sketches have worked even better than I’d hoped. Then we have Edith’s painting, followed by the summary panel. Super-dupes.”

  “Is this the final version of the portrait’s label?” Fran lifted the strip of thin white board that would accompany Edith’s painting, from where it rested forgotten on top of the display case.

  “Oh, bugger, yes.” Molly carefully peeled off the backing tape and pressed the label into place. “I kept it factual.” She tilted her head, wondering if she should have written more. “It’s a bit depressing how facts seem to hide more than they reveal.”

  Fran nodded in agreement and narrowed her eyes to read aloud, “Miss Josephine Brancaster, 1832, Watercolour. Painted by Edith Hewitt. Donated by Molly Goode, January 2018. Accession number: 2018.01.”

  “But then that’s where explanatory panels come in.” Fran pointed towards the final summary panel. “And that couldn’t be clearer.”

  Molly had blown up the image of the inscription hidden beneath the frame to become the title of a panel dedicated to a narrative about the importance of revealing our hidden histories and uncovering truths untold. The words All My Love Always, Edith shone out radiant for all to see.

  “Knowing that poignant inscription is behind that frame,” Molly said, “sharing that secret with the visitor, there’s something magical about that, don’t you think?” Molly rested her hand at her throat with the thought of how much it meant.

  “Certainly.” Fran stared at the painting. “I can’t help thinking that whoever covered that inscription over in the first place couldn’t have foreseen this day.”

  “No,” Molly said with a sigh. “That’s for sure.”

  Summer 1876

  Josephine Wright’s House, City Walk, Leicester

  Had it really been forty-two years since she’d last been able to bring herself to look at Edith’s painting? It had been a month or so after Edith’s death when William asked where she would like him to store Edith’s things. She’d glimpsed the inscription and vowed never to look upon it again. She’d made a space in a cabinet in what had been their office, and they remained in there hidden away until William retired. And then they came to the house where she found she could still not look fully upon them, and she stored them away under her bed. It wasn’t the right time was it?

  Even now, unwrapped from its hessian covering, she thought it might be too much. And it was in many ways. The sight of Edith’s handwriting and the words All my love always hurt so terribly to see again. It was like a wound reopened, sorer than first inflicted and now more difficult to heal. In the birds chattering in the trees lining the promenade Josephine could swear she could make out Edith’s voice as if she was with her right then and there, kneeling in front of her with her head resting in her lap, declaring all her love for always.

  “Who’s Edith?” Adelaide Wright leaned over her mother’s shoulder to see what she was staring at.

  “Nobody. It’s nothing.” Josephine brushed away a tear, quickly turning the canvas over.

  “Oh, goodness, is that you?” Adelaide touched at the painting and at her mother’s face awash with colour. “You look so young.”

  “Yes.” Josephine reached over to wrap the protective hessian cloth around the painting once again. She then turned her attention to finishing the note for the framer.

  Adelaide rested a hand on the back of her mother’s chair. “Are you having it framed?”

  “Yes, I thought I would.” Josephine gazed across at the wall of portraits, fixing on her wedding day. She was so young then too.

  “Are you thinking of hanging it next to father’s painting?”

  “Yes.”

  Adelaide hovered at her mother’s side, fidgety with questions. It took no guesswork to imagine that she wanted to ask again who Edith was and what she had meant by inscribing All my love always. But it seemed she couldn’t find the words. Instead she asked, “Why didn’t you frame it while Father was alive?”

  Josephine’s cheeks stung. “There are many things I now must do without your father because, whether we choose it or not, life goes on. Now please, Adelaide, let this matter be.”

  “I didn’t mean to upset you, Mother.” Adelaide turned and left. Josephine could sense her daughter’s eyes upon her right until she closed the door.

  Josephine stared out to the promenade. The lamps were lit and the rain had begun to fall, misting the window in droplets of light. For a moment she watched the hypnotic blur of passers-by. How much life she had seen over the years passing by her window. How many more years would she have to carry the burden of regret.

  With a weary sigh she laid her cheek against the painting’s hessian covering, and with words that hurt to speak, she said, “I cannot promise our painting will hang here forever, Edith. But I promise you this, with all my heart, that my love for you will be forever, for always.”

  “Is it your intention for people to guess what is in this case?” Evelyn arrived in a gust of perfume and criticism. She squinted into the display case.

  Not entirely sure how to respond to that question, Molly
said cautiously, “No.”

  “No? Well then, may I suggest cleaning the glass?”

  Embarrassed, Molly said, “We were just about—”

  Evelyn raised her finger in the air. “Are we sure that’s straight?” Evelyn tilted her head towards the painting.

  “Yes, definitely,” Fran said with a defensive frosting to her voice. “We have checked several times using a spirit level.”

  “I see. I often think the eye more accurate. Still,” Evelyn said with a tone that suggested her sentence continued with nothing we can do about it now. “And you’re changing for this evening, Molly, of course.”

  Molly looked down at her smock top. “It matches my…I’ll change.”

  “Wonderful. I think you’ll find it better to complement than match when it comes to one’s outfit. Oh, and as a rule of thumb, if one is comfortable in one’s clothes, then one is likely to be underdressed. Thank you, ladies.”

  “Ignore her.” Fran scowled at the shape of Evelyn making for the stairs. “Remember, you are not her clone. You are you, and that is exactly how it should be.”

  “She’s always so glamorous, though.”

  “She always looks like a stick’s up her arse.”

  “Fran. I think she can hear that.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  “You’re a bad influence.”

  “I’ll think you’ll find that’s the best kind. Grab the duster. Don’t be surprised if she returns wearing white gloves.”

  Molly laughed. “She wouldn’t. Would she?” Molly watched Evelyn disappear out of sight. Despite everything that had passed between them, she wanted to impress her and for her to see that Molly could be trusted with the museum’s reputation. And that she was indeed the curator Evelyn evidently so hoped she could be.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Before Molly knew it, she was standing under the elegant columns of the portico greeting guests with a warm smile and a hug or a handshake. “Thanks so much for coming tonight. It’s lovely to see you,” Molly said to each eager face. “Please help yourself to a drink.” Molly’s entire art club had turned out, and there was talk of ending the evening at a local pub to celebrate. “Of course, I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” was the answer she gave each time she was asked if she’d join them.

  But in that moment the only thing Molly didn’t want to miss was Georgina. Georgina had messaged to say she was sorry but that she was running late and to start without her if need be. Molly stepped further onto the promenade looking out for Georgina.

  “Georgina!” Molly ran towards her, then straight into her arms. She hugged her so tightly, wanting nothing more than to absorb Georgina into her.

  Georgina laughed. “Managed not to miss me then.”

  “What? Oh no.” Molly giggled. “Although I am a bit steamed up.”

  Georgina cupped Molly’s hands. “You’re also freezing again.”

  “I’ve been welcoming guests as they arrive.”

  “Oh, right. So you weren’t standing in the cold waiting for me again?”

  Molly nodded vehemently and at the same time said, “Absolutely not.”

  Georgina slipped her arm around Molly’s waist as they walked back to the museum. “I’d like to say a few words tonight, if that would be okay?”

  “Yes, that would be awesome. Thank you.”

  Georgina slowed her pace. “It just feels right to.”

  Molly stopped and looked up into Georgina’s eyes. “I’m so pleased you feel that way. I really hope you’ll love the display.”

  “I know I will. I love everything you do.”

  The sensation of pure joy tightened at her throat. She could have sobbed her heart out with happiness. Instead, she looked away to compose herself, only to notice the last stragglers going into the museum. “Oh, bugger, we’re late. Come on.” Molly tucked her arm into Georgina’s as they quickened their pace towards the museum.

  Reaching the door and slightly breathless, Molly said, “I’ll let Evelyn know that you want to speak. The format is fairly straightforward. Evelyn will welcome guests on behalf of the museum and give a brief introduction to the display, and she’ll then likely direct people to me and Fran for any questions they have. A lighter touch than the Wright room, but nonetheless a similar occasion to last time really.” Her stomach dropped as she realized what she’d just said. “Well, not exactly like last time, obviously.”

  Georgina was looking nervously at the entrance. “Has she arrived?”

  “I haven’t seen her. She could of course be with Evelyn.” Molly squeezed Georgina’s hand. “Georgina, whatever happens tonight, remember how smashing you are.”

  “Oh, Molly.” Georgina quickly stole a kiss as if oblivious to the curious stares from the promenade. “Thanks for the pep talk,” she whispered close to Molly’s ear. She seemed more than reluctant to step away as she eventually took a deep breath and pulled at the cuffs of her shirt. She brushed her jacket flat against her and fiddled for a moment with the buttons. “I’m ready.”

  No sooner had they stepped into the museum than Evelyn approached with Lydia at her side.

  “Molly, thank goodness.” Evelyn rested a dramatic hand at her chest. “I thought you had decided against joining us this evening.”

  “I was running late, Evelyn,” Georgina said. “Molly kindly waited for me.”

  Evelyn’s neck flushed pink. “Of course.” She promptly shook Georgina’s hand. “It is a pleasure to see you again, Georgina.”

  “The display is beautiful, Molly.” Lydia smiled warmly and took Molly’s hands in hers. “I had a feeling you would donate Josephine’s portrait.”

  “It wasn’t for me to keep it,” Molly said. “It has a job to do.”

  “Well.” Lydia turned towards the throng of visitors gathered in the corner of the foyer reading the panels and staring transfixed at the painting. “It appears it’s working hard.”

  Molly felt Georgina’s hand briefly rub, in silent praise, at her back.

  “Georgina. How are you?” Lydia asked, with a note of caution in her voice.

  “I’m well, thank you, Mother. It’s…it’s good to see you again.”

  “Excellent,” Evelyn said, visibly exhaling. “Let’s get things under way.”

  “If you’ll excuse me.” Lydia slipped a cigarette from its thin silver case and went outside.

  “Oh, Evelyn.” Molly lightly caught her arm. “Before we begin, Georgina would like to say a few words. I said that would be fine.”

  Evelyn looked at Georgina with unconcealed surprise. “Yes. Wonderful. I’ll bring you on after I’ve done my welcome.” Without missing a beat Evelyn then raised her hands in the air in a manner not dissimilar to the Pope welcoming the devoted. “Everyone. Welcome.”

  An obliging hush fell upon the foyer as Evelyn began to speak.

  Lydia returned to Molly’s side in a cloud of sweet tobacco. She leaned in and whispered, “May I be honest and say I’ve never been a great fan of speeches.”

  Molly sensed Georgina stir and shift her weight from one leg to the other before folding her arms.

  “Yes,” Molly said, mustering diplomacy. “But when the right person is speaking on a topic they particularly care about, they can be truly inspiring.”

  “Indeed.” Lydia seemed to concede the point with a smile.

  Evelyn began her speech by expressing the museum’s gratitude to the Wright Foundation for its recent investment in future projects that would focus on correcting past injustices. “We are delighted,” Evelyn said emphatically, “to be uncovering further hidden histories just like the display before you, telling the moving story of local activist Edith Hewitt, whose contribution to history has been up to now shamefully neglected. We hope that tonight’s display will be the first of many.” The audience, led by the chairman, applauded.

  Evelyn’s speech should have been inspiring. After all she was promising to meaningfully address the need for a more diverse museum. But Molly struggled to se
e past the museum’s initial reticence, so much so every word felt hollow and akin to paper-thin rhetoric easily torn and defenceless against the slightest ill wind.

  Lydia had clearly lost interest and was looking across to the painting all alone in the corner, relieved for that moment of the scrutiny of prying eyes.

  Lydia turned to Molly. “What will the museum do with the painting after your display?”

  “Care for it with its other artworks,” Molly said. “It’s a valued part of the museum’s permanent collection now, even though it may not be exhibited.”

  “I see.” A disconcerted frown fell across Lydia’s face. “Such a shame for it to be stored unseen again and with her face no doubt facing another wall.”

  “The paintings are hung on specially designed racks in a controlled environment,” Molly said gently. “I promise she won’t be looking at any walls. In fact I shall ensure she faces a beautiful landscape painting.”

  “And it will be catalogued properly, Mother,” Georgina said. “People will be able to find her.”

  “I rather prefer the notion of being seen rather than having to be found, don’t you?” Lydia’s gaze drifted away to the Wright room. “Such a depressing painting, The Hunt.” Lydia turned to Georgina. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Yes,” Georgina said. “Certainly.”

  Molly could sense something pass between them, a private understanding perhaps that required no words to be understood.

  “Oh, Georgina, you’re up,” Molly said, feeling nervous for Georgina but determined not to let it show. She clapped loudly, joined by Lydia, as Georgina moved away to stand next to Evelyn.

  Georgina began a little hesitantly, thanking the gathered crowd for attending. She then expressed her gratitude to Evelyn and the chairman and to the museum’s trustees and stakeholders for supporting the work to highlight an important aspect of her family’s history.

  “I cannot tell you as a Wright how proud I am,” Georgina said, “to make claim to this otherwise forgotten history of brave campaigning, friendship, and love.”