Beams of sunlight broke and flickered against the walls of the sitting room as a cyclist swept past, startling Georgina out of her thoughts. Enough. She was sick of sadness and of memories cloying at her, dragging her down. This happened without fail every time she came back to this house. And every time she couldn’t wait to leave.
With the grant of probate, things were on their way to being concluded, weren’t they? The solicitors were following her father’s instructions as directed in his will and methodically tying up each loose end. Her role was to oversee the sale of the house and the safe storage or sale of his belongings. Georgina glanced across again at her father’s chair. Father. There was no way she could bear to pack up his personal belongings and to see his life shipped out in boxes. Not yet. Not ever. She bit at her lip, fighting tears. She had time surely to do this while everything else was being settled?
She took a deep breath, her gaze falling on the beautiful blue ware vase that rested on the sideboard, so delicate and in blissful ignorance of its fate. Her stomach tightened at the thought of handing over her father’s beloved fine and decorative art, so loved in this house for so long, to the grasp of the museum. It might have been his wish and the museum entirely within their right, but something still felt distasteful about it. Was it the polite yet feverous clamour of the museum to get their hands on his collection? It made her want to resist their every advance. For their director had been pestering the moment her father had died. Could we make a time to meet? Had Georgina found a moment to think about how she would like the task best done? Please be assured of our best intentions. And it felt like every time she spoke with the foundation’s solicitors, they ended each call with and then there’s the museum bequest to fulfil.
The foundation. Nausea gripped her. Every Wright family member since the foundation’s beginnings had known that one day the responsibility to lead the foundation would fall to them. And now it was her turn. She knew people were looking to her and waiting to hear the tone of her compassion and to understand the focus of her concern, and to feel the impact of her decisions. She would no doubt be compared with her father and measured only by their differences and judged by what she lacked.
And she would now have to endure the fawning and the flattery of those seeking funding and reassurance that their future was secure with her. They’d all attended her father’s funeral dressed in black like sharp-beaked crows, hunched, plotting, waiting for the moment to swoop. Even the director of the local museum across the way had been there, twitchy, triumphant, and making a point of shaking her hand.
Her head throbbed with a headache that had been threatening to overwhelm her for days. She caught her reflection in the gilded oval mirror which hung above the fireplace. Grief was unbecoming. She looked so tired. She tucked her hair behind her ear, away from her face. That’s so weird. Without intending, she’d positioned herself in the mirror so her face was at the same height as the row of faces in the family portraits that stared back at her from the opposite wall. She touched her cheek, noticing that her skin had a pale luminosity that peculiarly matched the pallor of those who’d gone before her.
There was no escaping she was the sole direct heir to the Wright line, and she couldn’t have felt less deserving or less equipped to carry forward the hopes of generations before her. For she couldn’t continue a line all alone, could she? You needed love to do that. That one person by your side. She had no one. It wasn’t that she was gay or she hadn’t met Miss Right, so to speak. No. You had to trust to love, and there was nothing about love she trusted.
It struck her in that moment that there would likely be no more portraits. No more stiff necks holding the pose, wondering when the painter would finish. Had any one of those painted imagined they would be the last? Had any one felt the burden of the responsibility of being a Wright as heavily as she did now?
She turned and moved towards the portraits. She slowly walked the length of the wall, absently counting the portraits one by one. There were four paintings in total, three oils and one watercolour, each hanging on a brass chain from the picture rail. For how long they had hung in that spot was the subject as much of folklore as fact, for her father rarely spoke about them and Georgina had only ever known them hanging there, staring out, inscrutable.
At the beginning of the row hung a painting depicting the marriage of her distant relatives William and Josephine Wright. The ornate gilt frame matched the formal composition of the piece. The porch of St. Martin’s Church formed the backdrop. To the right of William, at his feet, his spaniel loyally looked up at his master. Georgina loved that dog. How she had begged her father for a spaniel just like great-great-great-great-grandfather William’s. She shook her head. She’d forgotten that.
William Wright looked so proud, standing tall in his boots and breeches, his chest puffed out in his high collared coat with its long tail, and his square jaw jutting out from his white cravat circled at his neck. He was handsome and sincere if the affectionate way he looked at his bride, as he held her gloved hand gently in his, was anything to go by. Or was this just the painter’s imagination? Josephine in contrast was looking ahead, her face serious, almost reverent. Her expression had the quality of devotion and service about it. Had marriage meant sacrifice somehow to her? She was dressed in a modest gown of what appeared to be white muslin. And were they satin flowers embroidered at the wide scoop of her collar? A rose-coloured ribbon pinched the material under her chest and matched the small bouquet of soft pink carnations held tight against her.
The painting always left Georgina in a reflective mood rather than one of celebration. Was that intended? She leaned in to read the scrawl of the painter’s signature: W. Brown. On a small nameplate in block writing were the words St. Martin’s, Leicester. In celebration of the marriage of William Henry George Wright and Josephine Catherine Wright (née Brancaster), 26th December 1833.
Next to this hung a similarly sober work to mark the christening of William and Josephine’s second child, James Ambrose. The painting captured the Wright family huddled with the priest around the font. Coloured droplets of light fell upon them from the stained glass windows above. All eyes were on the baby wrapped in a shawl in Josephine’s arms. As if forgotten, a small child was all but hidden in the billowing skirt of the priest’s cassock. “I see you Adelaide,” Georgina said. It seemed at any moment she would run and hide behind the looming stone columns supporting the sweeping arches above their heads. How many times had she been missed? The little girl faced outwards with her innocent eyes as if pleading with the viewer not to overlook her.
Georgina pressed her finger against the little girl’s name listed in the words that spread the length of the maple frame. “Was your brother hogging the limelight, Adelaide Jane? Did you cause a scene?” The inscription was matter of fact and gave nothing away. 6th June 1838, St. Martin’s. Baptism of James Ambrose Wright, son of William and Josephine and brother to Adelaide Jane, aged three years. Oil on canvas by W. Brown, 1838.
Why so serious again, Josephine? Even proud William wore an expression shaded in something troubled. Were they sad on this special day? Was that what the painter saw?
The third painting along couldn’t have been more different. Georgina stood staring at it, just as she had stood staring, looking up at it, as a child. It was everything the other paintings weren’t. It was life in all its informal joyful vibrancy, caught in the lightness of watercolour.
It was the face of a beautiful young woman painted close up, in profile. It was smaller than the other works, and yet so much more affecting. Only the woman’s face and neck were depicted, with the pink and ivory of her skin set off against a background wash of dark blue. Ruby lips were parted as if the artist had captured the sitter just as words had left her lips.
For so many years Georgina had loved this painting and, moreover, the enchanting woman captured within its frame. It was her comfort as a child, her familiar solace as a teenager, and now a sense of certainty amongst the chaos. Everything about it was precious. And everything about this woman was so different to the woman in the other portraits. Could this really be Josephine? In small engraved type the name Miss Josephine Brancaster, 1832 erased as ever all doubt.
Had love caught her off guard? Changed her? But then, how could anyone not fall in love with her? Georgina cast a fleeting glance at the final painting of William Wright as an old man. Had he loved Josephine well? William sat, silent, in a simple wooden chair, the fireplace lit by his side, with the background beyond a dark murk of oil paint, focusing the viewer upon the foreground details of his face. His furrowed forehead was set as if in thought, pressing forward his silver eyebrows to shade his eyes, still bright and alive in his old age. A book rested in his lap and round spectacles marked the page he was reading. A brass plate read William Wright, LL.B. 1868. A. Scott.
On the wall next to each painting was a coloured paper dot tucked against the frame so as to be only just visible from close up. Had this been the method to single out the works to be included in the museum bequest? If so, where was the dot for the watercolour? She checked the floor. Nothing. She reached for her iPad and sought out the email marked City Museum bequest and downloaded the scanned copy of the inventory attached to the completed bequest form. She scrolled down the list. Twice. Nothing.
Surely this was a mistake? Her father couldn’t have intended for the watercolour just to be left unlisted with the items of house contents for Georgina to deal with? If he’d wanted her to keep the watercolour, then why didn’t he say?
Something wasn’t right. She would check with the solicitors and with the museum. In fact she would do everything in her power to correct what could only be a terrible error.
“Josephine.” Georgina rested her fingers lightly on the frame. “I won’t let you be forgotten. I promise.”