So this was it then? The day that had been arriving since her father told her he was dying. The day she would return for the last time to find the house empty and bereft of everything.
For this was no longer her father’s home. It was just a grand beautiful old building waiting to be loved again. A home was made by the people in it and by the objects they cherished. Now it was like an empty shell with its memories tipped up and emptied out like sand.
But then there was the wine cellar where the very last dregs of her father’s life were hidden, musty in the dust and darkness. Having a cellar full of wine would be most people’s idea of heaven, but for Georgina it was simply the last of many tasks in the emptying of her father’s house.
She leaned against the wine rack in the cold cellar, stifling a shiver and a yawn. She was bone-tired. Her train had been delayed and her phone had not stopped ringing with work calls. She’d crammed the next twenty-four hours with meetings and tasks. She would meet with her father’s solicitors and the estate agents, and in one hour a wine merchant would come and inspect her father’s wine and quote for its purchase.
The removal men had followed Georgina’s instructions to leave the bed in her childhood bedroom in place for the last night that she would be here, because on balance a local hotel had managed to seem a lonelier option.
Apart from her bed, all the furniture had been removed, and all that remained was a Mr. Men beanbag that her father had sentimentally kept in his office. Georgina had once asked her father about it and he had said that he liked to have it there, and that it reminded him of her when as a child she would drag the beanbag into his office to read her books, to be with him as he worked late.
She’d now placed the beanbag in the sitting room as something vaguely comfortable for her to sit on in between meetings and tasks.
She gave a heavy sigh at the thought of the work ahead. At least she still had the coffee machine onto which she had placed a label Do Not Move. Apart from the bare pieces of crockery that she would need, the rest of the kitchen and bathroom needed to be emptied and the blinds and curtains throughout the house needed to be taken down. The housekeeper had offered to take any items suitable for charity to the local hospice. She’d offered to do these last tasks as well, but the only way Georgina could get through the next twenty-four hours was to keep busy. The last thing she wanted was time to dwell on all that she had lost, and it wasn’t just thoughts of her father that simply broke her heart.
For not an hour had passed in the last two weeks without the thought of Molly. Breaks in concentration always led to her, and then it would take all of Georgina’s might to stop thinking about her. And when she was tired, Molly filled the spaces where useful thoughts should be. For what was the point of thinking about her? Why couldn’t her head and her heart just let Molly go? Why wasn’t there a merchant who could come and take broken-hearted thoughts away in a van to be sold on to someone else, someone who knew how to mend them when Georgina herself had no idea.
And what was worse, at some point today Edith’s painting would be returned to her as she had requested, marking the end of everything.
She turned and glanced up the cellar steps at the sound of sharp drumming at the front door. It was just after three o’clock. Was the wine merchant early?
Georgina wearily climbed the steps and went to the door, bracing herself for negotiations over the clarity of clarets. She took a deep breath and opened the door.
“Fran?” Georgina’s heart caught at the sight of Edith’s painting in Fran’s arms.
“Good afternoon. I have your painting,” Fran said.
“Of course.” Georgina gestured for Fran to step inside. “Thank you for bringing it over. Ordinarily I’d invite you into the sitting room, but the only room with a proper seat I’m afraid is the kitchen.”
Fran glanced into the sitting room. “Kitchen it is then.”
“Great. Please, after you.”
Georgina followed Fran into the kitchen. She could do this. Take the painting and say thank you. It would be over in less than a minute. She wouldn’t even have to think about Molly. It would be fine.
Fran carefully rested the wrapped painting on the kitchen worktop. She shooed Georgina away when she attempted to offer a hand as Fran struggled onto the stool.
“I always find kitchen stools,” Fran said, “require the core strength of an athlete and the balance of a monkey. I am neither. So I shall make this quick. I apologize for any offence I may or may not cause by what I am about to say. I hope you will understand that it comes from a place of concern for both yourself and Molly.”
Georgina’s chest tightened. “Right. I’m very sorry about what has happened—”
“The poor girl has done nothing wrong whatsoever. If you’d given her half a chance to explain, she would have told you how worried she was about the invitation to your mother. She honestly did not know what to do.”
“She should have warned me.”
“And see you hurt yet again with mention of your mother? I told Molly the last thing your mother would do was come to the opening of the Wright room. I discouraged her from telling you. I am certain that if I had told Molly that your mother would likely come, she would have warned you. She would have risked her job for you, and I know that, because she’s been doing it ever since she’s met you.”
Georgina swallowed down the terrible ache in her chest at the continued mention of Molly.
“It was unforgivable of Evelyn to invite your mother, and you were entirely justified in being cross with her. But only with her. Molly has never used you. And she did not betray your trust, Georgina—she was simply caught in the most awful position.”
Was Fran right? “Well I appreciate your candour, but if you’ll excuse me, I’ve a lot to do.”
“And there’s one last thing you should know—”
“Really, I do have to get on.”
“Evelyn’s suspended Molly.”
What? No. “I didn’t know.”
“Well, now you do.”
“I’ll talk to Evelyn.”
“Good, I’m relieved to hear that. Now help me down from this godawful stool.” They made their way in silence to the front door. As Georgina reached for the door knob, Fran placed her hand momentarily over hers. “Don’t think that I don’t know how much you miss your father, Georgina. I also understand that grief is playing its part here. But I can’t imagine he would want you to be alone. So now that you know the truth, talk to Molly. Apologize.”
“Goodbye, Fran.” Georgina held the door open.
“Goodbye then.”
Just as Georgina went to close the door Fran shouted over her shoulder, “And look after that painting.”
August 1834
Chambers of Brancaster and Lane Solicitors
“What will you do with her things?” Charles Brancaster stared at Edith’s scrapbook and notes.
“I have not thought. It has been two weeks now, and still she will not look upon them.” William lifted up Edith’s painting of Josephine and studied it carefully. “She looks so beautiful in this. Edith has entirely captured the essence of Jo. She has somehow seen her as I see her. Did you know she had painted her?”
Charles stared at his daughter, captured in washes of colour and light. He silently shook his head.
“There is an inscription—can you see, just here by the stretcher.” William lifted the back of the canvas towards Charles. “It says All my love always, Edith.”
Charles looked into the office where Josephine sat silently staring into the distance with her face paler than the sheets of paper crumpled on her desk discarded.
“It is no wonder that she cannot write a word. They were great friends, William, ever since they were children. No, they were like sisters, in fact. And Edith…” Charles’s voice broke. “I hoped she looked upon me as a father figure.”
“Edith was in your charge?”
“No. I was Edith’s father’s solicitor and his closest friend. He died suddenly, and poor Edith and her mother were saddled with terrible debt. They were once a wealthy family.”
“Goodness.”
“Indeed. They ended up living in lodgings not far from here. Jo begged me to pay for Edith to stay on at school. Edith was such a passionate, clever girl and not to finish her education would have been a crime. What a waste of talent and life.” Charles’s voice caught again, and he cleared his throat. “But I promise, Jo is a fighter, and she will recover from this and return to you, William. It is just the shock of it.” Charles placed his hand on William’s shoulder. “It may take time. But we have time. And we will wait.”
William nodded and said with renewed purpose, “Let’s keep these safe. The letter was addressed to Jo, so these are hers. My sense is she would not forgive me if I did not keep them from harm. And I will not let her down. And I would certainly not wish to find myself having to seek her forgiveness on this or any other matter. For I fear that it is easier to forgive a stranger than a love.”
I need a drink. Georgina returned to the cellar, pulling out a red wine. In that moment she could not face seeing another human being. She found the merchant’s number among the long list of calls and texts she had received in the last twenty-four hours. Five minutes later she had rescheduled their meeting to the next day and was retrieving a wine glass from a half-packed box in the kitchen. But she needed one final thing. Where had she seen it last?
She went into the sitting room. “Think. You last saw it here. It’s got to be somewhere—surely the removal men wouldn’t have taken it?” A growing panic filled her chest at the thought of having lost Molly’s corkscrew. She scanned the empty room, lifting through the remaining post piled on the floor by the fireplace. A glint of metal half covered by the curtains caught her eye.
“There you are.” Georgina deftly opened the wine and filled the glass to its brim and drank down the contents in one. She immediately refilled it and slumped into the beanbag. She held Molly’s corkscrew, closing her fingers tight around its metal wings with her thumb pressed against the curl of its cork-piercing beak.
Molly. Fran’s words had ignited all thoughts of Molly to burn ever brighter in Georgina’s mind. She could remember every detail of that first magical evening with Molly here in the sitting room, lying on the throw together looking up into the sparkling light of the chandelier. It was the beginning of things that had led to London and to their first kiss and Molly’s arms around her and her soft warm body pressed into hers.
Molly had opened up Georgina’s heart, letting light flood into its dark chambers and urging warm blood to flow, melting the sharp crystals of sadness that had lined every artery.
She took another large slug of wine, its spicy heat smoking out sense and reason from anger and pride.
Fran was adamant that Molly hadn’t used her or betrayed her trust. So why on earth had Georgina imagined she had? Had she allowed her anger to cloud her judgement? Had fury bent and twisted the truth to its own warped design?
How could she be so stupid? For wasn’t she the one who instigated everything and not Molly? She shivered as the heat of anger dissipated and the cold truth seeped in. She’d been as intrigued as Molly to want to continue to research Josephine’s portrait and pushed to uncover its buried history. So why was she surprised when Molly defended the painting’s story and pleaded for it not to be buried again and for it to be told in the space they had created together? No wonder Molly couldn’t understand, and no wonder her confusion prompted her to leave. And then she blamed her for leaving and punished her with unforgivable silence, forcing an apology Molly hadn’t needed to make but made anyway for the sake of them. For them.
Georgina felt tears of guilt and regret sting. Molly hadn’t used her. She had just cared, not only about the painting, but about Georgina herself. Fran was right and Georgina couldn’t have felt more wrong.
She sat forward hugging at her knees. Molly would never forgive her. It was too late. She had ruined things and lost the most beautiful woman she could ever have hoped to meet.
Georgina looked up to the ceiling at the glinting chandelier. She closed her eyes and the fading shapes of glistening glass imprinted on her eyelids. I can’t lose her. There must be something I can do. As she opened her eyes and dropped her gaze from the ceiling, she caught sight of the empty wall opposite. She stared at the dust outlines made by the absent paintings and at the darker blocks of paint protected behind them for all those years. They were safe now together, hanging in the Wright room. But they weren’t all together were they? Georgina looked out to the hallway that led to the kitchen that led to Edith’s painting.
Could it be the answer? It was certainly at the heart of everything wasn’t it? It would have to be something more though than the display of the portrait in the Wright room. It was too obvious. In any case it might seem too little too late. But what then? Georgina sighed heavily and picked up the corkscrew in her hand once more.
“How do I show her, Penguin, how much I care?”
This was Molly Goode after all, and nothing shining or superficial would truly impress her. The possibility of an idea suggested itself like a whisper in her ear. What had upset Molly the most? It was the thought that Edith had been forgotten by her loved ones and by history. What could she do to correct this? If she could solve that question, then maybe it would mean a chance for them. Even if she could come up with a plan, she’d have to take on Evelyn. But she would do that. She would do anything for Molly. Was this a glimmer of hope?