“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.