“Everything okay?” Fran cast a surprised glance to the clock and then to Molly.
Molly yawned. “Yes.”
“You’re early.”
Molly slipped off her coat and hung it behind the door. “I’ve been awake since four worrying about the fact that apparently I’m at a pivotal point in my career, according to Evelyn.”
“She’s right.”
“Oh my God, don’t you start. Oh, is that…?” Molly spotted Georgina Wright’s painting leaning up against a chest of drawers. She lifted it to rest on top of her desk. “When did Evelyn call by?”
“You’ve literally just missed her. She told me to tell you to bring your research plan for the portrait to her office at about eleven. That’s when Georgina could make it.”
Molly’s chest tightened. “Georgina? What, she’ll be at the meeting?”
Fran shrugged. “Looks like it.”
“Oh.” Molly looked down and then gave a resolute shake of her head. “It’ll be fine.”
“Fred told me you’d had a bit of a run in with her. Georgina, I mean.”
Molly nodded. “Let’s put it this way—five minutes in her company does nothing for a girl’s ego. I just asked her to fill in a form so we could help her with her painting, and it was like I’d asked her to poke herself in the eye. She was so dismissive of me and colder than a hypothermic snowman. And if that wasn’t bad enough, my entire career hinges on me impressing her. How on earth am I supposed to do that?”
“By being you,” Fran said with an affectionate tone. “And you’re not to worry about Georgina. My guess is she’s grieving for her father. They were very close.”
“You know them?”
“I went to school with George. He was a couple of years above me. There was a group of us that used to hang out. But of course we all moved away after school to different colleges and so forth. I think he worked in London in his twenties, and when he returned to Leicester he was engaged to be married. Sixty-two is no age to die. Although his own father died at about the same age, and his mother even younger, so I guess it’s a gene thing.” Fran sighed and shook her head. “I know his daughter less, of course. Quite a sad family situation really.”
Molly leaned against her desk. “In what way?”
“There was a messy divorce. Georgina’s mother, Lydia, cheated on George and then left and never came back. Artistic temperament and all that. Everything changed from that moment on. I remember him coming in to the museum one afternoon not long after the divorce. I think he just wanted someone to talk to. So we had a chat and a coffee. He was clearly very hurt and angry. It utterly devastated him, and he worked all hours to forget about everything, no doubt, and poor Georgina was packed off to boarding school.”
“Blimey.”
“In fact, the last time I heard about Lydia Wright, she was still in Paris. She’d been tipped as the next Georgia O’Keeffe.”
“Okay, wow. I confess I’ve never heard of her.”
“Her early work is collected and has some value, although she remains relatively unknown. I think she managed the odd show here and there, but it’s said she never fulfilled her potential, some say because of her unhappy marriage to George. Pretty sad all round. But to reassure you, I’ve always found Georgina under normal circumstances to be extremely polite, if a little reserved perhaps.”
“Right. That’s a relief.”
“Do you know what would also help to impress her?”
“What, cutting her some slack?”
“Being on time to the meeting.”
Molly looked at the clock. She had just over two hours.
“Bugger. Yes.” Molly cleared her throat. “Right, Josephine, let’s take a look at you.” With a sense of purpose Molly carefully peeled away the wrapping to reveal the full beauty of the delicate watercolour.
Fran joined Molly at her side. “I’ve always loved this painting.” She brushed her hand along the edge of the frame.
“You’ve seen this painting before?” Molly asked, intrigued. Fran seemed distracted. Molly touched her arm. “Fran? How do you know this work? It’s just…if the painting’s been brought in before, then that would be really helpful to know.”
“No.” Fran returned to her desk. “This is the first time to my knowledge this painting has been in the museum. I saw it at George’s, hanging with the other paintings in his sitting room.”
“George Wright’s house?”
Fran nodded. “Yes, now and then he would host soirées, intimate benefit suppers at his place. He would call such evenings his persuaders. I shall host a persuader, he would say, if the museum was trying to raise money or something like that.” Fran slipped her cardigan from her shoulders and absently folded it. “They always felt like such glamorous evenings, with the influential figures of the day.”
“Sounds amazing.” Molly shared a smile with Fran. Molly imagined silver trays laden with champagne flutes sparkling in the light from chandeliers. She pictured men dressed in dinner suits congregating by the piano or mantelpiece, their sharp white shirts crisp and bright, like their wits. And she imagined women poised at the edges of the conversation, as if holding their breath, their fingers looped around the threads of pearls at their necks. The air would be heady with cigarette smoke, cologne, and ambition. “Although, you know, I think I would have found it a bit stressful, trying to say the right things to the right people. Evelyn would have been in her element.”
Fran shook her head. “This was much before her time. The late eighties, it must have been.”
Molly raised her eyebrows. “You’ve been at the museum that long?”
“Not exactly. I began my career here. Then I worked in a few museums across the region, but somehow I always find myself back here, every time.”
“Well, this is obviously where you belong.” Molly followed Fran’s gaze back to the painting. “So given what you’re saying, it’s not unreasonable to suppose that’s where this portrait has hung all this time, where it belonged, on George Wright’s wall.”
“Yes, that would be my guess. You know…” Fran paused and frowned.
“What?”
“This painting always felt personal.”
“Personal?”
“Yes, to George, to the Wrights. I can’t quite pin down what I mean. All the other paintings felt like markers in the Wrights’ history. Whereas the portrait of Josephine…I don’t know. I wish I’d asked George about it now. I know that’s not much use to you.”
“Not at all. It all helps create a context for the work.” Molly leaned over the painting. Her eyes traced the edges of the frame. The frame showed no obvious sign of problems such as mould growth or infestation. The varnish on the right hand edge had faded slightly, suggesting that it might have caught at least for part of the day a sliver of sunlight. The glass had served its purpose well, protecting the canvas from dirt, which in turn had helped keep the paint colours distinct and bright. The red of Josephine’s lips retained its evocative power and the dark of her eyes remained deep and true. The skin of her cheeks and neck had lost none of its radiance. The informal, almost sketchy style lent a sense of intimacy. It was like Molly was in the moment with the sitter looking just this way, holding the pose for the painter. She could follow the painter’s strokes, the caress of brush against canvas. There was no doubting this was a painting of effortless, timeless beauty. It certainly betrayed nothing of its years, suggested nothing of the triumph it had won over the rigours of passing time.
Only the mount, discolouring slightly, caused Molly a little concern. “I think I’ll suggest we temporarily remove the frame so we can replace the mount. I’m worried it might have degraded.” Molly let out a sigh of relief. “Other than that, you’re in good shape, Josephine Brancaster. You’ve done your family proud.” Molly’s chest tightened again at the word family. Soon she would be face-to-face with Georgina Wright.
“Sounds like a plan to me.” Fran gathered her things to leave. “Now, make sure you are completely ready. And then for God’s sake don’t be late. I’ll be in the storeroom if you need me.”
Molly forced a nervous smile. “Wish me luck.”
* * *
“Come in, Molly,” Evelyn said at the sound of voices followed by polite knocking at the conference room door.
Georgina glanced up in expectation. She stared at the handle waiting for it to turn.
All weekend she’d worried about seeing Molly again. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so confronted, so exposed, and so off balance by the sight of someone. For there she was, the woman from the square, rushing down the stairs, her arms full of folders, her face full of welcome.
And her name was Molly. Molly. She was real and standing just touching distance away. Every detail of her once imagined was brought to life, from the freckles across her nose, to the sound of her voice, to the way the light caught in her questioning eyes.
With Molly’s gaze upon her, she’d panicked. And then, Molly spoke about art. She was an art curator. Did that mean she’d be like her mother? Everything in that moment felt at odds. She hadn’t known what to do or what to think. Where was her composure? Where were the defences that had always kept her so cool and so calm?
What must Molly have thought? What must she be thinking now?
The door opened and Marianne led the way, pushing the conference room door fully open and flat against the wall.
“Thanks, Marianne. Morning, everyone,” Molly said, her expression one of total concentration as she carefully carried the wrapped portrait of Josephine to the far end of the table and rested it gently in place.
Georgina stood. The weight of her chair pressed against her legs. She struggled to find her breath. Molly looked so natural and beautiful once again. Her denim pinafore dress and cream blazer couldn’t have suited her more.
“Of course, you’ve met Molly before, Georgina,” Evelyn said, with a breezy tone that implied all is well.
“Yes, indeed. Good morning,” Georgina said, hoping her cheeks were not as flushed as they felt.
Molly held out her hand. “Good morning.”
Molly’s hand felt warm and soft in hers.
Molly then took her place next to Evelyn. She slipped her jacket off and scooped soft curls of auburn hair away from her shoulders to rest at her back.
“Georgina, as agreed, I have asked Molly to come up with a plan to help you to learn more about the”—Evelyn leaned forward, freeing her glasses from her hair to squint through them to read her notes—“1832 watercolour portrait of Josephine Wright. Artist unknown. Now—”
“Brancaster,” Molly corrected. “Oh, I’m sorry, Evelyn, I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”
Evelyn placed her pen on the table and leaned back in her chair. “Not at all. This is your project. We are very much relying on you for the details of things.”
Molly swallowed.
Was Molly feeling under pressure? “You’re correct,” Georgina said. “She became Josephine Wright when she married William Wright.” Georgina opened her iPad and held up the screen for both Evelyn and Molly to see. “This is hanging at my father’s place. It is of Josephine and William Wright’s wedding day. Interestingly it’s dated 1833. Do you see? Her maiden name of Brancaster is recorded in brackets.” Both Evelyn and Molly leaned forward to take in the detail. “This tells us that they are the same woman. It also tells us the watercolour of Josephine was painted in the year before her marriage.” Was she saying too much? “I’m sorry, all this detail has been swirling in my head. I don’t mean to bombard you—”
“No, it’s great. Thanks.” Molly’s encouraging smile couldn’t have been more kind and reassuring.
Evelyn gave a slow nod. “So it might have been that William commissioned a painting of his fiancée. Yes, that makes sense.”
Molly moved to stand again with the painting and eased the wrapping free to reveal the painting beneath the glass. She began to examine it. With a tone full of thought, she said, “Except, well, where we have paintings commissioned by men of their fiancées, they tend to portray the woman concerned as an ideal of femininity, virginal almost. I always think these paintings are symbols of ownership and of masculine power over women.”
Evelyn cautioned, “But then we must take care not to read a work with personal bias.”
“No, it’s not so much my feminism clouding my judgement, although I recognize that at times it might.” Molly glanced at Georgina.
As their eyes met, Georgina encouraged, “Go on. Please.”
Molly sat again and continued, “What particularly struck me about the work was the informality of style which breaks down barriers to the viewing of it. By that I mean it encourages you to look. It has a non-possessive openness to it. It is like the painter was celebrating Josephine, not owning her. And it is sensual, yes, but without inviting judgement. Does that make sense?”
“Yes, yes it does,” Georgina said in firm agreement. “I’ve always found this painting captivating. As a child I would spend hours looking at her. She’s…”
“She’s beautiful.” Molly held Georgina’s gaze.
“Yes.”
“Well, we’ve certainly got a very interesting painting to explore,” Evelyn intervened, a hint of impatience in her voice.
“There’s something else that doesn’t quite make sense. That I wanted to mention.” Georgina glanced at Evelyn before turning her attention back to Molly. “My father has four portraits in total on his wall. They are all in chronological order except this painting. You see, it is hung third in line before a portrait of William as an old man. Would it not have made more sense for our painting to be first? Obviously it could have been mis-hung during redecoration and so forth.”
Molly studiously made notes as she listened.
“I have images I can send you.” Georgina lifted her iPad once again and thumbed through her photos. “If that’s useful?”
“That’s enormously helpful. Thank you.”
“No worries. I’ll do it right now.”
“Great.” Molly flicked to the last page of her notepad and scribbled down her email address. “That’s a capital M and capital G in my name. Although, you know, I never understand whether capitals make a difference or not.”
Georgina quickly attached the photos and pressed send. “Done.”
“Awesome—I mean, thanks.”
“So, your plan, Molly,” Evelyn prompted, with eyes that had grown wide.
“Yes.” Molly quickly returned to her notes. “So as with all investigations we’ll start with what we already know.” She looked at Georgina. “Anything else that comes to mind, just let me know. We’ll go forward on the basis that the watercolour reflects Josephine as a young woman, just before she married. We’ll check exhibition and auction catalogues as well as our museum records for any mention of the work. We’ll keep our searches centred in the UK for now. There’s a possibility that the painting was displayed at some point in this museum. Although Fran, our social historian, can’t recall the painting from the 1980s onward, but before then—”
Evelyn said, “I think that unlikely. It’s a little naive in style, amateurish.”
“Amateurish?” Georgina asked, looking at Molly.
“My initial review of the work doesn’t automatically suggest a well-known artist of that period.”
Georgina sighed. “I hope I’m not wasting your time.”
“Not at all. And all is definitely not lost because we do have a certain amount of information about Josephine herself. This is unusual because women as a rule tend to get lost in history.” Molly flicked through her notes. “My initial online research has given us basic timeline information, date of birth, family, et cetera, but even more interestingly, several articles mentioned that she was an important figure in the abolitionist movement. They even describe her as a radical.”
“A radical? Yes, actually now you say, I have a vague memory of my father saying that Josephine campaigned against injustice.”
“Yep. She sounds really kick-ass. Pioneering, I mean. And it’s perfectly possible that her various causes might produce some leads. The county’s records office might be important for us—”
Evelyn raised her pen. “This sounds a little more like something our social historian would deal with.” A rash of pink had begun to creep up Evelyn’s neck.
Molly said carefully, “But it’s about identifying the painting’s provenance, surely.”
“I’m just a little concerned about Molly’s time, Georgina. I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course I understand. My own time for this is limited too.”
Evelyn closed her notebook. “Well then, within our resources, we promise to give this our utmost attention.”
Evelyn and Georgina stood at the same time.
“Let me walk you out.” Evelyn opened the conference room door.
“Thank you. And Molly, thank you also. I look forward to hearing about what you have discovered.”
Molly stood. “Yes, of course, if I find anything, I’ll let you know straight away.”
“Great. Oh, before I forget. Can I have one of those forms you need me to fill in?”
“You want a form?” Molly couldn’t have sounded more surprised. “You don’t have to—I mean, where you’re concerned…”
“I’m not sure I understand why you’d make an exception for me. It seemed important to you for your records.”
“Yes, it is. Thank you. I’ll make sure you get one.”
“Wonderful, then everything’s in order.” Evelyn gestured into the corridor.
“Oh,” Molly said, “before you both go, I’m sorry, just one last thing, I promise. I wanted to seek your permission to remove the frame. There’s no sign of infestation. On the contrary, the frame appears sound.”
With a face of imperious judgement, Evelyn inspected the painting.
Molly added, “It’s just, I’m concerned about the slight discoloration of the mount.”
“You think the painting might be damaged?” Georgina rested a protective hand on the frame.
Molly quickly replied, “No, not at all. Removing the mount is just a precautionary measure. You see, mount boards can become acidic over time and potentially harmful to the work. But really the watercolour itself is in good condition. The colours are distinct and bright, and the canvas is without foxing.”
“That’s a relief. So yes, please go ahead and undertake whatever preventative measures you think necessary. My father would be pleased to hear that the watercolour is otherwise in good order. He greatly cared about his collection.”
“And please rest assured that we share your father’s concern, and we very much look forward to receiving his treasured works into our care.” Evelyn tucked the wrapping over one edge of the frame as a mother would replace a blanket over a child.
There it was. Georgina had wondered how long it would be before Evelyn made her move. Before she swept in, wings wide, claws out, her eyes fixed on her prey of the artwork in the house.
Georgina’s defences rose in an instant. “I’m sure you understand that my father’s concerns and my concerns differ. Greatly.”
“Of course.” Evelyn turned deathly pale.
Molly looked down at the floor, clearly embarrassed.
“I’ll see myself out.” Georgina turned and walked away, suppressing every urge to run.
* * *
“Hi, Fred. I’ve brought you a tea.” Molly placed a mug and a plate of biscuits on the reception desk.
“Much appreciated. I’ll have to forego those devils, though, as my wife’s got me on a diet.” Fred patted his stomach where his shirt buttons strained to the point of popping.
“Tricky. Well, I’ll step into the breach and relieve you from temptation.” Molly took a large bite of a chocolate digestive.
“That Georgina Wright of yours just came past. I’ve only just finished picking up the museum leaflets that blew off the desk in the gust of her rush to leave.” Fred shook his head.
Molly swallowed down a giggle. “Yeah, that might have been our fault. She’s just come from a meeting with Evelyn and me.” Molly shrugged. “It seems we have that effect on her.”
“I wouldn’t take it personal. Some people are just in too much of a hurry to be friendly.”
“Maybe.” But she had been friendly. In fact, Molly had enjoyed the meeting and chatting with Georgina so much, she’d forgotten it was Georgina Wright.
“Oh, and here, don’t forget to take your post.” Fred handed Molly a stack of letters along with a tan Jiffy bag.
“Okey-dokey, thanks.” Molly pulled the bag open and tipped it so its contents slipped into her palm. She stared at the oblong red and white key ring which read I heart New York. There was no accompanying note.
“Everything okay, Molly?”
“What? Yep.” Molly shoved the envelope into the pocket of her blazer. “Absolutely. I’m just going to pop out for a bit. Thanks, Fred.”
Nothing felt okay.
Arriving in the square, she pulled the Jiffy bag from her pocket and rested it on the bench beside her. Had it really been nearly a year since it had ended with Erica? So much had changed. A new job, for starters, with new responsibilities. Molly risked a glance across to George Wright’s house. All seemed quiet.
She’d forgotten that Erica still had her house keys, let alone that she would one day return them out of the blue. She hadn’t forgotten, however, how much she had been hurt.
Tears traced their way to her neck. She did her best but failed to brush them away.
“Oh, Molly, what is it?” Fran arrived at her side and slipped an arm around Molly’s shoulder causing her to cry even more. “Fred said you’d had a funny turn.”
“Sorry I’m being pathetic. I can’t remember the last time I cried.” Molly took the tissue Fran offered and dried her eyes.
“Well, you do not have to say any more. Tears are a private matter.”
“It’s my ex,” Molly said, fighting the urge to cry again.
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. Don’t feel you have to—”
“I got dumped nearly a year ago. I came home to a note and an empty house.”
“Goodness, that’s brutal.”
Molly blew her nose. “Yep. She was pretty cold. I had house keys returned to me today. Looking back, it had been over for a while before it ended, and I guess we were surviving on the vapours of good times.”
“Well take heart that when you meet the one, you will know.”
Molly sniffed hard. “How?”
“How? I’m not sure I can offer much advice on lesbian dating.”
“No. I meant, how will I know? Because I want to. I want to find the one.”
“Well what’s that old saying—you’ll meet them when you’re least expecting it. Anyway, forget about your ex. She’s an ex for a reason. Here have another tissue.”
“Thanks.” Molly wiped at her wet cheek.
“Your job is to remember that you’re beautiful, funny, intelligent, and wonderfully compassionate. You will note, I didn’t mention your appalling timekeeping, out of kindness.”
Molly laughed.
“That’s better. To be honest, when Fred also mentioned that a certain Miss Wright had rushed out of the museum, I feared the worst. I’m relieved she wasn’t responsible for your tears.”
They both looked over at George Wright’s house.
“Actually, she was less weird than before. I even enjoyed chatting with her. We shared loads of ideas. She did however bite back at Evelyn when she mentioned her father’s art collection. I had to look away.”
“I can imagine. I suspect Evelyn’s met her match.”
“It’s clear she really cares about her father’s art and the watercolour in particular. When I mentioned removing the frame, she looked so concerned. Actually, out of respect, I should have asked if she wanted to be there when the frame was removed. I may do that after lunch.”
“Yes, do. I think a bit of compassion in that young woman’s direction wouldn’t hurt.”
Molly nodded as their conservation slipped into silence and they both stared across again at the house. She recalled the first time Evelyn had shown her the house from her office window. Molly’s breath had caught at the sight of it. And the very thought that the Wrights had owned the house from the 1840s had filled her with awe. For everything about the house was beautiful. Ornate columns sunk flush into its facade evoked an air of classical formality. Light danced, caught like the stares of the passers-by, in the tall sash windows.
The house was the very embodiment of dignity, refinement, and grief. For if houses had a temperament, a mood, and Molly believed they did, then this house would say I am sad, I am alone, I am masterless.
The shaped hedges in the front garden, while still tidy, were losing their definition, their crispness. Soon, no doubt like people’s memories of George Wright, they would blend with the background blur of everything and become indistinct. After all, gardens were always the first sign of the emotions inside a house, the barometers of feeling. Molly imagined that if this garden could cry, it would, and the birds would bathe in the tears, their wings carrying the droplets of loss far away.