The Victorian gallery with its high ceilings and Regency period grandeur was reserved for the museum’s fine art collection. Depictions of rural and industrial landscapes hung side by side with portraits of the great and the good. It was as if all humanity had been squeezed into one room and Molly loved it. Even the imminent arrival of Georgina Wright couldn’t dampen the delight in Molly’s heart the space evoked.
“Morning, General,” Molly said with a salute to the oil painting of General Lansdowne, of the Leicester Regiment. “Ladies, you are rocking those parasols.” Molly gave a thumbs up to the scene depicting a gathering of young Victorian era women at a picnic. She paused at the portrait of Saint Peter in a fishing boat. “Here’s hoping you catch something, fella. Oh, and any help this morning would be much appreciated.”
Molly shook her head and stood face-to-face with the heavily varnished 1839 portrait of Josephine Wright painted by George O. Thorpe. She’d given no particular thought to the donor before but now the inscribed words, Donated by Lydia and George Wright, 1985, seemed to resonate out from the frame.
The Hunt epitomized the country life of Leicestershire’s gentry. Josephine was dressed in a long black riding coat with her cream leather riding gloves and crop resting in her lap. She sat side-saddle on a chestnut stallion whose muscular flanks shone and rippled, his head bowed at her command. Everything about the character of the painting was formal and seemed as if in shadow. The heavy varnishing swallowed the light, and any glimpse of joy was enveloped in the gloom.
Josephine stared steadfast past the painter and past the viewer to somewhere else in the distance beyond. Yet her expression was not thoughtful—if anything, it was vacant, empty.
“You seem so sad. Don’t be sad, Josephine, you’re too beautiful for that.” Molly felt her own past hurts pressing against her chest.
“It’s a very different painting, isn’t it?”
Startled, Molly turned around to find Georgina standing at the entrance to the gallery, leaning against the doorframe with her head tilted to one side. Gone was the formal suit from Monday’s meeting. Georgina was now dressed in snug tan chinos set off with a tailored white shirt with the sleeves rolled up a little way, revealing her slim, toned forearms.
Oh my God. How long had she been there? She was early. Of course she was early. Molly was now certain beyond doubt that any smidgen of respect or credibility she might have earned at their last meeting was now lost—just like her marbles. Talking to paintings…that settled it—she was certainly making an impression, exuding authority.
Molly stumbled over her words, managing, “Yes.”
Georgina walked confidently to her, holding out her hand and smiling. “Thank you for inviting me.”
As Molly shook Georgina’s hand, she said diplomatically, “Thank you for accompanying me.” To Molly’s surprise Georgina blushed. How had she embarrassed her already?
“I want to say straight off”—Georgina rested her hand for the briefest of seconds on Molly’s shoulder—“if at any point during this I look anxious, I’m just being overprotective.”
“And I want to say straight off, that’s perfectly understandable. After all why wouldn’t you feel protective—the painting’s precious to you. Shall we head over? I’ve laid everything out on this table here.”
Georgina stood staring at the image of Josephine captured in tender strokes of colour.
“Okay. So, gloves.” Molly handed Georgina a box of blue vinyl gloves. She made a point of not looking at Georgina pulling hers on.
The painting rested on a thin foam board that had been covered with several layers of tissue. “I had a chat with our conservator yesterday afternoon, and he was in agreement with the decision to replace the mount. I’ll remove the frame releasing the mount today, and he’ll take the next steps to undertake any further remedial preservation work as he sees fit. Work should be complete by the end of next week at the latest. Is that okay with you?”
Georgina nodded. “Yes. That’s great, thank you.”
“Okey-dokey. We’re of the opinion that the frame is original and most likely made of a material called compo which was popular at this time. The gild is tarnishing slightly, so it’s likely to be of an alternative metal origin, rather than gold leaf.”
Molly gently turned the painting over. “Frames often tell us more about the work than the painting itself. For example if you look, there are no residual tape marks fixing the backing board to the frame.”
Georgina leaned forward, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear.
Molly forced herself to concentrate on the painting, not on how close Georgina’s chest was to her arm. “This suggests that the work hasn’t been subject to repeated reframing, and it strengthens the likelihood that not only the frame but the board and fixings are original as well. But what particularly struck me was that there are no labels or stamp marks.”
“And that’s unusual?”
“Not for an artwork that hasn’t been exhibited or auctioned.”
Georgina stood back a little. “So are you telling me that it hasn’t left my father’s house?”
“I can only suggest what the work seems to indicate. Beyond that”—Molly shrugged—“we can’t be sure.”
“Of course, I understand. I don’t mean to press you for answers. To be honest even though I manage risk every day, I’m not very good with uncertainty. I imagine you must have to work with uncertainty all the time.”
“Well, it’s a balance really, between what we know and what we think reasonably likely based on evidence. And as for uncertainty, I tend to think of it as more possibility, if that makes sense.”
Georgina held Molly’s gaze and smiled. “Yes.”
Even her smile was perfect. And those smooth even lips that must be heaven to kiss. Get a grip. Stop staring at her. “Okay. Deep breaths. Here we go.” Molly teased out the thin metal fastenings and lifted the backing board carefully away to rest on the tissue. She had expected to see a plain canvas with a smudge or two of paint, maybe. “Yes, this is just what we would expect to find, nothing un—”
An ink inscription had been preserved, clear and visible at the right hand corner of the canvas.
“Have you seen something?” Leaning in, Georgina read out the words Molly was reading. “All my love always, Edith.” Georgina frowned at the inscription.
Molly asked with a voice soft with intrigue, “Does the name Edith ring a bell to you at all?”
With her gaze fixed on the painting, Georgina shook her head. “No, I’m sorry, I don’t recognize it.” She then looked at Molly. “Why would someone called Edith sign the back of Josephine’s portrait All my love always?”
“That’s a very good question.” Molly reached for her phone and took several photos of the inscription. “And we will definitely add this finding to our research.”
“Unless…you don’t suppose…?” Georgina paused.
Molly’s chest tightened. Oh God, they were about to talk about girl-on-girl action, weren’t they? Molly glanced at Georgina, who seemed remarkably unflustered. Of course she’d be calm—she wasn’t the one battling with an inappropriate sexual attraction for the museum’s key funder.
Molly tentatively suggested, “That they were…” How should she put it?
Without hesitation Georgina suggested, “Lovers? It’s just a rather heartfelt note, isn’t it, for a platonic gesture?”
Okay, straight to the point. “It’s possible. Definitely. There’s certainly nothing new about being gay. Although given the absence of mention of lesbians in history, you might think so.” Molly stared at the inscription, so full of meaning and so empty of explanation. “What I would say though is that, in truth, the note could have been written by anyone. Edith could be anybody, family member, best friend. And don’t forget passionate friendships, romantic friendships, were not uncommon during this period. Except a romantic friendship, if that’s what this note indicates, and we don’t know that it does, must not be confused with a lesbian relationship.”
Georgina frowned. “No?”
Molly shook her head. “We need to understand this history within its context, not misread it with our modern sensibilities. And moreover we may be at risk here of confusing speculation with facts.”
“But surely the note is a fact, isn’t it? A piece of evidence?”
“Yes, but sadly evidence of only what we don’t know. I’m sorry.”
Georgina shook her head. “It just goes to show how little I know about Josephine. I wish I could be more helpful.”
“You’re helping being here,” Molly said. “I’ve enjoyed your company. Thank you.”
Georgina gave a nod in acknowledgement, and Molly’s cheeks tingled with the intensity of Georgina’s gaze upon her. Everything in that moment, including her heart, seemed to stop.
And then Georgina turned away. It was like the sun had gone behind a cloud, as an instant chill descended and Molly winced with the sting of rejection.
Oh no. She shouldn’t have said that, should she? But then, it wasn’t like she’d confessed, I fancy you so much. Although how she hadn’t said it, she had no idea.
“I have to go now, Molly.” Georgina looked at her phone. “Work commitments. Sorry. Keep me updated?”
Molly caught a glimpse of the full inbox of Georgina’s emails.
“Yes, certainly.” Molly tried and failed to muster a nonchalant tone. Did she sound as hurt as she felt? “Goodbye then.”
“Yes, goodbye and thanks again.”
Molly watched Georgina leave, and then she was gone. She turned to the painting lying there utterly dismantled and exposed, just like her.
Get a grip. Georgina Wright was an important stakeholder and she was meant to impress her, not pine after her or feel wounded when she didn’t…didn’t what? What on earth was she hoping for? For Georgina to ask her out, was that it? Or did she expect her to kiss her with those perfect lips. You are making a fool of yourself. What on earth would Evelyn think? Enough.
She took a deep breath and with care she lifted the mount away from the canvas. She wrapped each separate piece in tissue, supporting them with tissue wads to rest safe within a large plastic container.
“The conservator will look after you now, Josephine. You’ll like him, although you’ll have to overlook his taste in jumpers.” A flicker of laughter in her heart burnt out immediately as disappointment, merciless and instant, stamped on the spark of her smile.