The records office, housed in a red brick former junior school on the edge of the city, was not Molly’s most favourite go-to destination. It was such a tense and serious environment. It certainly didn’t feel like the kind of place where you’d excitedly discover things. It felt more the kind of place where things were left behind, destined to be stored away and forgotten.
Molly watched as the receptionist wrote in immaculate handwriting the key words of Molly’s request on to a slip of paper.
“Edith…Hewitt…Abolitionist,” the receptionist said, as if deliberating over every letter.
“Yes, that’s right.” Molly suppressed the urge to ask Can we hurry, please. She looked at her watch. If she was to stand a chance to make it back without her absence being noticed and in time for Georgina to catch her train to London, then she figured they had less than an hour with Edith’s archive. She glanced across to Georgina who was standing in the reception lounge typing on her phone. Molly could only imagine how busy Georgina was and how every minute of her time had a financial cost, and here was Molly spending her time with what felt like reckless abandon. She dreaded to think of the bill she might send Evelyn. Should she have rung ahead and had everything waiting for them? Bugger.
“Through the door on the left. Hand this slip to the assistant who will bring your material to you. No bags, no coats, no photos, and all phones on mute.”
Georgina approached the reception desk and with a smile asked, “Are we being let in?”
“Almost. We’re not allowed coats and bags. Just the stationery we need.” Molly slipped off her coat, and to her surprise, Georgina took it from her and handed their coats to the woman at reception. “Thanks.”
“No problem. I tend to travel light. I find it’s easier that way. Although that’s only thanks to technology. But the downside of being connected is that it’s hard to disconnect. So thanks for today. I meant what I said Friday—it’s a relief to have a distraction.”
Molly basked in Georgina’s warm and appreciative smile. “That’s okay, and thanks for keeping me company again.”
“My pleasure. I hope Edith’s archive will have the answers for us.”
Molly followed Georgina’s gaze to the door that led to the reading room. “Yes, me too.”
They found a table at the back which looked out towards the reception and the tall shelves filled with books and folders. The sweeping burr of the photocopier broke the silence in the otherwise deathly quiet room.
“It feels like I’m about to take an exam,” Georgina said.
Molly whispered, “Yes, it’s a bit formal isn’t it? Oh, wait, here he comes.”
A tall thin man, whose jumper matched the washed-out pallor of someone who needed more sun, rested three slim bound volumes onto the table.
“I’m sorry,” Molly lifted a volume and glanced inside at the collection of handwritten verses. “But is this all there is?”
“This is everything that came up under your search terms.”
Molly’s heart sank. “But are you sure you didn’t come across a scrapbook or something like that?”
The man shook his head. “Like I said, this is everything.”
“Okay, well, thanks anyway.” The man walked away. Fran was right. Either Edith had pretty much been overlooked, or at best miscatalogued and absorbed within Josephine’s archive. Molly looked at her watch. There was no time to request Josephine’s archives. She felt utterly sick at the thought that she had brought Georgina here for no reason. A pleasant distraction was one thing, but a complete waste of time was another, surely.
She glanced at Georgina who’d begun to gently leaf through a volume.
She looked up at Molly. “Looks like Edith was religious, as there are lots of what read like prayers spanning several years.”
“Really? I thought it was poetry? Does it confirm anywhere that these are her prayer books? Is there anything in the front matter, on the title page perhaps?”
“Yes. She’s written Edith Hewitt, Leicester, and the date. This one’s August 1831. On first glance there’s one volume per year until 1833.”
“Okay, good. Everything helps us build a picture. I was just thinking—”
“That Edith’s archive might have gotten mixed up with Josephine’s? After all, Fran mentioned a scrapbook, didn’t she? And it’s not here.”
“Yes, exactly. I’m very sorry if I’ve wasted your morning.”
Georgina briefly rested a hand lightly on Molly’s back. “It’s been fun. Let’s see what we can discover in the next half hour. Then why don’t we come back when we both have more time. Yes?”
“That sounds like a plan. It’s just…”
“Just what?”
She needed to tell her that Evelyn had asked her to draw a line under the research for the painting. And every minute she sat here with Georgina without discussing the Wright room she was surely risking the wrath of her boss. But then she didn’t want their research to end—not for Edith and not for them. Because then they would have to talk about the Wright room and everything would change, wouldn’t it? She didn’t want things to change. She wanted Georgina to look at her as she was looking at her now, with no barriers between them. “Nothing. Yes, let’s come back.”
“Great. Although to be honest, Friday afternoons are still best for me. I’m guessing they won’t open on request?”
“Sadly, I wouldn’t think so. I tell you what, I’ll come again at some point this week. I’ll request all of Josephine’s archive to review and we can meet up at the museum on Friday for me to report back. Four, again? What do you think? Unless you’re not due back—”
“No, I can come back then. Excellent. Thank you.” Georgina looked directly into Molly’s eyes.
Molly got the sense Georgina wanted to say something else, but she let her gaze fall away back to the prayer book.
As Georgina began to leaf through the pages again a piece of paper folded into three along its length slipped out from between the cover and the title page. She picked it up and unfolded it. “Could this be something?”
Molly carefully inspected the loose paper. Just as with the discovery of Edith’s inscription, she had the most peculiar sensation that she might have been the first person to open the paper since it had been folded and tucked away.
The creases were ingrained so deeply Molly was aware that she needed to take the utmost care not to cause the fragile paper to tear at its folded edges.
“Can you tell what it is?” Georgina asked.
Speaking at just above a whisper, Molly said, “It’s a page from some sort of petition for the, quote, immediate abolition of the institution of slavery conducted for the”—Molly lightly traced her forefinger underneath the words—“London Female Anti-Slavery Society.” A note had been written in pencil at the top right hand side. It read, 3,025 signatures, time not allowing more. 1833. E.H. “E. H.—Edith Hewitt.” Molly cast her eye down the page to see a whole list of women’s names, with Leicester addresses. “Edith collected about three thousand signatures from women in Leicester petitioning for the abolition of slavery. Wow.”
“Can I see?” Georgina gently took the page from Molly. “That’s a lot of signatures, although it looks like someone changed their mind.” Georgina tipped the page towards Molly. Sure enough, one name, Mrs. Charlton, Granby Street, Occupation: frame-knitter, had been scored through.
Molly stared at the woman’s name crossed out.
Spring 1833
Josephine and Edith’s office
Chambers of Brancaster and Lane Solicitors, New Street, Leicester
“How dare she change her mind. Can the poor enslaved souls change their minds? No.”
“Edith, please calm down.”
“I’d like to think more on the subject. I fear I have acted in haste. That’s what she said when I challenged her. In haste?”
“You challenged her. Edith, no, we spoke about this. Only this morning.”
“Haste? If we do not act with haste. If we do not demand the immediate abolition, then those, and we both know who I mean, will be content to drag their heels to satisfy the will of plantation owners. It is a farce to suggest that slavery will die a natural death—a gradual end is no end. We must sign slavery’s death warrant once and for all.” Edith raised the pages of the petition in the air. “Mrs. Charlton notwithstanding.” Edith flopped onto the chair at the table where Josephine sat quietly writing a letter.
“Have you finished?” Josephine asked, fighting the smile pressing at her lips.
Edith plucked the letter from Josephine. “I have only just begun. Why are you writing to that prisoner yet again?”
“I am minded to believe that my letters offer succour in between my visits.”
“How you can face to be in those places is beyond me.”
“He has no one, Edith. No one cares.”
“Could that not be a good thing? Surely it is a mercy if no one is waiting for the release and pardon that will never come. Too often more than just the prisoner find themselves incarcerated by hopeless hope.”
“I for one will never abandon hope. It is all we have. How you can have such tireless compassion for the slaves of the West Indies and such little sympathy for the prisoner on your doorstep? Now give me back my letter, Edith. Give.”
Edith stood holding the letter high in the air. “Because the slaves’ only crime was the misfortune of their birth.”
“And my father argues the same each and every day for the prisoners here.” Josephine reached up, only for Edith to stand on tiptoe. “I do not have the time for your games. Edith, for pity’s sake.”
Edith moved the paper from hand to hand, just avoiding Josephine’s grasp.
“Well, if that is how it is to be.” Josephine pinched at Edith’s waist causing her to scream laughter into the air and to bend double, allowing Josephine to grasp the paper. She moved to turn away and Edith held her by the wrist.
“Wait,” Edith said softly. “Please.” Edith pulled Josephine into her and wrapped her arms around her and buried her face in her neck.
“Please let me go, Edith. Don’t you understand it is an intolerable agony to be close to you.”
“And don’t you understand that not touching you and endeavouring just to be colleagues and no more than best friends is an agony I cannot tolerate.”
Josephine held Edith away from her. “But we agreed and we have done so well—”
“I did not agree. Why would anyone in their right mind agree to lose a love? But how could I not continue to see you?”
“You have not lost me. You will never lose me.”
“But that is not true is it? Is it?”
Josephine shook her head. “I will not lie to you.”
“But yet you are content to deceive your own heart?”
As Molly carefully refolded the petition, Georgina flicked to the last few pages in the volume of prayers. “Goodness.”
“What?” Molly looked at Georgina’s face creased with a frown.
Georgina shared the open page with Molly, showing her the prayer she had stumbled upon. With a hushed voice Georgina read, “Lord, today I have been burdened with such sadness that I cannot bear to utter even my own name. To speak, to write is to feel pain. I ask no more than tomorrow my burden will be lighter and my grief more tolerable. I ask this in your name.”
Molly sat silently with Georgina. They were so close now she could feel the brush of Georgina’s sleeve against her arm.
Georgina eventually said, “That’s so sad.”
“What was the date for this volume? Yes, there.” Molly found the title page for Georgina.
Georgina leaned in. “Twenty-eighth of August, 1833. So that was the year after Josephine’s portrait was painted.” Georgina paused and quickly rechecked the dates in the other two volumes. “This was the last volume. It makes you wonder what made Edith so sad, doesn’t it?”
Molly silently nodded as she reread the prayer. “That’s so strange. Don’t hold me to it, but I’m pretty sure that this prayer is more or less the same time that the Act of Abolition received royal assent. Surely she would have been celebrating?”
Georgina gave a heavy sigh and leaned back in her chair. “We’re certainly missing something, aren’t we? We know so little about her. We don’t even know how old she was. Is there any way we can find out?”
“Yes, I may be able to. I’m guessing she’ll feature in the local parish registers. I’ll try to get a sense of her for us.” Molly stood. “So…do you want to risk a lift home? There’s a taxi rank just over the road if you’d prefer to grab a taxi.”
“Won’t Daisy May be offended?” Georgina rested the prayer book back with the others.
Molly laughed. “Yes, possibly.”
“Well, Daisy May it is then.” Georgina’s smile lit somewhere deep in Molly’s heart and she could feel it burning bright. It took all of her self-control to turn away to catch the assistant’s eye and signal they were finished.
Within a matter of moments the prayer books had gone again, back into the store, back to where they kept the past dark and silent.
* * *
“So how long does it normally take to get her going?” Georgina asked, amused at Molly’s mortified expression.
“I am so, so sorry.” Molly was looking around her. Rain had forced her back into the car from having her head stuck under the bonnet. “Normally I blow on something or oil something or tighten something or say something encouraging, and we’re off again. She does have a thing about rain, though.” Molly shrugged. “I’ll ring the AA. I’ll understand if you want to call a taxi.”
The last thing Georgina thought to do was leave Molly stranded alone. “As I see it, we’re in it together.”
“Thanks, and thanks for being so cool about everything.”
“You didn’t think I would be?” Georgina wanted to know what Molly thought of her. This question felt, in that moment, so important. Was Molly enjoying being with her as much as she delighted in the mere mention of Molly’s name?
“Funnily enough, I haven’t given any previous thought to the scenario where I’ve broken down in my car, all but hijacking one of the museum’s most important funders. And I’ve no prawn vol-au-vent or glass of chilled Sauvignon blanc to offer.” Molly shook her head. She could only imagine what Evelyn would say.
As Molly made her call, Georgina wanted to ask, Is that how you see me—as an important museum funder and nothing more? But then, she was an important museum funder, and how else could Molly think of her? Right there and then, she just wanted to be a woman in the car with the woman from the square, telling her how beautiful she thought she was. Telling her how much she had meant to her this last year and, moreover, how much she meant to her now.
“All done,” Molly said with a bounce in her seat. Her movement disturbed an empty frame, which slipped from the back seat to rest between them. “Oops. I’ll just shove that back again.”
Georgina felt the warmth of Molly’s body briefly press against her as Molly stretched to slot it back into place.
Molly’s car shared the same appearance as her office. It was crammed full with the extraordinary and the ordinary. Several large unfinished paintings rested against the back seat, propped up by an apple crate containing unfired clay pottery of all shapes and sizes. Plastic boxes were crammed with art materials, particularly half-squeezed tubes of paint of all colours and types. Molly just caught a wicker picnic basket that threatened to slide into Georgina’s lap.
“You weren’t kidding”—Georgina looked at the basket newly wedged behind the back seat—“when you said you were a keen picnicker.”
Molly laughed. “Nope. I’m impressed you remembered.”
Georgina felt her cheeks burn. She felt as if she’d be found out. As if Molly could tell that she could remember pretty much word for word every conversation they’d had. It wasn’t as if she was even deliberately remembering—it was more she found them impossible to forget.
Molly’s curls had frizzed a little in the humidity and her freckled cheeks were matched with a few remaining speckles of rainwater. She looked simply beautiful. How Georgina managed not to reach across and brush Molly’s fallen hair from her face she did not know. How she stopped herself from stroking the droplets of rain from her cheeks she could not say. And how she didn’t tell Molly that she was simply the most natural and beautiful woman she’d ever met, goodness only knew. Instead she sat there smiling back at Molly as Molly smiled at her.
Molly’s smile faded.
“What is it?” Georgina asked.
“Oh, nothing,” Molly replied, with a shake of the head.
Georgina could tell Molly was lying and that something was on her mind. But it wasn’t any of her business. She should change the subject. “You certainly have a full car.” Georgina gestured to the back seat.
“It’s not usually quite that full. I’m running some art education sessions at a local school who tend not to visit the museum. I don’t know whether it’s the teachers or the parents who are resistant to visiting, but I figured it wasn’t fair on the kids to miss out on the benefits of art. So I’ve invited myself round, so to speak. They kind of couldn’t say no.”
“I imagine you’re hard to refuse.” Georgina stopped herself short. That definitely sounded like a flirtatious comment, but before she had chance to qualify what she meant, Molly replied with a mischievous glint in her eye.
“I can be very persuasive.”
But then Georgina noticed that the glint faded quickly along with Molly’s smile once more.
“What is it? After all, you have me captured. My full attention is yours.” And it struck Georgina that for the first time in however many years she hadn’t looked at her phone or drifted off mid-conversation to more important thoughts. She was utterly captivated and it felt really good. “Molly? It’s okay. Just say what’s on your mind. Only if you want to of course.”
“Well, there is something. Something…” Molly began to fiddle with the seat belt. “It’s something Evelyn wanted me to raise with you. For what it’s worth, I think it’s a good something.”
Georgina’s stomach tightened. “Evelyn? Go on.”
“It was important, as you know, to your father that the artwork bequeathed by the Wright Foundation to the museum should be accessible to the public. We promised this to him and we earnestly want to keep that promise.”
“Okay.”
“We want to dedicate a permanent exhibition space in the museum for the bequest. Evelyn wants to call it the Wright room.”
“I see. And this of course requires me to hand over the remaining bequeathed works in the house so the museum can fulfil their promise to my father.”
“Possibly. Well, yes. But I can only imagine how hard it is to let go of his things. I’m not sure if I was in your position that I would want to either.”
Molly looked really uncomfortable. It was not the expression of someone trying to manipulate someone.
“Clever woman.” Georgina’s father had met with Evelyn on many occasions. He described her to Georgina as shrewd. He’d respected her as one respects the guile and cunning of a fox. Fox by name, fox by nature. It was a plan she couldn’t say no to, and what’s more it had been asked of her by Molly. Had Evelyn seen something in Georgina’s reaction to Molly? Had she been read like a book? Her tell revealed?
“I find her intimidating.” Molly shrugged.
“I can imagine. So the time you’re giving to the portrait and today at the records office—all part of her master plan?”
Molly shook her head. “No, today was something I wanted to do for Edith and for…well because it’s the right thing to do, isn’t it?” Molly turned in her seat to face Georgina with her knees resting towards her. “Imagine painting a portrait that has hung on a family wall and no one knowing that you painted it. And if, for argument’s sake, she was Josephine’s lover, then Edith has been just blanked out, erased as if she’d never mattered. And she would have mattered—she would have mattered to Josephine.” Molly cheeks flushed. “And it’s not just Edith. There are so many minority histories that have been lost, and their voices silenced. And do you know what’s really crap, sinister even? Museums know this. They pay lip service, with temporary exhibitions and so forth, but do they embed real change, real awareness in their permanent displays, are they going back into records and actively looking for these histories? No. Or at least, very rarely. They blame resources. I blame them.” Molly brushed back her hair from her face. “I’m sorry. I’m ranting.”
Georgina shook her head. “Don’t apologize for caring.”
“I do care—very much. It’s something that I want to focus on with my work. Do you know what worries me the most? It’s that they’re not taking rigorous enough measures to prevent this invisibility from persisting into the future.”
Georgina sat up further in her seat. “What measures should they be taking?”
“Well, one measure going forward would be for the Arts Council to make gender, sexuality, race, and religion specific and required fields in the records database. Simple, effective, achievable. As things stand at the moment, if a museum chooses not to specify and enforce the collection of this sensitive data”—Molly shrugged—“then ultimately, beyond the skeleton information required to be recorded for an object, what is collected or rather omitted is entirely at the discretion of the individual museum.”
“So this measure would enforce some sort of positive discrimination?”
“Not quite. Cataloguers can note down white, male, Christian, and heterosexual if it fits the history. But only if it fits the history.”
“So I take it you despair at the focus remaining on the privileged history of white males?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
“And so the plans for a room dedicated to art gifted by generations of wealthy white men to the Wright Foundation to reduce death duties are at odds with what you believe?” Molly swallowed hard and her cheeks drained of colour. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to catch you out. I can see it’s not fair of me to put you in this position.”
“It’s okay. I’m not naive. I understand that the museum needs the support of important benefactors.” Molly paused. “Your support. And that bequests are fundamentally important to a museum. But it upsets me that other initiatives, such as community orientated projects, can sometimes not be seen as a priority. You see, they want to put the Wright room in the annex which was originally earmarked as a community space.”
“I see.”
“But then of course it was your father’s wish to gift his collection, and that’s important too.”
Georgina nodded. “Well, I think our first meeting on the subject of the Wright room has been very useful. Thank you.”
“That’s great.”
“And for what it’s worth”—Georgina’s breath caught in her throat as an urge to cry surprised her—“my sense is that my father’s collection will be in good hands.”
Molly blushed deeply. “Thank you.”
A loud bang on the window made them both jump. The windows had steamed up and Molly wound down her window and squinted into the rain.
A large man in a fluorescent jacket leaned down to look into the car. “You don’t see many of these on the roads any more,” he said, patting the roof. “Any idea what’s wrong, love? Control said it just stopped.”
Molly shouted, “She’s not very keen on the rain and cold!”
The man laughed. “I’ll warm my hands then, shall I?”
Molly said, with an expression of complete seriousness. “Yes, I think that would help.”
* * *
As Georgina’s train to London drew away from the platform, she couldn’t help but notice that her chest felt lighter. It almost seemed easier to breathe. Spending time with Molly felt like such a relief and a complete breath of fresh air. And more than that, Molly’s passion for justice had renewed an energy in Georgina. It was the same energy that had dissipated the very moment her father had told her he was dying. She’d lost so much that day, including hope and positivity and even the reason for everything she once cared about. Nothing seemed to matter until perhaps now.
She looked out at the eclectic city diluting to the mundane suburban sprawl. She turned away from the window, opened her laptop, and began tapping a quick reminder note. She paused for a second and sat staring at the screen. Her thoughts drifted again to Molly and to her earnest expression as she had confessed her worries and hopes.
“Tickets, please.”
The sweep of the door to first class closed behind the approaching conductor. She typed a few words before he arrived at her side.
Instinctively she half closed her screen from view, casting into shadow the words the Wright Community Room and Gallery.
* * *
“I’m very late, aren’t I?”
Fran looked up at Molly and then at the clock. It was just before two o’clock.
“Surely your question to me should be has anyone noticed your absence for the last three and a bit hours?”
“Yes, answer that one. I’m starved.”
“No.”
“Phew.” Molly sat heavily down on the edge of Fran’s desk.
Fran reached down with a groan and rummaged in her bag. She retrieved an apple and handed it to Molly.
Through a large bite of apple, Molly mumbled, “Thanks.”
“So I take it that it went well at the records office, given how long you were there?”
“Define well.”
“You found everything you needed to know about Edith, including the painter of Josephine’s portrait, and at the same time you won over Georgina Wright.”
“Sort of. We did come across a random page from a petition on behalf of the London Female Anti-Slavery Society which was really interesting and confirmed Edith’s part in campaigning.”
“Did you? That’s excellent. I don’t remember anything like that.”
“That’s probably because it was tucked inside one of Edith’s prayer books. It literally all but fell into Georgina’s lap. But honestly, Fran, although the petition was great, it was a prayer that Georgina came across which was so incredibly sad. It stopped us in our tracks.”
Fran nodded. “Yes, that happens. Once you start to explore an archive and become invested, I’ve often found it can be incredibly moving and, be warned, darned addictive. You have to be clear what you are trying to achieve to prevent yourself from getting lost amongst its treasures.”
“Yep. I get that. Don’t worry, I’m absolutely focused.”
“And absolutely covered in oil.” Fran pointed to Molly’s oil-stained dress. Molly watched as Fran’s eyes grew wide. “Oh, Molly, please don’t tell me you took Georgina Wright in Daisy May and then broke down.”
“No, no, no. It was a good thing, as it happened.” Molly began hunting for a cloth to clean her dress.
“I’m struggling to see how Georgina Wright stranded in Daisy May was a good thing. Try in that box.”
“It was good because it gave me a chance to talk to Georgina about the plans for a Wright room, and I think I may have helped Evelyn. At least I hope I have.” Molly’s stomach dropped at the recollection of all the critical things she’d said about the museum. “I got on my hobby horse about equality and museums and might have suggested that the museum should be doing more.”
“Well, yes, they should.”
“But what if it gets back to Evelyn?” Molly dug out a square of material left over from a medieval monk’s habit and dabbed at her dress, only to give up and rest again on Fran’s desk.
“Let’s hope it does. So there’s going to be a Wright room then?”
Bugger. Was it too late to say no? “Yes. I’ve been trying to build up the courage to mention it.”
“I don’t understand why would you need to build up the courage.” Fran’s expression fell into a stony fixed glare. “Unless of course—”
“I tried to say the annex had been reserved for community use. I promise I did.”
“I believe you. I don’t for a minute blame you Molly. So did Georgina approve of the idea of a Wright room?”
“I think so. I ranted on so much it’s hard to tell what she thought.”
“Well her father’s bequeathed his art to the museum, so she might as well hurry up and hand it over, whether she likes it or not.”
“Actually she said she thought her father’s collection would be in good hands.”
“Really?” A smile broke through Fran’s frown. “Then I think you’ll find you’ve won Georgina Wright over. So what’s the next step?”
“I’ll go back to the records office sometime this week. I have half a memory they open late one night. I think it was Tuesday.”
“Wednesday. They’re open until seven thirty.”
“Really? Excellent. I was thinking after work would be better, less…complicated. And then I’ll be ready to update Georgina when we meet again on Friday.”
Fran raised her eyebrows. “She caught you off guard again then?”
“No, I mean we—What are you implying?”
“I’m not implying anything. I’m merely observing that you’re spending a lot of time with someone you don’t want to spend time with. And it has not escaped my notice that Georgina is also giving a lot of time to this research.” Molly shrugged. Fran continued, “I would have thought she’d want it all wrapped up as soon as possible—all of it, the portrait, the bequest. Job done. And then she could return to her life in London.”
“I suppose.” Molly folded her arms, suppressing a sudden ache in her chest sparked by the thought of not seeing Georgina again. “She does seem really keen on our work together.”
“Yes, she does, doesn’t she?” Fran’s eyes twinkled with suggestion.
Molly stood up. “It’s just work.”
“Of course. Although I am wondering how you plan to keep working on the portrait when if I remember correctly you said that further research made Evelyn tense.”
Molly looked at the ground. “She’s told me to stop work on the portrait.”
“Molly. Evelyn has expressly asked you not to, and you’ve carried on anyway? What are you thinking? You know you can’t keep avoiding her.”
“I’m not avoiding her.”
“You all but ran down the corridor earlier. I thought there was a fire.”
“I was late.” Molly put her hands on her hips. “Anyway, I figure I can do what I want with my own time. Hence Wednesday night.”
“Oh, Molly, please tread carefully. Whilst I’m all for acts of defiant rebellion, you need to be honest with yourself what this is all about and whether it’s worth the standoff.”
“It’s for Edith. And of course it is.”
“Are you sure it’s just for Edith?”
Molly went quiet. She wasn’t sure. Since meeting Georgina, she wasn’t sure of anything.
“I’m going to say something else.” Fran folded her arms. “You need to remember that Georgina Wright is an important funder for this museum. There’s a lot at stake.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
Molly moved the pile of paper wallets and slumped down in her chair. There staring her right in the face, resting wrapped on her desk, was Josephine’s portrait.
“Josephine’s portrait is back from the conservator,” Molly said. “Did you know?”
“We pretty much share the same air molecules. I know everything that happens in this office whether I wish to or not.”
“I don’t like to unwrap it.” Molly hovered her hands over the outside.
“Then my advice is to return it as is to Georgina. You know it’s time.”
Molly shook her head. “But I haven’t finished my research.” She began to feel a terrible panic. Returning the painting would feel like saying goodbye. But goodbye to who? Josephine and Edith, or Georgina? Either way Molly wasn’t ready to let go.