by Anna Larner
Her head throbbed with a headache that had been threatening to overwhelm her for days. She caught her reflection in the gilded oval mirror which hung above the fireplace. Grief was unbecoming. She looked so tired. She tucked her hair behind her ear, away from her face. That’s so weird. Without intending, she’d positioned herself in the mirror so her face was at the same height as the row of faces in the family portraits that stared back at her from the opposite wall. She touched her cheek, noticing that her skin had a pale luminosity that peculiarly matched the pallor of those who’d gone before her.
There was no escaping she was the sole direct heir to the Wright line, and she couldn’t have felt less deserving or less equipped to carry forward the hopes of generations before her. For she couldn’t continue a line all alone, could she? You needed love to do that. That one person by your side. She had no one. It wasn’t that she was gay or she hadn’t met Miss Right, so to speak. No. You had to trust to love, and there was nothing about love she trusted.
It struck her in that moment that there would likely be no more portraits. No more stiff necks holding the pose, wondering when the painter would finish. Had any one of those painted imagined they would be the last? Had any one felt the burden of the responsibility of being a Wright as heavily as she did now?
She turned and moved towards the portraits. She slowly walked the length of the wall, absently counting the portraits one by one. There were four paintings in total, three oils and one watercolour, each hanging on a brass chain from the picture rail. For how long they had hung in that spot was the subject as much of folklore as fact, for her father rarely spoke about them and Georgina had only ever known them hanging there, staring out, inscrutable.
At the beginning of the row hung a painting depicting the marriage of her distant relatives William and Josephine Wright. The ornate gilt frame matched the formal composition of the piece. The porch of St. Martin’s Church formed the backdrop. To the right of William, at his feet, his spaniel loyally looked up at his master. Georgina loved that dog. How she had begged her father for a spaniel just like great-great-great-great-grandfather William’s. She shook her head. She’d forgotten that.
William Wright looked so proud, standing tall in his boots and breeches, his chest puffed out in his high collared coat with its long tail, and his square jaw jutting out from his white cravat circled at his neck. He was handsome and sincere if the affectionate way he looked at his bride, as he held her gloved hand gently in his, was anything to go by. Or was this just the painter’s imagination? Josephine in contrast was looking ahead, her face serious, almost reverent. Her expression had the quality of devotion and service about it. Had marriage meant sacrifice somehow to her? She was dressed in a modest gown of what appeared to be white muslin. And were they satin flowers embroidered at the wide scoop of her collar? A rose-coloured ribbon pinched the material under her chest and matched the small bouquet of soft pink carnations held tight against her.
The painting always left Georgina in a reflective mood rather than one of celebration. Was that intended? She leaned in to read the scrawl of the painter’s signature: W. Brown. On a small nameplate in block writing were the words St. Martin’s, Leicester. In celebration of the marriage of William Henry George Wright and Josephine Catherine Wright (née Brancaster), 26th December 1833.
Next to this hung a similarly sober work to mark the christening of William and Josephine’s second child, James Ambrose. The painting captured the Wright family huddled with the priest around the font. Coloured droplets of light fell upon them from the stained glass windows above. All eyes were on the baby wrapped in a shawl in Josephine’s arms. As if forgotten, a small child was all but hidden in the billowing skirt of the priest’s cassock. “I see you Adelaide,” Georgina said. It seemed at any moment she would run and hide behind the looming stone columns supporting the sweeping arches above their heads. How many times had she been missed? The little girl faced outwards with her innocent eyes as if pleading with the viewer not to overlook her.
Georgina pressed her finger against the little girl’s name listed in the words that spread the length of the maple frame. “Was your brother hogging the limelight, Adelaide Jane? Did you cause a scene?” The inscription was matter of fact and gave nothing away. 6th June 1838, St. Martin’s. Baptism of James Ambrose Wright, son of William and Josephine and brother to Adelaide Jane, aged three years. Oil on canvas by W. Brown, 1838.
Why so serious again, Josephine? Even proud William wore an expression shaded in something troubled. Were they sad on this special day? Was that what the painter saw?
The third painting along couldn’t have been more different. Georgina stood staring at it, just as she had stood staring, looking up at it, as a child. It was everything the other paintings weren’t. It was life in all its informal joyful vibrancy, caught in the lightness of watercolour.
It was the face of a beautiful young woman painted close up, in profile. It was smaller than the other works, and yet so much more affecting. Only the woman’s face and neck were depicted, with the pink and ivory of her skin set off against a background wash of dark blue. Ruby lips were parted as if the artist had captured the sitter just as words had left her lips.
For so many years Georgina had loved this painting and, moreover, the enchanting woman captured within its frame. It was her comfort as a child, her familiar solace as a teenager, and now a sense of certainty amongst the chaos. Everything about it was precious. And everything about this woman was so different to the woman in the other portraits. Could this really be Josephine? In small engraved type the name Miss Josephine Brancaster, 1832 erased as ever all doubt.
Had love caught her off guard? Changed her? But then, how could anyone not fall in love with her? Georgina cast a fleeting glance at the final painting of William Wright as an old man. Had he loved Josephine well? William sat, silent, in a simple wooden chair, the fireplace lit by his side, with the background beyond a dark murk of oil paint, focusing the viewer upon the foreground details of his face. His furrowed forehead was set as if in thought, pressing forward his silver eyebrows to shade his eyes, still bright and alive in his old age. A book rested in his lap and round spectacles marked the page he was reading. A brass plate read William Wright, LL.B. 1868. A. Scott.
On the wall next to each painting was a coloured paper dot tucked against the frame so as to be only just visible from close up. Had this been the method to single out the works to be included in the museum bequest? If so, where was the dot for the watercolour? She checked the floor. Nothing. She reached for her iPad and sought out the email marked City Museum bequest and downloaded the scanned copy of the inventory attached to the completed bequest form. She scrolled down the list. Twice. Nothing.
Surely this was a mistake? Her father couldn’t have intended for the watercolour just to be left unlisted with the items of house contents for Georgina to deal with? If he’d wanted her to keep the watercolour, then why didn’t he say?
Something wasn’t right. She would check with the solicitors and with the museum. In fact she would do everything in her power to correct what could only be a terrible error.
“Josephine.” Georgina rested her fingers lightly on the frame. “I won’t let you be forgotten. I promise.”
Chapter Three
Molly was always late, or at least that’s how it always felt. So much so she had taken to rushing as her default speed of travel. Hurry, hurry. As she all but ran down the stairs, sparks of excitement tingled on her skin at the thought that someone had brought a painting to the museum. She liked to try to imagine what the work could be and the story it would tell and to anticipate who might be waiting for her.
As she reached the final few steps, she could see a tall elegant woman holding a bubble wrapped painting at her side striding confidently across the foyer towards the reception. Whatever Molly had expected, it wasn’t her. The woman glanced over at her, and if she was not mistaken, she saw a glimpse of recognition in the woman’s eyes. Had
they met before?
Molly skidded to a stop in front of the reception desk.
“Hi, Fred.” Molly dumped a pile of folders onto the reception desk before resting her palm on her chest to catch her breath. “Can you give these to Fran? She’ll be down a little later for them. And hello there.” Molly turned to the visitor. “How can I…help?” She hadn’t meant to stare. She just found she couldn’t look away.
The woman was somewhere in her late twenties, early thirties perhaps. Her chestnut hair was shaped into a loose bob. One ear was exposed, and she’d tucked a loop of hair behind it in a manner that was informal and yet precise. Her long face with balanced, refined features had a noble quality to it that suggested a hereditary ease to her beauty. Her tailored dark grey suit hugged every inch of her perfectly toned body. Everything was in exquisite order. Was she real? It was almost impossible not to reach out and touch her.
Molly quickly closed her mouth. What must this woman think of her? Staring and all but drooling like a fool. She needed to say something. Quickly.
Molly stumbled over her words to continue, “I have had one of those days. I was late, for starters.” Molly shook her head. “I don’t know about you, but I find that starts the day all wrong. And then I had an awful meeting. Oh my God. Oh, and to top it all, I sat on Fran, my colleague’s, sandwich.” Fred laughed. “It’s not funny. Well, okay, it’s a little bit funny. And I’d woken up to birds singing, and it had been such a beautiful morning. And the church across the way from me seemed to glow. Really, it was in every way a daybreak to match Monet’s Rouen Cathedral captured in the morning light.”
The woman visibly tensed. She stared intently at Molly without betraying a flicker of expression. “I’m not familiar with the work.” In an instant the coldness of the woman’s reply frosted their chat to brittle fragments.
“Oh, I’m sure you’d like it,” Molly said. “He was such a wonderful painter—”
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but will this take long?” The woman directed this question at Fred. “It’s just I was hoping that someone at the museum could take a look at my painting today.”
Molly said, “Well, that someone would be me. I’m the fine art curator here.” Molly thought it best to try and manage a smile of sorts.
The woman looked down at the painting by her side before returning a concerned look at Molly. She couldn’t have gripped the painting any tighter.
Stifling a rising sense of offence, Molly explained, “We don’t, as a rule, I’m afraid, simply take objects from the public.” The woman’s cheeks flushed at the phrase the public. “You will need to complete an object entry form. This is standard procedure across all museums to help us to properly assess your offer or request—”
The woman shook her head. “I’m not offering you anything. I just need someone who knows what they’re looking at to assist with ascertaining the provenance of this work.”
Someone who knows what they’re looking at? Well, frosty knickers, how about someone with a masters in art history and curating. How about top of their class. How about you stick that up…“Oh no, of course, I’m not presuming that you’re offering this work to the museum. It’s just the object entry form is the first stage for all inquiries of this type.” Molly looked at Fred for support. Fred looked at her blankly, prompting her to ask, “Could I have an object entry form, please, Fred?”
Fred rummaged around and then Molly joined in, leaning over the reception desk, her bottom in the air, her feet just touching the floor.
Molly tried to focus on finding the form rather than on her awareness that the woman was once again staring at her. What was it about her that the woman was finding so curious? The scrutiny was unnerving. Maybe her summer dress looked out of place in September. Oh my God. Had she remembered to shave her legs?
“I’m sorry, we appear to have run out of forms.” Slightly breathless, Molly leaned yet further forward. “I’ll ask Fred to pop upstairs and photocopy some.”
“Look, please don’t bother,” the woman said, with unguarded frustration. “Is Evelyn Fox available? A little later today perhaps?”
“Evelyn?” Molly quickly slipped down from the desk and turned to face the woman once again. “I’ll need to check with her secretary, but Evelyn doesn’t tend to get involved at this stage—”
“On balance I think it’s best I make an appointment with Evelyn myself. Thank you for your time.”
Utterly confused, Molly simply nodded in reply. She watched the upright figure of the most baffling woman in the world walk towards the sliding doors that led outside. How could someone so beautiful be so cold?
“Georgina!”
Molly turned at Evelyn’s voice to see her quickly walking towards the door, her arms wide in a gesture of evident surprise and welcome.
Georgina—where had she heard that name? Molly watched as Evelyn air-kissed Georgina’s cheeks. Was that…? “You don’t suppose that’s Georgina Wright, do you, Fred?”
Fred blurted out, “Georgina Wright—that’s it. Yes, I thought I recognized her face.”
“You’ve met her before?” Molly asked, intrigued.
“Not exactly. There was a drinks reception about a year ago. She accompanied her father. I remember now, she seemed uncomfortable, like she wanted to leave before she got here.”
Molly stared at Georgina, watching as the striking woman stiffened with Evelyn’s embrace. Georgina seemed to be explaining something to Evelyn.
“Have you ever wanted to be able to lip read?” Molly strained to hear what Georgina and Evelyn were discussing.
“Never had the need. I can hear my wife’s dulcet tones from two streets away.”
“Right.” Molly nodded, half listening to Fred, half not.
Her heart began to race as Georgina and Evelyn were both looking at the painting. Should she have made an exception and just taken the painting for assessment, as it was Georgina Wright? But then, how was she to know it was her? The woman hadn’t given her name. Although, was that because she hadn’t introduced herself? She should have introduced herself. She should have shaken her hand. But then there was nothing about the woman’s demeanour that invited a handshake or, for that matter, conversation at all.
Evelyn cast Molly a look. It wasn’t a good look.
Molly looked away, pretending not to notice as Evelyn led Georgina past reception up the stairs, no doubt to her office with the fresh air and the light and the cultural oeuvre she was certain would impress Georgina Wright.
“You okay, Molly?” Fred asked. “It’s just, you’ve gone quite pale.”
“What? Yes, I’m fine. Absolutely. I’ll ask Fran to bring you some forms when she collects the files.”
Molly lingered in reception, giving them plenty of time to have reached Evelyn’s office. Ten minutes later she climbed the stairs, still consumed in thought as to why Evelyn seemed so cross with her. As she rounded the corner into the corridor, she collided straight into a hurrying Georgina Wright. Their bodies met with a bump. Molly’s soft curves pressed momentarily against Georgina’s firm frame.
“I’m sorry,” Molly said, breathing heavily. “My fault. I wasn’t watching where I was going.” She then moved in the same direction at the same time as Georgina. “Oops.” Molly giggled. She risked a glance at Georgina’s face. She thought she saw her smile, but then it had passed so quickly she couldn’t be sure.
“After you,” Georgina said, without emotion or expression.
“Thanks.”
Molly stepped aside, and then without another word, Georgina Wright was gone.
* * *
“First impressions, Molly. We only have one chance to make a first impression.” Evelyn was standing with her back to Molly looking out the window. Her corner office commanded views of both the square and the front of the museum, enabling her to survey all around her like a captain at the helm of an ocean liner.
Evelyn had called Molly in to her office just as she was leaving for home.
Molly had only just put on her coat and was endeavouring to slip an arm out but every time Evelyn turned around Molly froze in her seat. She felt in every way trapped.
Molly glanced at the painting resting on Evelyn’s desk. She recognized it as the painting Georgina Wright had brought to the museum. It had been partially unwrapped. She could just make out the features of a woman—her red lips, the gentle brush of watercolour defining cheek and chin and neck.
“The painter is unknown.” Evelyn’s voice startled Molly.
“Oh, I see.”
“As you know, Georgina Wright, of the Wright Foundation, visited the museum this afternoon. If you recall we spoke about Georgina this morning.” Molly nodded. “She wants to find out more about this work, in particular who painted it, for what occasion—the usual sort of thing. It belongs to her father. Well, belonged to her father, I should say. She was surprised to find that it wasn’t included in the bequest. I don’t know whether it’s a value question or a sentimental question—either way, we need to find an answer for her.” Evelyn took her seat opposite Molly. “This is just the opportunity we have been waiting for, even better than I hoped, because it gives us a natural way in to broach the subject of the Wright room. I did not mention our plans. I didn’t even remind her of the awaited bequeathed works. No. This is something I want you to do. Here is your chance to bond with Georgina and to build new alliances with the Wright Foundation going forward.” Evelyn paused. “I’m just going to say this once. Where Georgina Wright is concerned there are no forms, no procedures, no…barriers between her and us. Is that understood?”
Molly’s cheeks burned and her chest tightened. She nodded. “Absolutely. No barriers. Understood.” In an attempt to move their conversation away from how useless she clearly was, Molly asked, “Does she know who the sitter is or when it was painted?”
“The sitter, she is certain, is her distant relative Josephine Wright, or Brancaster as was her maiden name, and this is confirmed by the engraving on the frame.” Evelyn leaned forward, slipped her glasses on, and carefully teased back some more of the painting’s wrapping. “Yes, just there on the bottom right, which also records the date 1832. Certainly I would hazard the frame dates from that time.”