Love's Portrait

by Anna Larner

  Her heart tugged with affection at the sight of Josephine’s and Edith’s archives laid out once more, ready as requested in front of her. She rested her palm flat against the scrapbook as one would rest their hand against a loved one’s chest to comfort and reassure them. At the same time it was impossible to ignore the three large leather-bound volumes of registers from the parish of St. Martin’s which sat at the far end of her desk like a forbidding granite mound.

  She took a large breath and pulled the first volume towards her. It was the record of baptisms. The gold imprinted title on the cover read Register of Baptisms, Parish of St. Martin’s, 1800-1810. Her online research had confirmed Josephine’s date of birth as the 18th April 1808. She’d hoped that it would not be unreasonable to assume that Edith and Josephine were more or less the same age.

  She rested the heavy volume onto a reading cushion and gingerly opened its front cover. A musk of aging paper and the sweet tang of the leather binding filled the air around her. She resisted the urge to sneeze as she stared at the list of faded brown ink smudges shaping letters which formed the names of each individual. She felt a shiver at the immediacy of this physical object from the past, so tangible against her skin. It was thrilling to feel so connected to the moment many years ago when the clerk put ink to paper and to vicariously share in the recording of the beginning of an individual’s life.

  She turned each page, scanning down the list of names. She found the page with Josephine’s record and ran her finger along the line of text that read: Baptism 18th May 1808. Josephine Catherine, daughter of Charles Brancaster, Solicitor, and his wife, Anne. Born 18th April 1808.

  She stared at the line of ink that spoke of a life just beginning. She imagined Josephine as a baby held cradled in the priest’s arms and half-buried in the white billowing lace of her baptism gown, her parents looking down at her with their faces lit with pride at this new life with such potential.

  And how proud her parents would have been—for there were so many writings by Josephine spread across the desk. Each piece of work a testimony to a life dedicated to the service of those less fortunate than her.

  When she closed the register, Molly’s thoughts turned to her own mum and dad who were always there for her with love unconditional and unreserved. They were the first to console her when Erica had left, and they were the first to tell her that she could do better and what a fool Erica had been. They always saw the potential in her, even when she struggled to believe it for herself. The thought of letting her parents down hurt her, and it took no imagining to suppose that Josephine would likely have felt the same. It was certainly not difficult to understand what pressure Josephine must have felt. Had she married out of love for them as much as a sense of duty?

  She returned the baptism register to the pile and swapped it with the register of marriages. The register spanned the years 1830 to 1840, and she quickly found the section that recorded unions that took place in 1833. She leafed through the pages to December, and her heart caught at the sight of the entry she was searching for: Married 26th December 1833 William Henry George Wright, age 30, bachelor, solicitor and Josephine Catherine Brancaster, age 25, spinster of this parish, by licence and with the consent of those whose consent is required.

  She read the entry several times noting down the detail in her notepad. She couldn’t help but think of Edith. Had Edith consented? Had she understood?

  28th August 1833

  “Yes! Yes!” Edith ran with all her might through the city streets, dodging market stall holders’ baskets, skipping over stagnant puddles, narrowly avoiding the wheels of carts and the hoofs of horses. The church bells of St. Martin’s rang out in celebration, their peel of notes carried on the wind up and over rooftops and out beyond the city to the workers in the fields.

  Edith would not stop running. She lifted her skirt up from the floor with her right hand and she held a copy of the Leicester Chronicle tightly in the other. Her legs had all but given way, and her chest burned as she reached the steps of Brancaster and Lane.

  Edith leaned her back against the door with exhaustion and knocked at it with the heel of her shoe. She felt a gust of warm air at her legs and the pungent smell of ink as the door opened. With a last gasp of breath, she said, “Good morning, Mr. Brancaster. I have just heard the news!”

  Charles beamed at Edith and held the door open for her to enter. “Good morning, Edith. Yes, truly a day to remember indeed.”

  When Edith found her breath once more she said in one hurried string of questions, “And has Jo heard? Does she know? What has she said? I have already composed what our response should be. I think we shall not boast. No. Our words will be modest, as the facts will speak in proud ever-increasing volume for themselves. So has she? Heard? Mr. Brancaster?”

  Charles looked at Edith, his face creased with confusion. “I rather think I am misunderstanding you.”

  “In what way? Surely it is not every day that such an Act receives royal assent. Today we have defeated cruelty and we have set humanity on a kinder, more just course.” Edith held the newspaper in the air. “It has made the first edition.”

  Charles burst into a loud hearty laugh. “You mean the abolition of slavery. Ah, yes. I wondered at the bells. It is today then?”

  “Yes.” Edith leaned in to smell Charles’s breath. “I rather hope, sir, you have not felt the need for sustenance of the alcoholic kind this early in the day?”

  Charles laughed again. Edith was now convinced that he had quite lost his senses.

  “And Jo?” Edith asked, with growing unease. “Will I find her at her desk?” Edith turned and walked towards the door of the office they shared.

  “No, Edith.” Charles raised his hand in opposition. “I’m not sure—”

  Edith burst in without knocking. “It is official—your father is a mystery unto men and we are the two most triumphant souls. I hope I am the first to tell you—” Edith stopped short, stunned to silence by the sight of William Wright holding Josephine’s left hand. She stared in horror at the sparkle of an engagement ring reflected in William’s ruddy cheeks.

  “Edith,” Josephine said, her voice tight and breathless. “I am so pleased it’s you. I wanted you to be the first to know. Although my father of course…Anyway, I wanted…That is, I hoped…” Josephine looked down.

  “Edith.” William gazed at Josephine with a face glowing with triumphant affection. “What our dear Jo is trying to say is that she has made me the happiest of fellows by agreeing this very day, in this very hour, to be my wife.”

  Edith looked away towards the ground at the sound of the newspaper slipping from her hand to the floor. The blood emptied from her head and her mouth became dust dry as the room shrank and then expanded around her.

  Josephine rushed to her wrapping her arm around Edith’s middle. “William, please, a chair. Quickly.”

  “No.” Edith pushed herself free from Josephine’s hold. “No.”

  “Oh, Edith, I had meant to tell you on my own. I had not intended the cruelty of this moment. William, will you leave us.”

  “No.” Edith shook her head and turned for the door, only to collide into Charles.

  “Edith?” Charles loosely held Edith by the arms.

  “No,” Edith said into his eyes.

  And then she left, half hearing the confused reply, “I think it is the August sun. She will insist on running with no regard for the toll upon her of such exertion.”

  Edith ran with all her might, stumbling through the puddles, catching her legs and ripping her skirt on the baskets of the market holders, all but deaf to the cries of the drivers of the carriages brought to a halt to avoid her. With no breath, just adrenaline, to carry her up the steep flight of stairs to her room.

  She collapsed onto her bed and lay there staring at the ceiling. For how long she could not tell. When the world returned to her, she could not feel her limbs, and all she could taste was the iron of blood in her mouth from the raw dryness in her throa
t. Nausea gripped her when she attempted to sit up, but lying down seemed worse. She felt the most awful bone-aching chill.

  With legs that trembled, she made it to the fireplace. It took several goes to light the kindling in the grate. Numbly she lifted wood from a basket into the fire and stood, swaying slightly, and watched the edges of the wood char and begin to glow.

  The heat stung at her eyes and cheeks, forcing her to turn away with her palm against her face. As she stood back her ankle caught at the table, causing a canvas stretcher that rested on top of it to wobble. She reached out to steady it. Josephine stared back at her from the canvas that stretched across the wooden frame. How many months she’d spent working on the painting, discarding canvas after canvas, beginning again and again, struggling to quite finish it. For how could she truly ever capture the depth of their love?

  “No.” She shook her head vehemently at the memory of the ring upon Josephine’s hand. She then screamed, “No!” not caring who might hear.

  She gripped the frame and stood with it held over the fire. Her fingers burned, matched only by the stinging at her cheeks of acid tears.

  She collapsed into a heap, sobbing, with the portrait resting in her lap. She looked down at Josephine and her tears fell upon the canvas, smudging the paint at the edge of Josephine’s eyes, so it looked for all the world to see that it was Josephine whose heart had broken, and Josephine who had nothing left to do but cry.

  Molly sank back into her chair. Had Edith married too? To search the marriage records just like the baptism records with only her name would be like trying to find a needle in a haystack. It would take hours and something in Molly’s gut told her that Edith hadn’t married. It was the passion and the pure devotion that rippled through her archives that left Molly with a sense that Edith wouldn’t compromise on love.

  She looked at her watch. It was just before eleven thirty and there was still no sign of Georgina. Should she send an email to check if she was okay? Or should she wait as if she wasn’t waiting at all? As if she didn’t care?

  * * *

  Georgina had spent early Saturday morning making calls and sending emails related to the settlement of her father’s estate. Frustratingly, why Josephine’s portrait had been excluded from the bequest remained unanswered.

  It made no sense. There was no way her father wouldn’t have made explicit provision for the painting. What was she missing? Thank goodness for Molly and for her tireless efforts to help Georgina find some answers about Josephine’s portrait, when all other avenues had drawn a blank.

  Just an hour before she was due to meet Molly at the records office, a work email arrived. Normally she would take this in her stride. It hadn’t bothered her particularly in the past when her weekend or evening was interrupted. Work was quite simply her priority. But now things seemed different. She deeply resented the time she would have to give to the matter and that work would make her late for the one person she did not want to be late for. The one person she did not want to let down.

  When she eventually arrived at the records office at half past eleven, she couldn’t have felt more flustered.

  “Molly, I’m really sorry.”

  Molly stood. “No worries.” She gestured for her to take a seat beside her. “In fact, I’ve had a chance to explore the parish registers as we discussed.”

  Surrounded by books and papers, Molly looked beautiful, as always. The white of her long-sleeved T-shirt and the blue of the denim straps of her dress set off the soft pinkness of her skin. The sight of Molly never ceased to flood Georgina with joy.

  She would not be the only one who felt that way of course. Molly had such a natural, warm, and open presence that surely even a complete stranger could not resist the chance to be with her, if only for a passing moment. Someone would be waiting at home for her, wouldn’t they? They were probably wondering at the cheek of the woman who had demanded Molly’s presence on a Saturday. And Molly would have felt obliged to say yes, when she had no doubt wanted to say no.

  “Thank you for today,” Georgina said quietly, aware of those around them. “I hope that being here isn’t ruining your weekend plans.”

  “Being here with you is my plan. I’m excited to share my findings.”

  Being with me is your plan? Molly was just being kind, wasn’t she? “That’s great. And I’m excited to see them. Is this Edith’s scrapbook that has the sketches?”

  “Yes, that’s right.” Molly lifted the scrapbook to rest in front of Georgina. “I found four drawings in total.” Georgina felt the warmth of Molly at her side as Molly leaned in to turn the pages to the place where the sketches were tucked, hidden from sight. “A couple have become loose, but if you look closely, they all have the same profile of Josephine that can be recognized in the final painting. You will see that two have her ear sketched and a third reveals slightly more of her shoulder.”

  They were so beautiful. “Can I touch them?” Georgina asked. “Or do I need gloves or something?”

  Molly shook her head and handed Georgina one of the sketches. “No, your hands should be fine. Unless of course you’ve just been eating Kentucky Fried Chicken?” Georgina laughed. “The only thing to be mindful of is the edges where the paper has been folded. You can see how thin the paper has become over time.”

  “Yes, I see.” The intensity of the moment pressed at Georgina’s chest. Molly was so close to her now that she could smell the hint of something…not perfume, but could it be lavender? Yes, it was the fragrance captured in the purple-blue nodding flower heads waving on long stems in the summer breeze. She could have breathed Molly in all day…

  “It’s really awesome, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Georgina simply couldn’t bring herself to look at Molly, as if the merest glance would give away her every thought. And if she turned, their faces would be side by side and Molly’s cheeks, her neck, her lips too close, just too close.

  Georgina closed her eyes and squeezed her lids tight.

  “Do you have a headache?” Molly’s voice sounded gentle and concerned.

  Georgina opened her eyes. A lie fell in surprise from her lips. “It’s been a long week.”

  “Of course, I understand. I can always finish up here for us if you want.”

  Georgina said, “No. This is amazing, being here, so close to…to history.” Georgina willed her focus to return. She fixed her gaze on the paper she lifted to inspect. She followed the pattern of the lines of charcoal sweeping across the page and noticed a faint pencil line here and there, half rubbed out. The paper felt so light and fragile in her hands, as if it was made entirely of memories and emotion. Had Josephine held this sheet of paper too? To admire progress or to comment on a stray line, perhaps? Or to ask if she should raise her chin just a little to catch the light on her cheek?

  The sensation of suddenly remembering something important she had forgotten to say rushed at Georgina. In her head she declared, I am your relative, Josephine. I am Georgina Wright. “I can’t quite believe that I’m holding the same paper that Josephine might have held.”

  “Yes, I know—it’s crazy, isn’t it.” Molly beamed a smile that seemed to say I understand and I feel the same. “When I was looking at the registers, I was mesmerized by the handwriting of the clerk and by his intimate marks upon the page. I felt I was with him and sharing in that moment.” But then Molly’s expression of wonder faded to a frown as she looked away towards the registers. “I couldn’t find out what you wanted to know about Edith. There are so many Edith Hewitts that I couldn’t pinpoint her, at least not with any certainty, and she remains lost in the long list of names. I’m sorry.”

  Georgina reached out to rest her hand briefly on Molly’s arm. “Thank you for trying for me.”

  Molly blushed. “Of course.”

  “And in fairness, you did warn me that all we know is what we don’t know.”

  “Yes, I suppose. Although…wait.” Molly’s eyes grew wide with a spark of something. “There’s this.”
Molly reached for Edith’s logbook amongst the pile of archive material. “At first I thought it might be another prayer book. But then it became clear that it was a series of diary entries, logs, if you like.”

  Georgina gently held the other edge of the page Molly was holding.

  “It’s this entry, dated 4th April 1832.” Molly removed a slip of paper she had inserted to mark the place. “Edith is talking about a painting she is working on. Just here, can you see?”

  Speaking softly through the words like a chant, Georgina read, “Words today burn at my lips to speak and smoulder in ink on the page as I write. For I have captured our love in every shade. Our love?” Molly nodded. “The sweet stroke of brush upon canvas, the exquisite memory of us. I long to paint you again and know you yet more with every new glance until no part of you is foreign to me.”

  “Wow.” Georgina stared at the page. “Okay, I don’t know about you, but I read that in very clear terms that they were lovers.”

  “Yes, that’s my take on it too.”

  “But, hold on, so they were a couple in 1832 and yet Josephine married the following year?”

  “Yes.” Molly turned the register that rested open in front of her at an angle so Georgina could see. “This is the marriage register, and just here”—she lightly ran her finger underneath the relevant line—“this is the record that confirms that Josephine was married on 26th December 1833.”

  “That’s Boxing Day. For some reason, that’s never occurred to me before. Is that usual?”

  “I’ll check with Fran, but my sense is this wouldn’t be unusual, as Boxing Day was and is an established holiday. It would have been easier to take time off work. A rather less than romantic explanation, I’m afraid.”

  “Romantic?” Georgina said, scepticism shading her words. “Have you found evidence that she loved him?”

  “No.”

  “But we do have evidence that Edith loved Josephine in the note.”