Love's Portrait

by Anna Larner

  One by one Molly slipped the buttons free to reveal soft white skin newly lit in the moonlight’s glow. “I can’t believe I get to do this to you.”

  Georgina smiled. “That’s such a sweet thing to say when you could have anyone.”

  Molly giggled. “Yeah, right. In any case I don’t want anyone. I want you.” She pulled her jumper over her head and brushed her hair away from her face.

  Georgina ran her fingertips lightly down the straps of Molly’s bra, tracing the thin line of material from the curve of her shoulder to the lacy cups enclosing Molly’s breasts.

  Molly trembled at Georgina’s touch as waves of arousal swept in, breaking ever more strongly against the shores of her control. It felt like her heart had swollen to fill her entire chest and that she might at any moment suffocate and drown in the swirling depths of sensation.

  “Let’s…” Molly attempted to say as she guided Georgina to lie down with her, only to find that the exquisite weight of Georgina moving on top of her and the slide of her bare skin against hers stole the words from her lips.

  Molly arched her back and gave a small gasp of pleasure as Georgina unclasped her bra, the material slipping away to be replaced by the warmth of Georgina’s mouth caressing her breasts and Georgina’s tongue teasing her nipples. An uncontrollable ripple of pleasure travelled along her body, igniting every nerve to fire and to burn with engulfing need.

  She gripped Georgina’s body tight against hers, chest against chest, skin against skin, hips against hips, her hands slipping from Georgina’s back to the button of her trousers.

  She paused breathless to ask, “Okay?”

  When Georgina breathed, “Yes,” Molly eased her hand between Georgina’s trousers and underwear and over the dip at the base of Georgina’s spine to the swell of Georgina’s bottom. She squeezed the warm soft cotton of her underwear, feeling the shape of Georgina beneath.

  Georgina gave a soft moan in response, pulling open Molly’s jeans, and in one unspoken action they slipped their hands between the other’s legs.

  With her forehead buried into Molly’s neck, Georgina released a muffled whimper as they rocked their hips, hands underneath underwear, fingers pressing deeper with every movement.

  Georgina’s breath became ever more ragged before her body tensed and shuddered. A warm wetness flowed against Molly’s palm as Georgina cried out. And then Molly stopped hearing anything. She was caught in a whiteout—engulfed in a blizzard of desperate need. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, intense rhythms of arousal vibrating through her again, again and again, taking her to the edge, closer and closer.

  The merciful sharp sweet pain of the bite of Georgina’s teeth at her nipple broke through the whiteness and sent her over to fall free with a cry of relief.

  “Molly?” Georgina’s voice came into focus.

  She opened her eyes. Georgina was looking at her, stroking away Molly’s damp hair from her forehead. Molly nodded, unable to think, let alone speak.

  Georgina gently rolled away, her weight easing from Molly.

  Eventually Molly found the breath to say, “That was…intense.”

  Georgina held her close. “I want you to know it wasn’t just sex for me.”

  “Me neither. It was…” Molly’s cheeks burned. “I want to say…”

  “Yes?”

  “Everything.”

  “Then say it.” Georgina’s voice broke. “Say it, knowing I feel that way too.”

  * * *

  Georgina felt a ray of sunlight fall upon her face with its soft glow caressing her skin in a gentle embrace. She moved her arm, expecting to feel the warmth of Molly against her just as she’d been all night, her soft cheek resting against Georgina’s chest and her arm tightly wrapped around her waist, but instead she felt the coolness of the empty sheet.

  She sat up and looked around her and blinked at the golden winter sun rising through her window, washing the white winter sky in hues of orange. She could just make out a brushing noise from the garden.

  Molly?

  She climbed out of bed and pulled on her clothes and went to the window.

  What? Molly was sweeping garden debris into the middle of the lawn.

  She unclipped the sash window and lifted it open. A shock of cold took her breath as she shouted down, “What are you doing?”

  “I’ve made a Christmas star. For you. See!”

  Molly stood back to fully reveal the shape of a star made up of leaf litter and finished with evergreen clippings of cedar and fir. Sprigs of holly with their bright berries had been placed at the tip of each point. It was so clever and so beautiful, just like Molly.

  “What do you think?” Molly stared up at Georgina, her face bright with unmistakable joy.

  “It’s amazing!” Georgina shouted down. “We need a photo.”

  “Yes, good thinking. Come down and be in it with me. Oh, good morning, by the way!”

  “Good morning!” Georgina turned back inside and hunted in her pockets for her phone. She could hear Molly begin to hum “We three kings of Orient are.”

  Carols meant Christmas, and just the thought of it filled Georgina with a cold dread. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve. The day of the year eighteen years ago when the light somehow became duller and the rain wetter and the wind chill like never before. And from then on, joy was always tinged with sadness and laughter always ended too soon.

  Georgina shouted down, “Sorry! I’ll be there in a sec.” In the last pocket she checked she found her phone only to be distracted by the symbol of a missed call. It was a Leicester number, and Georgina recognized it as her father’s solicitor. It seemed that he had tried to reach Georgina late yesterday when her attention was fixed on Molly. Only Molly. Georgina retrieved her message and held the phone against her ear. Georgina, this is Henry Fothergill. Sorry to disturb you so late on a Friday. We have been contacted by your mother with regards to the painting omitted from the bequest. I wonder if you could give me a ring back to discuss. Thank you.

  Edith’s painting?

  Molly arrived in the bedroom with cheeks apple red and her hair as wild as the garden. She went to the window and stared down. “On second thoughts, I think the photo may be better from up here.” Turning to Georgina she asked, “What do you think?” She looked at the phone in Georgina’s hands. “Bad news?”

  “No.” Georgina hadn’t meant to sound so emphatic. She moved to Molly and retrieved a stray leaf caught in her curls. “No, not at all. Just my father’s solicitors. Loose ends and all that. I’ll ring them Monday.”

  “You plan on ringing them back on Christmas Day?” Molly said with an amused frown. “Before or after the Queen’s speech?”

  “Oh, right.” Georgina shook her head. “I’m so used to ignoring it.”

  “You didn’t celebrate with your father?”

  “He hated it just as much as me. We agreed long ago to keep things low-key when it came to Christmas.”

  “So no turkey?”

  “No lunch. After I moved out, we didn’t see each other over Christmas. All the Christmases before that we just made ourselves miserable thinking about my mother. So we made a pact to forget Christmas existed.”

  “Blimey. Well”—Molly slipped her hand into Georgina’s—“I was thinking how about rather than ignoring it this year would you like to spend Christmas with me? We could have Christmas Eve at my place. I can’t believe you haven’t even been to mine. Anyway, it’s a tiny terrace. Think the house version of Daisy May.”

  Georgina laughed. “I can picture it perfectly.”

  “And then if you could bear it perhaps Christmas lunch with my mum and dad? I know it’s way too soon for you to meet the in-laws, but it’s not fair to change my plans with such short notice…” Molly shrugged.

  Georgina choked back the tears of joy threatening like a swollen river from her heart. How long had she tried to convince herself that being alone at Christmas was a good thing? How long had she pretended that she didn’t care? “Y
es,” she said. “I’d love to spend Christmas with you. Thank you.”

  “That’s settled then,” Molly said, with a broad smile that left no room for sadness.

  “Since we’re on the subject of plans.” Georgina stroked Molly’s cheek misted with early morning dew. “I wonder, do you have plans yet for New Year’s Eve? It’s just the Oberons invite me each year to their home to celebrate. If it fits for you, would you like to come with me?”

  Molly said, with a voice bubbling with excitement, “Yes, please. That sounds amazing. Will there be dancing?”

  Georgina nodded. “There’s supper, followed by a live band. And everyone at the party stops to listen for Big Ben and to watch the fireworks at midnight over the Thames.”

  “You can hear Big Ben from their house?”

  “Yes they live in an apartment on the South Bank overlooking the river.”

  “Okay, as plans go, that’s properly awesome,” Molly said, wide eyed. “Thank you. I can’t wait to start the new year with you.”

  That might have been the sweetest, most unguarded thing anyone had ever said to her. She struggled to say in response, “Me too.”

  Molly reached for Georgina and kissed her. She smelled of the garden and of all that was natural and good.

  Molly drew her lips away slowly. “It feels like there’s fireworks exploding in my heart right now in fact.” She rested her palm against her chest. “I’m so excited. Oh, wait, I nearly forgot my Christmas star. I hope the breeze hasn’t redesigned it. Oh no, we’re good.”

  “I’ve got it.” Georgina took several shots.

  “Fab! Shall we go for breakfast? And by breakfast I mean a Mr. Brown’s special.” Molly headed for the stairs and shouted from the landing, “Thoughts on me sliding down the banister?”

  Georgina laughed. “Go for it. What the new owners don’t know won’t hurt them.”

  In that instant Georgina’s heart ached and her whole body felt winded by the casual mention of the life of the house after her. She swallowed down the pain and instead thumbed through the photos. Her eye was caught again by the symbol of the missed call. Her thoughts turned once more to the message and to the question of what the solicitor had to say.

  What are you playing at mother? Whatever it is it won’t work.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  “Please stop smiling, Molly.” Fran let out a pained sigh.

  Molly turned to Fran, who sat next to her at the long table in the small airless room that had been set aside for them in the records office. She leaned her elbow on the tabletop and rested her cheek in the palm of her hand. “Fran, really,” she said with a chuckle. “I’m annoying you by smiling?”

  “Exactly. I think you’ll find excessive happiness is far more irritating than excessive sadness. And what’s more, smiling in your case tends to lead to humming. And don’t think I don’t recognize ‘Auld Lang Syne’ in the tapping you’ve been doing on your notepad.”

  “Oh.” Molly dropped her pencil flat against the table.

  “I think you’ll find Christmas and New Year’s are over, thank God.” Fran gave a slight shake of the head. “And so is my seasonal goodwill.”

  “You had seasonal goodwill?” Molly bumped Fran’s shoulder. Fran let out a noise that sounded not dissimilar to a growl. “Just kidding. I know I’ve probably been a bit unbearable. Sorry.” Molly winced at the memory of what must have seemed like endless excited chatter about her Christmas break and her time with Georgina. How magical it had been in every way. How Georgina had just fit seamlessly into her family. How Big Ben had chimed out across the rooftops of London at New Year’s, and how they had walked along the South Bank that same morning as the sun rose. And how she was sure she was still walking on air.

  “Forgiven. And if anyone is going to annoy me with their happiness, then I would prefer it to be you. But at least try and concentrate. So is this everything?” Fran gestured to the gathered collection of Edith’s archive.

  At the sobering sight, Molly’s mood dispersed and drifted from joy to melancholy. “Yep, I think so. I have a list somewhere…”

  “This one?” Fran tugged at a sheet of paper Molly was leaning on, lifting it away and forcing Molly to sit up straight. With a face furrowed with purposeful focus, Fran read aloud, “First item, Edith’s scrapbook.” Fran placed a pointed forefinger on the cover. “This contains the preliminary charcoal sketches for the watercolour. Is that right?”

  “Yes.” Molly eased the scrapbook towards her, carefully releasing one of the sketches to show Fran, who gave a slow reverential nod in response. Molly softly smoothed the brittle paper flat, its surface aged to the texture of sugar.

  “I think it’s just beautiful,” Molly said. “So full of movement with each stroke a line of energy, of life. I’m so pleased we have them, Fran, not only as evidence that Edith painted the watercolour, but that we can show the development of the final piece and engage the visitor in the artistic process, maybe even have them imagining how the painting came to be.”

  March 1832

  Chambers of Brancaster and Lane Solicitors

  “You keep so much, Edith. That scrapbook is nearly full. Surely your memory will not fail you to the extent that you require to keep and press each flower we come across.”

  “I would keep the clouds that shaded you in my arms today, pin the wisps of white like cotton seeds, if I could. And your soft kisses I would fix forever on my lips if only there was a way. Don’t you see, for me the memory of you is not enough.”

  “Edith…”

  “It makes me want to mark you on this very page, so I can look upon you every day. In fact…” Edith grasped a stick of charcoal and began to sketch with her eyes darting to and fro from the page to Josephine’s face. “Wait, don’t turn away.”

  “I am working and so should you be.”

  “But I am yet to fully capture the shape of your neck as it sweeps to your shoulder. It is no good—I am at a loss as to how to mimic the way the light catches on your collarbone and the blush of your skin. It is no good.” Edith dropped the sketch on the floor and bent down in front of Josephine with her chest pressed against her legs and her cheek resting on her lap. “What do I do if memory is not enough and no mark upon the page can capture you? What do I do?”

  Josephine could feel the push of Edith’s sobs against her legs. She placed her hand to Edith’s hair and stroked gently, hoping that her touch, this time at least, would be enough, but knowing in her heart that nothing would ever make it right. That all she could offer Edith would be the memory of them that would one day fade and surely be gone.

  Josephine lifted Edith’s chin to see her face fully. “One day this cruel world will open its eyes, my dear Edith, and see how blind they have been, and love in all its forms will be celebrated as equal and free.” Josephine brushed away the line of Edith’s tears which merely found a new path instead.

  With a voice bruised with feeling, Edith replied, “You truly think that?”

  “I truly hope for it, my dear Edith, with all my heart.”

  “Well I imagine”—Fran raised her eyebrows in thought—“that neither artist nor sitter could have foreseen these sketches would be on display nearly what two hundred years later. Such a private moment exposed for all to see.”

  “You think it’s intrusive?” Molly had been so sure that Edith would have felt aggrieved, that she hadn’t stopped to reflect on whether she would wish to have her story told in public. “Am I being presumptuous to think that Edith would want the sketches and her painting—not to mention her heartfelt inscription—revealed?”

  “We’ll never know what Edith thought. We can only speculate about what she might have thought possible within the cultural constraints of her time. It strikes me that what is most important is what your intention is.”

  “My intention?” Molly instantly thought again of Edith’s gravestone. The absence of her achievements or mention of who she might have loved or been loved by. Molly took a deep brea
th. “I want visitors to know that love between women exists throughout history. I want to correct the omission of this truth in the museum and in our public consciousness.” Before Fran could comment, Molly continued, with the rising sense of injustice filling the chambers of her heart. “What’s more, I want Edith to be able to recognize herself in her display. For her to say that’s me—that is my work, that is my passion, that is my love. You have captured me as I see myself.”

  “That’s asking a lot Molly, don’t you think?” Fran ticked off the scrapbook from the list. “After all can anyone truly see us as we see ourselves? Impossible.”

  Molly sighed. “I suppose not.”

  “As I see it the best you can do for Edith is to present her life in context and with those facts you can have confidence in. The visitor will then form their own impression. Some will get it right and some will get it wrong. And let’s face it, most just come to the museum because it’s raining.”

  “Fran Godfrey!” Molly glanced at the half-open door.

  “Don’t look so affronted—we both know it’s true.”

  “Well then, this is our opportunity to engage visitors and have them return even when it’s dry. In fact, do you know what? I’m going to propose that we have the display in the foyer. Even the most reluctant visitor will see it. We could have images of Josephine’s portrait blown up as posters for outside to entice people’s curiosity, and then from the display itself we can signpost people to the annex to explore the Wright room. Yes, now I think about it, it makes total sense.”

  “Inspired. But what makes most sense is for us to hurry up. Evelyn wasn’t exactly thrilled to release us both at once. So where were we?” Fran returned her attention to Molly’s list. “Edith’s logbook, check, volumes of prayers, check, and…” Fran squinted at the remaining loose page.

  “The petition.” Molly held it up and pointed to the long list of names. “It was signed by thousands of local women asking for the immediate abolition of slavery in the British Empire. I wondered whether you might wish to write a short history of local women’s contribution to the abolition movement to give a sense of context. One of our panels in the display could be devoted to campaigning. What do you think?”