The Sculptress by V.S. Alexander (ereader for comics txt) 📗

and I’m not quite sure what to do about it. My life is as unsettled as it has ever been, the bad seeming to outweigh the good. Tom is a mystery, and I feel he is hiding something, although I can’t be certain what secret he bears. Linton’s letters have stopped and Anne has not seen him in two months. Lieutenant Stoneman is dead. My work has led me in a new direction, but not the one I expected. I can create masks, but I’ve had no time for sculpting since I came to France. Who knows whether I can still make art at all?

But most troubling is Private Darser. Is he Kurt? So much time has passed, but the memories linger. He seems to be, but I can’t—don’t want to—believe it. Does he truly seek my forgiveness? That’s a hard bargain for me. I have never forgiven his desertion, leaving me with no choice but to accept the consequences of our immature behavior. His proposal at the church bordered on madness; yet, I can’t forget his words: “I can undo the wrong I created.” Can I atone for my past? Could I bear another child with him? The thought is hideous yet comforting as I contemplate my future.

Virginie has arrived and I must cease writing. I share some confidences with her, but I would prefer she not be a party to the turmoil raging inside me.

Two French soldiers shared a cigarette on the courtyard stairs while a third sat in the alcove, admiring Virginie as she washed her hands in the sink.

“It seems we have a full house today,” Emma said. The soldier inside relaxed in his chair and a smile erupted through his eyes as he followed Virginie’s every move.

Her assistant nodded slowly with pursed lips, and wiped her hands on a towel, her hunched attitude decidedly different from her usual confident self.

“Are you sick?” Emma asked.

“I am tired, Madame. I want this war to end, but I feel something bad will happen before it does.”

“Nonsense,” Emma replied, annoyed by the pessimism. “You’re a good predictor of weather but not much else.” Virginie’s words had touched a nerve, sending a tingle through her; things were not looking bright anywhere in France.

“We’ve made masks for so many soldiers—wishing all comfort and peace,” the young woman said. “I can’t help but think about Monsieur Thibault and his family. It’s been nearly a year now.”

Emma looked at the man in the alcove, lowered her voice, and then asked Virginie, “Are you worried about another suicide?”

The nurse shook her head, and whispered, “No, I fear Private Darser . . . and I fear you will move away—return to America.”

“You mustn’t worry about that now or Private Darser. I’m sure he’ll leave us in peace now that I’ve confronted him.”

“He only wanted to thank you?” Virginie asked, the skin around her eyes crinkling with the question.

Emma nodded, having made up her mind to keep her conversation at Saint-Étienne-du-Mont a private matter. “And as far as leaving you—yes, our work together will eventually end, but you are capable of running the studio yourself. Why, you practically do it now. We’ll cross that bridge—”

Virginie muttered a short cry and tears filled her eyes.

The soldier rose from his chair and offered a crisp white handkerchief to the nurse, who blubbered something in French and waved the soldier away.

Not understanding, Emma followed the nurse into the casting room where Hassan was molding a mask over a clay model.

Virginie slammed her fist on the table. “I won’t work with the man! Jamais! But I have no other job.”

“I know he’s been horrid at times. But in the future, if it comes to that, John Harvey will be kind. I promise. I’ll see to it.” Emma embraced Virginie and wiped the tears away with her sleeve. “Come, now, let’s get to work and waste no more time on sad possibilities.”

Madame Clement entered the room and motioned to Emma. “A young woman to see you, Madame.”

Emma turned. “I don’t recall an appointment with a woman. Did she say what she wanted?”

“Only to speak with you. Richard is here, too.”

“Richard?” The woman had come from Toul! She brushed past Madame Clement and hurried to the alcove where the French soldier still sat in his chair. He had wrapped his scarf around his face up to his eyes, self-conscious about the two strangers in the room.

“Bonjour, Madame,” Richard said with gusto.

Emma thought he looked pleased, as if he carried a great secret from the walled city, along with his human cargo. Emma stood for a time, looking at the pair. Richard had shaved his scruffy beard, and only a sharply trimmed mustache remained. He looked fit and well for someone with an injury so severe he could not fight.

The other guest, clad in a blue dress and cream-colored shawl, kept her face lowered until Richard finished speaking. When she raised her head, Emma recognized her as the woman who had been waiting for Tom at the hospital. Her startling beauty filled the room—the rich ebony color of her hair, the liquid fire burning in her brown eyes. She posed defiantly, her stance rigid and unforgiving, arms by her side, as if daring Emma to speak.

“Madame Swan . . . Madame Constance Bouchard,” Richard said after an uncomfortable silence. “Madame Bouchard has accompanied me from Toul.”

“What can I do for Madame?” Emma asked. “There must be good reason for one to travel so far.”

The woman nodded stiffly, throwing the end of the shawl defiantly over her right shoulder, asking in a slight French accent, “May we talk privately?”

“Of course . . . in the casting room.” Before turning away, Emma said, “Help Virginie with the soldiers—make yourself useful.”

“Avec plaisir,” Richard said.

“I thought you’d be willing to lend a hand. Hassan will help as well.”

Richard’s smile turned to a frown at the thought of the tall Moroccan acting as a chaperone.

Emma showed Madame Bouchard into the casting room and instructed Virginie and Hassan