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

to assist the waiting soldiers. She closed the door and took a seat behind her desk.

The woman studied the facial casts on the wall. “I’ve heard what you do.”

Emma detected a touch of jealousy in the woman’s voice. “Thank you,” Emma said, puzzled by the statement. “Did you come to discuss my work or do you have something else on your mind?”

The woman gestured to a chair in front of the desk and Emma responded with an invitation to sit.

“My husband is dead.” Madame Bouchard sat erect, her eyes cutting through her. “Killed two years ago in a worthless battle in the north of France, shot in the head in a struggle over a half-kilometer’s worth of land. The Germans recaptured it three months later.” She let out a small laugh filled more with bitterness than humor.

“I’m sorry,” Emma said.

“You needn’t be. Our marriage was a farce from the beginning. I was pregnant, but he decided to marry me rather than walk away. But, in death, he only left me a small amount of money and what little love we shared went with him to the grave.” She looked past Emma to the disfigured faces on the wall. “So these are the lucky ones—the ones who get a second chance.”

“Some believe so. We are proud of our work. . . .”

“You see, I am from Spain, but I was raised by an English nanny. So, after my husband’s death, it was easy to strike up a conversation with Thomas.”

“You’re referring to my husband?” Emma asked, knowing the answer to her question.

“Yes, after what your husband and I have shared together, I wanted to meet the sculptress Emma Lewis Swan—the woman Thomas married and still loves.”

Emma sat stone-faced and silent.

“Toul is a small village,” the woman continued. “Gossip can be nasty. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of Constance Bouchard before.” She smiled. “Thomas was angry when he met me. It was a chance encounter on the street in front of the Mad Café—certainly not planned. I was a widow of one year and Tom was frantic—disturbed by letters he had received from a woman in Boston. He drank too much that evening. It was weeks before he told me his wife had deceived him. He was in need . . . and so was I.”

Emma’s pulse rose in her throat and she clutched the arms of her chair, as if she were slipping away from the world. “What do you want?”

Madame Bouchard’s dark eyes bored into her. “To meet the woman Tom says he will never leave—even for his child.”

The room grew cold. Madame Bouchard’s eyes flickered, her mouth moved, but Emma could hear no words. She placed her hands in her lap and bowed her head, unable to look at the woman as a frigid silence enveloped her.

“Are you listening to me?” Madame Bouchard demanded. “In your case, a proclamation of innocence is unnecessary. Thomas has feelings! He acted as any man would have done when faced with infidelity.”

“Get out,” Emma said. “Leave me and my husband alone.”

“I expected as much from you,” the woman said, remaining calm against Emma’s anger. “If you had nothing to hide—no sins to bear—you would have stated your innocence plainly. Your actions still trouble you.”

“You have no right to make judgments.” Emma rose from her chair and walked to the door.

“Before you have me removed, I have one request.”

“What is it?” Emma replied, iciness frosting her voice.

“We have a beautiful boy who is six months old.” Madame Bouchard stood and moved toward Emma. “He was conceived before Thomas’s injury. I should thank you for my second child; after all, you bear some responsibility. However, I cannot convince Thomas to stay in France. He will return to America to be with you, but our baby . . . he will remain here with me.” She paused and her defiance lightened. “I may need financial help to raise my son—in case Thomas forgets. It can be very difficult to raise children without a father.”

Emma studied the woman who stood so proudly before her, knowing the truth of her words, but doubting the necessity. Madame Bouchard’s dress was of blue silk and she wore it elegantly. The cream shawl that draped her body was woven of freshly dyed wool. Her fine shoes gave the impression they had never strolled a village street. The woman appeared quite capable of supporting herself and her children; however, Emma was struck by the similarities to her past—when she was alone and faced life with a fatherless child.

After a moment, she said, “I’ll leave my address with Virginie when I return to Boston. If you need funds, wire me your request. I make my living as an artist. I don’t have a great deal of money, but I’ll do what I can—”

“You needn’t say more. I know you will honor your word.”

Emma opened the studio door and Madame Bouchard strode past her into the hallway. Her staff and Richard, laughing and smiling over some French joke, were huddled around the soldiers. The soldiers, despite their injuries, joined in with muted laughter and pats on the back.

Richard eyed Emma as she stood near the alcove entrance. His sly smile affirmed that he knew Madame Bouchard’s story; yet, the softness in his eyes revealed his sympathy for Emma’s plight. He opened a tin of cigarettes and waited for her to speak.

“Madame Bouchard and Richard are leaving,” Emma said to the group. “It’s time to get back to work.”

Virginie and Hassan directed the first man to the casting room, while Madame Clement headed upstairs.

Madame Bouchard stood near the door, her hand clutching the knob as she waited for Richard.

“Only a few hours in Paris and we must return to Toul?” Richard asked Madame Bouchard.

“Nonsense,” the woman replied. “We’ll stay overnight at the best hotel we can afford.”

Richard winked at Emma.

“In separate rooms, of course,” Madame Bouchard said, gauging Richard’s reaction.

“A safe trip, Richard,” Emma said. She looked directly at Madame Bouchard as she spoke. “Please