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

My God, can it be that long! It’s taken me longer to re-adjust than I imagined. The winter wind in Boston cuts through you in a way unknown in Paris. Oh, it’s all so different: the city, the light (the war seems a distant memory here); the Bostonians, except for the perceived hardships of rationing, are hardly aware that millions were slaughtered an ocean away.

I asked Anne to keep my arrival somewhat of a secret. I still have to renew acquaintances with several friends. I needed time to think, to study, to read, to sit in the living room in front of the fireplace with a cup of tea while Lazarus warms my feet. This solitude, even though my art has suffered, has been the best homecoming for me. Anne graciously spoils me with delicious meals and regal touches that make me feel like a pampered queen.

So, Virginie, I will keep you from your work no longer. I wish you all happiness in life as I do for Madame Clement, Hassan, and, yes, even John.

I must end this letter on a sad note. Although I never talked to you explicitly about my troubles with my husband, I’m sure you were aware of their existence. If he takes the time to call or visit Paris in concern for my health, please let him know that I am safe in Boston. I didn’t inform him of my decision to leave France, fearing more emotional trauma. Tom has his own life at the moment—and I mine. It remains to be seen whether the two of us will reunite.

Thank you for your efforts and dedication to our task. The world is better for our work and I know we can be proud. Please write often and tell me what has transpired with our creation.

Yours always,

Emma Lewis Swan

“Oh, my dear, I am so happy to see you.” Mrs. Frances Livingston raised her crystal champagne glass and tapped it against Emma’s. “I’m so glad you could come. When I heard you were in town, my excitement bubbled over.”

“I’m very happy to be here,” Emma said. “I’m quite surprised you knew of my return. No one really does, except my mother.”

“Boston society, my dear. Nothing escapes the eyes and ears of our circle.”

Emma lifted the glass to her lips and tasted the golden, frothy liquid, which tickled the inside of her nose. She was happy to be here, surrounded by luxury. The arched marble fireplace crackled with warmth. A servant, stiffly clad in day attire, stood prepared if Emma finished her drink. She rubbed the arms of her gold-gilt chair and was reminded that her life and the life of Frances Livingston were very different. The drawing room was filled with art—portraits and sculpture—many of the pieces purchased from Alex Hippel, the owner of the Fountain Gallery. A life-size portrait of Frances, opulent in its gold frame, hung on the wall opposite the hearth. Emma immediately recognized it as a painting by Singer Sargent, a masterwork composed in his sweeping brushstrokes. Impressionistic landscapes in brilliant blues and greens also graced the walls.

To her left, Emma looked into the immense ballroom with its gleaming French doors. Past those doors lay the garden steps, now dusted with snow, where Linton had fallen in his effort to escape the pain of her decision to leave Boston. She had not set foot in the house since that party so long ago.

“More champagne?” Frances asked. Her forehead crinkled a bit as if she had more on her mind than libations. “Aren’t you thrilled the horrid war is over? You must tell me all about your travels and troubles in France—when we have the time.”

“Yes, Frances, when we have the time, and I feel up to it.” Emma sighed and settled against the chair’s formidable back. Despite its plush red-silk upholstery, the seat was barely comfortable. Emma wriggled, attempting to relax into an agreeable position.

“Is something wrong, my dear? The moment you walked in the door, I felt you were out of sorts. I hope you didn’t contract something in France or on that squalid voyage home. Imagine, using the Manchuria as a troopship. I once sailed on her to Italy.”

“I’m fine, Frances . . . a bit tired, but I think that’s to be expected considering what I’ve been through for nearly two years.”

“And that’s what I want to find out—when we have the time—but today, I have a surprise that will erase all those awful memories.” Frances raised her nearly empty glass and the servant stepped quickly to her side and poured more champagne.

“What’s that?” Emma had no idea what Frances might have in store.

“I’ve invited a guest. Louisa Markham!”

Emma flinched.

Frances’s eyes sparkled. “I knew you’d be pleased. When I spoke with Louisa, she didn’t even know you were home. I kept our meeting today a secret, so this reunion will be a surprise for both of you.”

“Oh, Frances, you shouldn’t have. I really can’t impose on your hospitality. Anne is—”

“No excuses, dear. Two old friends shouldn’t be deprived of each other’s company.” Frances looked at her gold watch.

Emma, realizing Frances’s plan had been intricately constructed, twisted in her chair when a knock at the front door echoed through the hall. An elderly maid traversed the hall like a pallbearer. The massive door creaked open and then closed as the maid welcomed the visitor with a gentle, “Good afternoon, Miss Markham.”

She steeled herself for Louisa’s entrance.

Her friend entered the room oblivious to Emma. Perhaps Louisa thought an acquaintance of Frances’s, unknown to her, had been invited for afternoon champagne, or perhaps the reality of Emma sitting squarely in front of her was too much to bear. Louisa finally let out a small cry of recognition, her eyes lighting up under the brim of her black hat, her long ermine coat billowing as she strode to her side. Without saying a word, she offered her hand.

Emma took the gloved hand tepidly.

Louisa shed her coat into the maid’s waiting arms and slid