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

Emma looked at the hostess. Frances beamed and then looked at them both before she spoke. “Isn’t it wonderful to have two old friends reunited.” The hostess raised her glass. “Here’s to friendship and the end of the war.”

The servant hurriedly brought champagne to Louisa.

“I shouldn’t drink,” Emma said and placed her glass on the marble-center table.

“Nonsense, Emma,” Frances said. “The afternoon’s hardly begun and I have plenty on reserve. I’ve been saving my special bottles since the war began; but no more. The time for abstinence has passed.” She chuckled.

“That’s very kind of you, Frances, but I’ve lost my taste for champagne.” Emma crossed her arms and stared at the fire.

Louisa took a sip and settled into her chair.

“Well, I can understand your reluctance, my dear,” Frances said sweetly and leaned forward, trying to make the best of Emma’s sour mood. “I’m sure my reserve isn’t nearly as grand as the champagne you drank in France.”

Emma resisted the urge to snap at her hostess. “I rarely had time to celebrate. In fact, I can only remember drinking champagne once and that was at a Christmas party where a soldier . . .”

Frances’s eyebrows bunched together.

“Another time,” Emma said. “That story isn’t fit for company.”

Frances smiled, determined to save her get-together, and then turned her attention to Louisa. “Don’t you look well, my dear. Don’t you think Louisa looks well, Emma?”

She reluctantly admitted to herself that Louisa had retained her looks through the war, uncertain the same could be said for her own appearance. The cold weather had added a rosy blush to Louisa’s cheeks, yet her face remained nearly alabaster, contrasting dramatically with her dark hair. Her svelte black dress was cinched at the waist by a white sash, which added to her fashionable appearance.

“I feel positively dowdy,” Emma said.

“You do yourself an injustice,” Louisa said. “The gray in your hair is significantly less than I imagined it would be—and you’ve only added a few more lines to your face. But that’s understandable, given the war.”

Emma leaned forward and smirked at her friend. “The Germans weren’t the only ones shelling France. Volleys were lobbed from Boston as well.”

Louisa sipped her champagne.

Frances scooted forward in her seat, as if she were about to witness a cataclysm that might tear the room in half.

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Louisa said perfunctorily.

“You know perfectly well, you do.”

“More champagne?” Frances asked.

“No thank you, Frances,” Emma said. “If your maid will get my coat, I’ll be on my way, for I really must be going. Thank you so much for your hospitality . . . I look forward to the day when we can continue our conversation—alone.”

The maid, aware of the tension in the room, retrieved Emma’s coat promptly. “Good day,” Emma said, as the woman assisted her. “Please don’t end your party on my account.”

The maid walked as fast as she could ahead of Emma and held the door open. A hansom cab waited down the street. Hearing footsteps behind her, Emma turned to see Louisa hurtling down the hall toward her.

“How dare you insult me in front of Frances,” Louisa said, cutting in front of the maid and slamming the door behind her.

“Careful,” Emma said. “It’s cold out—you’ll catch your death and that would be an unmitigated tragedy.”

“What have I possibly done to deserve such treatment?” A tempest arose in Louisa’s eyes. “I’ve respected all your wishes. I’ve been kind to Anne—as much as I could without kowtowing to a domestic. I’ve taken your side in the onslaught of criticism against your foolhardy venture in Paris. I even extolled your art—let it be known what a great sculptress you are, despite your abject failure with faces.”

Emma swung her hand, striking Louisa hard on her left cheek.

Louisa gasped and reeled backward, clutching her face.

Emma swayed on her feet. The slap, a furious, instinctive reaction, shocked her as much as it did Louisa.

“My God, Emma,” Louisa said, when she recovered enough to speak. “We are through.” She turned and placed her hand on the door.

“How could you destroy my marriage?” Emma asked, her voice quaking with anger.

Smirking, Louisa took her hand off the latch. “Destroy your marriage? I had no hand in destroying your marriage—you’re quite capable of managing that task by yourself.”

“I’m talking about your letters to Tom.”

“What do you mean?”

“You wrote Tom about my relationship with Linton.”

The fury in Louisa’s eyes subsided. “Yes, I wrote Tom, but I never mentioned Linton. I only mentioned the most innocuous subjects—Boston and our friendships—I wanted to lift him up from the troubles of war.”

“I don’t believe you. I saw your letters. You wrote Tom because you’re still in love with him and you desperately wanted to break us apart.”

Louisa laughed and steadied herself against the doorframe. “You poor fool. You don’t believe me? Well, you will someday. . . when it’s too late for you and Tom.” She paused and looked at her with disdain. “You’re correct. I do love Tom, but I would never break you apart. It’s not something I would ever think of doing to a friend. Your zephyr would never betray her best friend.”

Emma stepped toward her.

“Stop,” Louisa ordered. “There’s no reason to continue this conversation. I’m the one who will still have friends and the chance of marrying a man—a good husband who will love me and provide a happy home. I pity you.”

The door shut gently and Emma stood alone on the porch. As she walked down the steps and hailed the cab, she wondered whether she would ever see Louisa or Frances again. The ride home seemed as cold and lonely as the January day. Emma shivered in the seat and thrust her hands in her coat pockets. As the horse’s hooves clopped on the cobblestones, a thought, at first as dim as a distant star in the night sky, filled her head until she could ignore it no longer. It spoke maddeningly and threatened: Listen to