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

lips on the verge of a sneer. At least she appeared that way in Emma’s eyes.

“I’ve come for an apology,” her guest announced with perfectly nuanced haughtiness, “and the chance to clear my name.”

Emma pointed to the chair across from her desk.

Louisa took off her coat and draped it across the seatback.

“Louisa, I—”

“Please, this pains me more than you . . . but in the interest of veritas.” She placed her hands in her lap and looked directly into Emma’s eyes. “I never wrote those incriminating letters to Tom, but I believe I’ve uncovered the culprit. It was positively evil on their part.”

Emma attempted to speak, but Louisa held up her hand. “I told you I would never betray you and you must accept that statement on trust. If you don’t, we might as well end all aspects of our friendship as of this moment; be done with it, and never strive to revive it again. But let me tell you, my dear Emma, all would be fair game then. I would avoid you like the plague. Your name would be anathema to me.” Louisa arched her eyebrows threateningly. “I might even make a play for your husband.”

“Don’t be a ninny,” Emma finally managed to get in. “Neither of us are silly schoolgirls. Tom might have something to say about the matter as well.” She locked eyes with Louisa. “I have a confession to make—when I left you at Frances’s, the thought did occur to me that you might be telling the truth. Assumptions were made by Tom and me, and they made sense at the time. I’m sorry I acted as I did at Frances’s. I had no right to strike you. I’m ashamed and deeply sorry for my sudden temper.”

Louisa puffed up in her chair. “No, you didn’t have the right. I certainly expected an apology today and I’m glad you gave one. You can’t imagine how hurt and mortified I was—to go back into Fran’s and make small talk after that scene. She was like a bloodhound on the scent, wanting to sniff out every gory detail. Thanks to me, you’re still in her good graces, but it was an effort—believe me, an effort. It took all I had. My silence was worth its weight in gold for your reputation. Later, when I had time to compose myself and think, I thought too much water had passed under the bridge to give up on us entirely, despite what insane thoughts might fill your head.”

“If what you say about the letters is true, do you have proof?”

“Not yet, but soon. You’ll be the first to know.”

A chilly silence rode between them until Louisa said, “I have other news for you as well. . . .”

Emma stopped fiddling with her pencil in anticipation of Louisa’s revelation.

“I know where Linton Bower lives.”

She stiffened, trying hard not to show her interest. “Oh? Alex didn’t know—or didn’t want to say.”

“I’m sure you still harbor affection for the man,” Louisa said with some distaste in her voice. “A certain Boston art critic we both know tracked him down.”

Emma allowed the depth of her emotion to flow freely, her nerves feeling as if they were being stretched under her skin, her pulse accelerating. “Please, Louisa, I must talk to Linton.”

“I know. Alex told me you had inquired.”

“Alex should keep private conversations to himself.”

“I’m afraid Alex’s propensity for gossip may have caused this muddle in the first place. He was the only one I told about you and Linton.”

“I wish I could say this whole affair was over and done with, but the damage has been significant to all involved.”

Louisa leaned toward her. “I know, and that’s another reason I came. I’m not the heartless soul you think I am. I do bear some responsibility for this . . . misunderstanding.” She stopped and withdrew a paper from her coat pocket. “Linton’s address is on this slip. It’s not far from here—in the West End. But if you go, be prepared for what you might find. I think Linton has had a tough time of it. I’ve not seen him since the Fountain closed. I don’t think he ever got over your leaving.”

Emma rose and offered her hand.

Louisa shook it gently.

“Thank you for coming,” Emma said. “I appreciate your concern . . . and friendship.”

“I will clear my name. Mark my words.” She put on her coat and turned toward the door. “Good luck with Linton.”

When Emma heard Anne latch the door, she picked up her sketch pad once again and opened the cover. There, in another drawing, were the muscular back and legs of Linton Bower, his face, unfinished, turned toward an unknown horizon.

Entry: 29th January, 1919

I’ve resumed this diary because the winter has undone me. I never fancied myself as a writer—always an artist—but I find myself secluded with my thoughts on these cold days, with no one to confide in except Anne and Lazarus. Both must tire of my ramblings. Cold, cold, and more cold, plus an unrelenting parade of gray clouds that hangs on for days, as if the sun were captured and bound, and, like a prisoner, allowed only a brief respite outdoors. I can only hope that spring will come early this year with its promise of change.

I dreamed of Tom last night and the awful explosion at the Front. I woke up screaming because I rushed to him and he had no face. The shell had wiped it clean away leaving only a bloody pulp. The dream has taken other victims, all reduced to ashen, faceless figures. But Kurt and Tom seem to appear most frequently in these nightmares. I haven’t heard from my husband and, at this point, I don’t know if I will. Our forced separation is creeping into divorce.

Also, I have attempted, since Louisa’s visit, to keep my thoughts about Linton to a mild distraction. I did take a walk one day through the snow, to his studio, only to find the door bolted