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

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“May I see him?”

“The director has asked me to make an exception for you, but please don’t touch him and don’t take too much time. He’s very weak. He’s in bed ten, near the window.”

Emma thanked the nurse and walked into the rectangular room full of patients, mostly men, some wearing masks. She spotted Linton near a corner, enveloped in a pool of sun from a window behind his head. As she approached, he lifted his head from the pillow. The pallid face showed slightly more color than the day before; still, his overall complexion remained ghastly. Emma started to touch his shoulder but relented, and instead stood close to the bed.

“I knew you would come,” Linton said.

“Of course.”

Linton studied her with watery eyes. “Another time, another place,” he said in a strained voice and managed a smile.

She backed into the sunlight so he could see her better.

“I recognized you today, just as I did when you came to my studio. That day, you smelled of oatmeal soap and I ran my hands over your stockings.”

“I remember,” Emma said. “But don’t talk—you must save your energy.”

“The doctor says I have pneumonia.”

“Yes.”

He shook his head. “If I hadn’t been so blind, I would have whisked you away.”

Emma held a finger to her lips, before drawing up a chair and sitting beside his bed. “Let me talk, Linton.”

He turned his head toward her.

“I have something to tell you . . . I want to thank you for your letters. They meant so much to me, I saved them in Paris and brought them back to Boston. They’ve traveled thousands of miles and now they’re home. I was worried when your letters stopped, but now I understand what happened.”

Linton’s eyes, gauzy and pale, gazed past her into the ward.

“I’ve spent much of my life running away . . . from my past . . . from you. But I’ve stopped running. I returned to Boston because I had to. I’ve struggled with numerous difficulties over the past two years and I’ve faced them in my own way. The day Alex introduced us and we walked to your studio, I knew I could love you. I’m sorry there couldn’t have been more days, but my marriage, my work . . . you understand. I’ve been a coward many times in my life. You were right when you said, ‘another time, another place,’ at Frances’s party. In such a world our love would have been reserved for each other.”

“But if you and Tom aren’t . . . ? Don’t we have time?”

Emma leaned as close to him as she dared and lowered her voice, “I don’t think so. This is so difficult for me to say . . .”

Tears welling in his eyes, Linton turned away, anticipating the worst, and stared at the ceiling.

“I’m going to have a baby.”

Linton swung his head toward her, his face turning into the sun. He tried to lift his arm to cover his eyes but failed, and dropped it stiffly by his side.

“There’s no time to explain,” Emma pleaded. “Please believe me when I say that my affection and respect for you never faltered.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, choking back tears. “Your baby shouldn’t be exposed to sick people.” His voice sputtered and a cough wracked him so violently he shook in bed.

Emma grabbed a clean white cloth from the bedside table and dropped it over his mouth and nose. Soon, crimson streaked the fabric.

“I’m sorry,” Emma said. “You must hate me.”

Linton turned toward her again, the cloth falling from his face, tears streaking his cheeks. “I could never hate you, and I’ll never stop loving you. Your child will be my child as well. . . .” He tried to lift himself up on his elbows, but couldn’t. Groaning, he fell back on the pillow.

He began again after catching his breath. “I’m not afraid of dying, Emma. I’m afraid of never seeing the world again, of leaving behind all this beauty. I’ll never be able to touch your child—our child—or be there when it takes its first step. I’ll never be able to walk with you through a meadow, smell a rose, feel the warmth of the sun, know the turn of the seasons, or watch the bright day fade into night. I’ll never have that again.”

She wept.

“You will see beauty again, wherever you may be,” she said after composing herself. She stood, leaned over the bed, and kissed him lightly on the forehead through her mask, his love melting any fear of danger. For once, she wasn’t afraid to show her affection.

Linton put his arms around her neck and pulled her gently toward him.

She felt his breath in her hair, and stayed in his embrace, enraptured, until a hand tapped her shoulder. She looked back to see the ward nurse.

“That isn’t wise,” the woman said. “Please . . . move away, he’s contagious.”

Emma disengaged herself from Linton’s arms. “You’re right, but I would have held him just the same.”

“You must think of your own health—not just the patient’s,” the nurse said.

“You must go,” Linton said. “I’m tired and they need to take care of me.”

“You can visit again, but you must obey the rules or you’ll be removed,” the nurse told her.

“Tomorrow.” Emma stood in the sun and blew him a kiss.

He pursed his lips in a kiss.

The nurse escorted her to the door. “Please observe our rules, Mrs. Swan,” the woman said in a reproachful tone. “I’m sorry to be so strict, but these patients are seriously ill. We don’t want more deaths.”

Emma nodded, slipped off the mask, gloves, and gown, and handed them to the nurse. She was glad to be out of the ward, away from the sickness and the painful emotions Linton stirred within her, feelings that would require the balm of time to heal. She chided herself for not having the nerve to tell him who had fathered her child, but that story would