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

mean, Alex, Anne, myself, and the funeral staff. We were the only people who bothered to attend his burial in Mt. Auburn. I arranged and paid for it, although Alex offered to help. Linton had no living relatives as far as Alex and I could tell. So, we buried him in a lovely plot, under large trees on a snowy hilltop. Alex said a few words and I attempted to, but I couldn’t keep my composure. I wanted the whole affair to be over as quickly as possible, and I think Alex did as well. Poor man, I believe he loved Linton as much as I did, if not more.

From there, Alex drove Anne and me to Linton’s apartment in the West End. Fortunately, the second-floor landlord was a bit more obliging than last time, considering the money I had paid him previously. He hadn’t touched the apartment, but was glad to be rid of Linton’s belongings. The three of us, dressed in masks and gloves, disposed of Linton’s clothes and gathered the rest of what he owned, which was insignificant except for three small paintings, which were buried under the soiled garments. As Anne and Alex got into the car, I searched the apartment one final time, looking for any correspondence or personal items that might have escaped our eyes. I found nothing. We brought the paintings back to the house. Alex told me to keep the artwork—which I had hoped to keep anyway—as a remembrance of Linton’s life.

Anne prepared tea for us and Alex left early that afternoon. Once again, I was left with Anne, and my thoughts, and the reminder of Linton as I looked at the paintings stacked against my studio wall. This evening, after dinner, I will collapse into bed. My body feels empty, as if a light has been extinguished in my soul.

CHAPTER 13

BOSTON

May 1919

The driver offered the stability of his extended arm to Emma as she arrived at Frances Livingston’s home. Disembarking from the carriage, she leaned on him just as she had when the cab arrived to collect her. She was obviously pregnant to any observer now, her belly distended underneath her dress.

She walked up the steps, conscious of the extra weight she carried. Under the warm play of sunlight, Frances’s stately home looked as resplendent as Emma had ever seen it. The spring flowers were in bloom, the trees in fresh green leaf. She never tired of Boston’s May tulips, their radiant beauty, and today was no exception. The east garden, extending to the high stone fence bordering the property, burst with vibrant hues of maroon, yellow, purple, and white, those wide rows interspersed with trimmed evergreens and leafy bushes. The sky was like blue silk and the warm air touched her body in a soft and thrilling way. Emma shed her light jacket and reveled in the sunshine. The regenerated earth and the pleasant sun filled her with a sense of wonder and life she hadn’t felt in months. Her memory of the war and Linton hadn’t faded, but the beauty of the day did much to lessen the sting.

“I’m so glad you and Louisa are friends again,” Frances said as she directed Emma to the garden table, which was set for three. “The whole business between you seemed so nasty. I was very concerned.”

Emma nodded as she sat. “Thank you. The affair was disagreeable, and it all came down to one man who forged Louisa’s handwriting . . . but she can tell you about that.”

“But I’m dying to know who perpetrated such a foul deed,” Frances said. “I can tell you, my dear, there is nothing nearer and dearer to my heart than protecting those in our circle.”

“Frances, really, you embarrass me sometimes. I’m hardly in your ‘circle.’ I have neither the wealth, the social status, nor—”

“Nonsense. Never underestimate yourself. Think what you have done. Most of the women in the world will never achieve what you have. Money is just part of our circle. I shudder to think what life would have been like if Mr. Livingston had not admired your work before he died.” She paused to pick up her wineglass. “Oh, I wish you could partake. You could join me in a toast to your success and your new baby. Tom must be so proud . . . when is he coming home?”

“Yes, we’re both immensely proud,” Emma said, skirting the truth. “The baby is due in four months. I’m not sure Tom will be home by then. He’s still involved with the French hospital.”

“Well, he needs to come home to Boston and be a proper father. Let the hospital rot.”

She was about to reply when Louisa appeared at the garden doors. She was attired in a white unbuttoned cape-coat, a pale blue dress with matching brimmed hat, her lean figure accented by a single strand of ivory pearls that fell to her waist. As always, she looked the epitome of fashion.

“Good afternoon,” Louisa said and then kissed them both on the cheek. “I’m sorry I’m late but I was detained at the dressmaker’s.” She took her seat next to Frances.

“Another fortune spent on clothes, my dear?” Frances asked.

Emma laughed. “But for a good cause.”

“Certainly,” Louisa said. “There’s no better cause than a single woman who needs a husband.”

“I’m sure a proposal will come along any day now,” Frances said.

“You’re always so positive about my matrimonial chances, Frances. I wish I could be so certain.” Louisa doffed her cape and asked Emma, “How is the baby?”

“I’m long over morning sickness and the doctor says it’s coming along fine. I think it must be a boy—the way he kicks.”

“Are you hoping for a boy or a girl?” Frances asked.

“A boy,” Emma said without hesitation.

“Tom must be happy,” Louisa said.

Emma nodded, implicating her husband again in the fabrication.

“Yes, I’m sure he is, but I do want to hear the story about the letters,” Frances said to Louisa. “You’ve withheld it from me for