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

“Thank you for taking care of him, the house, and . . . my wife.”

“It’s so good to see you again, sir,” Anne said. “It’s been so long.”

“Yes, it has. Anne, I’d like you to meet Madame Bouchard and her son, Charles.”

The woman stepped from behind Tom and Emma immediately recognized the brooding features of the French woman, who stood with a young boy cradled against her shoulder. Madame Bouchard looked at Emma in much the same manner as Tom and then surveyed the surroundings.

“May we come in?” Tom asked as he lifted the boy from Madame Bouchard.

“Come now, Lazarus, let’s go for a treat,” Anne said and closed the door while holding onto the dog. She tugged him toward the kitchen as Lazarus dug his claws into the floor.

Emma pointed to the sitting room, acutely aware of the trappings of their home. Tom’s picture still looked out from its place on the fireplace mantel. Emma sat in her favorite chair opposite the hearth while Tom and Madame Bouchard took seats on either side. Emma turned on a lamp to chase away the afternoon gloom.

Tom jostled the child when he sat and the boy uttered a short cry.

“You must be gentle with your son,” Madame Bouchard said. She smoothed the wrinkles on her dress with her strong fingers. “He, like the rest of us, is tired from the trip.”

“I’m not used to handling little ones anymore,” Tom said. “I participated in very few deliveries in Toul. Wounded men and the dying—those were the players on my stage.”

Emma stared at them, uncertain what to say. Madame Bouchard wore a navy dress that drained the color from her face. The woman was agitated, unsure what to do with her hands, her gaze flitting around the room. Tom looked as if he had gained a little weight—he was always too thin—and had shaved off his mustache, giving him a younger appearance. The new look unsettled Emma because now he reminded her again of Kurt when they had met in Vermont.

“You have something to tell us,” Madame Bouchard said through an ironic smile.

“I’ll explain my pregnancy to Tom—if that’s what you mean.”

Madame Bouchard huffed and turned her attention to the objects in the room.

“We won’t keep you long,” Tom said, “but I felt we needed to talk.”

Madame Bouchard nodded reluctantly.

“We’ve come to a decision,” Tom continued. “Charles and I are staying in Boston. Madame Bouchard has decided to remain in France with her other son.”

The woman smiled somewhat haughtily, and said, “You must have known this would come to pass. Your husband would not desert you . . . I told you so in Paris. It is hard to raise children without a father. But Thomas is kind and I know he will help with our provisions. My other son is French through and through—and I have become so. He needs to know the ways of our country. I only came to provide milk and make sure that Charles would find a good home.”

“She is returning to France in a few days. She has no desire to stay, or to bring her other son to live here.”

“Where will you live?” Emma asked Tom.

“I haven’t figured that out yet. We’re staying at a hotel at the moment. I hoped I could talk to you about an arrangement.” His blue eyes deepened in intensity. “I see circumstances have changed on both our parts.”

“She has gotten even with you,” Madame Bouchard said.

The hackles rose on Emma’s neck. “My baby was not a question of getting even. My pregnancy was necessary—I need not explain it to you. Not even Tom knows my reason.”

“I must say it’s a bit of a shock,” he said and patted the boy in his arms. “But then, who am I to talk about shocks?”

“Could we talk in the courtyard?” Emma asked him.

He rose with the boy and Emma opened the French doors.

“Don’t be long, Thomas,” Madame Bouchard said. “Charles needs to be fed soon.”

Tom gave an approving look and stepped past the doors.

Emma looked at the bricks, as the space, damp and mossy, closed around her. The tender, green fir shoots were outlined against the walls. While she was gone, an ivy had taken root in one corner; now, its feelers, cross-hatched by variegated leaves, streamed up the stones and reminded her of the courtyard in Paris.

“She’s a most disagreeable woman,” Emma said after closing the doors.

“Beautiful, but disagreeable.”

“She is that. . . .”

“I was very needy at the time, Emma, and I hope that’s something you can understand. Solace for one evening was all I sought and our relationship grew from there. To be honest with you, I’m happy I have a son since I won’t be able to have a child again.” He looked down at Charles, whose head and dark locks were partially covered by a blanket.

Emma pulled back the cover and looked at the smooth, young face. The boy was dozing, and quite handsome in his slumber. “He’s beautiful as well. He has your features, but her hair and eyes,” she said stroking the abundant black hair covering the boy’s head. The child’s eyes fluttered, revealing his dusky gaze for a moment, before he drifted back to sleep.

Tom laughed. “I don’t think he’ll go bald at an early age, like his father.”

“She told me in Paris you would come back to me. I didn’t know what to believe at the time. Is this really what you and she want?”

Tom sat on the edge of the table and rested the boy in his lap. “She would never admit it, but she wants Charles to grow up here. I think she’s afraid of another war to come.”

“Then why not come to America and live with you and her other son?”

“She’s a proud woman, fiercely nationalistic, who loves her country. She loved her first husband, a Frenchman, deeply, but he wasn’t kind to her. He and their son are the touchstones of another life—one she’s intent on preserving. She doesn’t want to