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

pursed her lips and exhaled. “Because I know you like him and he likes you . . . and you’ve been under such strain since your father died. You need to break free from your mother’s talons. She’s reduced you to a servant. You deserve some happiness and Kurt was willing to come. He likes you.”

Emma rose from the steps and leaned against one of the white porch columns at the top of the stairs. “I guess he does. He was very nice, but I was glad to see him go.”

Charlene got up and stood beside her. “Why? I thought you’d be happy and that you might even share a kiss.”

A chill ruffled her body. “No . . . no. We talked and then he was gone. Now I feel lonely again and all I see is his face.” She wondered why everything in her life seemed to revolve around the face.

“It sounds to me like you’re in love.”

“Maybe. I’m not sure.”

“Well, you can see him again. I’ll invite him back any weekend you want—maybe on the up-and-up. If your mother goes on a trip and leaves you at home—he could visit. That would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

Her voice rising with each word, Emma said, “Oh, I’ll see him again, when and where I want to.”

Charlene shook her head. “Sometimes I don’t understand you.”

Emma looked at the weather-beaten planks that made up the porch, feeling like it was hard to stand. Then, she turned her eyes to the sky, allowing the blackness to seep in. “I don’t understand me either,” she said, walking to the door. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

“Okay.” Charlene trudged behind her. “I’m sorry you cut your finger. I hope you see Kurt again.”

* * *

She saw him several times during the next nine months, having him when and where she could arrange it, as they had agreed. Of course, she acquiesced to her mother’s terms for visitations to Vermont—but broke the rules repeatedly. Kurt appeared to play along with her desires at first but became increasingly irritated and disinterested in their “sport,” as he termed it, because it drew him away from his own life.

“There can be nothing between us,” he said after making love one late summer day when they had ridden into the hills to be alone. His words were meant to cut and sting. Had Emma not been jaded by their lovemaking they would have struck with more force. The thought of revenge flitted through her mind, but she blotted it out, knowing that the consequences to her would be just as devastating as to Kurt.

Shortly after that meeting in Vermont, she wrote that her mother would be away for several days at the Wharton household in early September and that he must come to the farm to keep her company. She also had important news affecting him.

On the day of his arrival, she drove the carriage to Pittsfield, hoping that she wouldn’t be seen by anyone she knew. He departed the train looking somewhat tired, probably from having risen early, to arrive in western Massachusetts at a reasonable hour. They said little on the trip back to the house, Kurt being more interested in the eventual delivery of her father’s Model T than in Emma’s well-being.

“I’d love to take it for a spin,” he said.

“Absolutely not.”

“Why?”

“What if there was a crash? What would we do then?”

“Pretend it didn’t happen?”

Emma sighed.

After lunch, they sat in the living room, where she told Kurt her news.

“No,” he said, after she was done. “This is an absurd joke. Don’t torture me like this.”

“It’s true,” she replied, her strength hampered by her own guilt. “I’ve been sick from the changes in my body—ill in the morning, along with unfamiliar occurrences of a personal nature.” She stared at him. “I’m going to have a baby—your baby.”

“That’s impossible.” He sat on the sofa and, for a time, buried his face in his palms. When he finally lowered his hands, his eyes were stricken with panic, not tears of joy. “How could this happen? We took precautions.”

“Don’t ask me,” Emma said, her voice coated with irritation. “A condom isn’t foolproof.” She looked down on the silvery scar on her left index finger—a constant reminder of their first sexual union. “This whole affair has been a mistake. I should have turned you away when you came to the door in Vermont as my ‘surprise.’”

Charis sauntered into the room, his snakelike tail swishing behind him. He swiped at the curtain as it curled in the warm September breeze. Emma walked to the window and looked out at the verdant lawn scattered with maple and spruce trees, past the meadow, to the hazy line of blue peaks on the horizon.

Kurt came up behind her and she felt his presence.

He placed his hands on her shoulders. “Are you sure the baby’s mine?”

Emma wheeled and slapped him hard.

He reeled backward, stung by the pain.

“How dare you! There’s never been another. . . .”

He rubbed the red welts on his cheek left by her fingers. “You’re a child. You can’t have this baby.”

“I’m eighteen, two years younger than you. You can’t tell me what to do.”

“For God’s sake, Emma, what do you want?”

She balled her fists, stopping short of brandishing them at him. “To have our baby.”

He shook his head violently. “No. This child will ruin both of us—can’t you see that? Do you want to be saddled with it before you’ve even had a chance to begin your studies?” He stepped toward her, his eyes burning like fire. “What about your art? You want to be a sculptress, don’t you? How can you fulfill your dreams while changing diapers and raising a child? I have two more years of studies left and then law school. It’ll be another four years before I can even earn apprentice wages. I can’t afford to have this child . . . or a marriage. It will break both of us.”

He sat on the sofa, his arms stiff at