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

“Certainly, Miss.” Lydia led the way up the stairs to a bedroom on the front of the house—another grand space filled with antique vases, silver candlesticks, sparkling paintings, and centuries-old English furniture. The maid placed Emma’s bag on a mahogany stand. “The cab will be here at six o’clock sharp to take you to the reception. Your bath is at the end of the hall.”

Louisa appeared in the doorway. “Miss Lewis . . . I forgot to tell you. I’ll be introducing you to one other person tonight—someone who has a special place in my heart—a man by the name of Thomas Evan Swan.”

Her hostess bounded off as Lydia closed the bedroom door, leaving Emma alone and feeling much like she was living in a dream.

* * *

The smartly appointed carriage, with oil lamps and leather seats, arrived precisely at the appointed time to take them to a building near the Museum of Fine Arts on Huntington Avenue. As they rode, Emma tried to make small talk with Louisa, but the conversation seemed forced and stilted with the hostess much more interested in her appearance and the proper curve of the sable coat she was wearing than the fortunes of her guest.

Emma found herself fighting an anxious tide rising in her stomach, feeling much like a country girl thrust into a situation for which she was totally unprepared. Louisa, for her part, seemed unaware of Emma’s discomfort and again lectured her.

“Let the staff take your coat, let me make the introductions. When the conversation runs out, look to your right or left, as if you’ve spotted someone you know, excuse yourself, and be on your way. I’ll be there to guide you lest you fall.”

The words gave Emma little comfort, for she wondered what on earth she would have to say to these people. Would they judge her when she stepped into the room? Who was she trying to influence to make a good first impression? Her clothes were presentable, but certainly not of the latest and finest fashion like Louisa’s. Everything about the evening seemed wrong before it had even begun.

By the time they arrived, a number of carriages had already parked along the street. The air smelled damp—the possibility of snow hung in the air. The coachmen stayed near the rigs, their horses shaking their heads and snorting frosty breaths. The sky, still holding a feeble gray light, hid the setting sun.

Louisa, assisted by the driver, alighted from the carriage first. Emma followed. The imposing structure of the Museum, with its ionic-columned entrance and massive stone wings, towered over them. The building to the west, where the reception was to be held, was smaller and much less impressive.

The interior was rather stark and plain, and Emma was grateful that this building lacked grandeur. The simple walls, tables, and chairs, made her feel more at home. A tuxedoed gentleman took her coat while she looked around the room. Thirty people or more were in attendance, all dressed in evening wear. She looked down at her rather plain black dress and shoes and felt dowdy in comparison.

Louisa took her arm with a gloved hand and led her in a circle through the crowd. The introductions came fast and Emma struggled to keep up with the names and faces. Mrs. Livingston reminded her of a bird on a branch as she hopped from table to table in her cheerful manner. Singer Sargent and Mrs. Jack were nowhere to be seen. No sooner had she been introduced to someone, and exchanged a few words, than Louisa dragged her on to the next until she’d met the entire crowd. Her hostess explained in a whisper that no one besides Mrs. Livingston should matter. All the others were minor donors to the Museum and the School, she offered.

“I won’t remember a single name,” Emma said, after the introductions ended.

“You need only remember one,” Louisa replied. “The rest have met you—that’s what’s important.”

“I think I’m getting a headache,” Emma said, swiping at her brow with her handkerchief. “It feels hot in here.”

“It is, and you must strike while the iron is as well. Return to Bela Pratt and tell him how much you’d like to study here. Don’t fail to mention that you know me, Mrs. Livingston, and, of course, play up your association with Mr. French.” She clutched the high collar of her dress lightly and urged Emma on with dark eyes. “Go ahead . . . don’t be shy.”

Emma screwed up her courage, thinking she had nothing to lose. Pratt, an eminent sculptor in his own right and teacher at the school, seemed pensive, as if he would rather have been anywhere else than at the reception. He sat alone at a table, glowering at a glass of water, and looked up as Emma approached.

“Miss Lewis, isn’t it?”

“Yes. I’m a friend of Mrs. Livingston and Louisa—”

He waved his hand. “No need to impress me, young woman. Who you know isn’t nearly as important as what you can do. Please sit.”

Deflated, Emma did so, awaiting his next words. He studied her for a moment, taking in her features with an unsettling gaze. “Daniel Chester French tells me that you have a modicum of talent that might be developed, but that you have trouble with certain aspects of the art.”

“Yes, sir. Faces.”

A forest of dark hair, parted near the middle, topped his head; his cheeks sagged naturally, and his eyes sunk like black stones in their sockets. “At least you’re up front about it and don’t prattle on about how good you are. You have no idea how many candidates build themselves up only to fail miserably—the school has been fooled before.” He paused, looking her over again. “However, I trust my good colleague’s judgment. I’ll have to see your work, along with the applications, interviews, and other necessary processes for admittance.”

“So, I may be able to study here?” Emma asked, overcome with enthusiasm.

“It’s possible . . . but there