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

the fire in her soul that cried out for him? She remembered the day she and Kurt had met that summer in Vermont; the first time they’d made love in the fall, the room vibrating with the crimson reflection of leaves; and the lonely, bittersweet days of obsessing about him from afar. However, never far away were the tears she’d shed over the child she’d lost and Kurt’s rejection of everything she’d wanted . . . but, the question remained: Did she love Tom?

“Yes,” she found herself saying, although she doubted her own word.

“And he loves you,” Louisa replied. “That’s all I need to know.”

They dressed for dinner and left the house. Tom was absent from their conversation the rest of the night.

* * *

Classes and her new life in Boston occupied Emma for months. She saw her Boston friends Patsy and Jane a few times, but their lives were taking different directions now that Kurt was out of the picture and Charlene was miles away in Vermont.

Tom was equally busy with his medical studies and upcoming graduation. When time permitted, he became a frequent visitor at Louisa’s, and the three of them shared conversation and nights out on the town. Mrs. Livingston entertained them as well, calling them the “three musketeers,” with a touch of irony in her voice.

During the weekends they spent together, Emma still wondered whether Louisa harbored more than a passing affection for Tom, but her friend did nothing to challenge the relationship, preferring to act as the amiable hostess for the couple. For her part, Emma grew more attached to Tom as the days passed, the reality of making a living as an artist sinking in as she immersed herself in her studies with Bela Pratt and the other teachers. Through her letters and occasional visits to Boston, Helen continued to prod her daughter to secure a husband. The pressure from all sides of life was beginning to weigh on Emma.

Finally, in the spring of 1913, Tom proposed while they were walking on the Boston Embankment.

“Why should this marriage work?” she asked him a few minutes after she’d given him her answer.

“What a ridiculous question,” Tom said, oblivious to the crowd gathering on the banks of the Charles. He pointed to a seagull gliding over the silky water. The sun had brought out throngs of Bostonians to celebrate winter’s demise.

Emma tugged on his hand and stopped their walk. The pedestrians split around them as they stood like pillars in the middle of the path.

“It is not a ridiculous question. We’ve known each other for two years, we’re still very much unsettled—me in school and you just beginning your practice. If it hadn’t been for Louisa, we would be going our separate ways and not talking about this nonsense.”

“Nonsense? Emma, this is the most unorthodox marriage acceptance I could have ever imagined. One expects your betrothed to weep in gratitude, or at least to gratefully accept the blessings of it—not to question the concept from the very beginning.”

“I’m being honest, Tom. Honesty is an essential quality for women because we aren’t allowed to be much else.”

Tom took her hand and guided her along the path. “Let’s enjoy the moment. You’ve accepted and made me a very happy man.”

“Why did Louisa introduce us?”

Tom sighed. “Because she’s a matchmaker, and she thought we would make a handsome couple.”

“No, the real reason. That’s something that just popped into your head.”

“I can think of no other reason.”

Emma hooked her arm through his. “There’s another possibility. Louisa wanted to force the issue because she’s been in love with you from the beginning.”

Tom veered off the walk and pulled Emma toward a dock that thrust into the river. Looking west toward Cambridge, they sat on wooden planks warmed by the sun. Emma could have dipped her toes in the brown river if she’d wanted to. He sat next to her, pulled her close, and kissed her. She primly returned the affection. After several kisses he said, “Really, Emma, you are the strangest creature, but that’s one of the many reasons I love you.”

“Strange is hardly a foundation for a relationship.” She grew a bit cold at his reasoning. Sometimes she captured him with her eyes, the sun glinting off his wispy blond hair in a certain light, and she saw him for what he was: a moderately handsome doctor who promised much sensibility, but delivered few sparks to her heart. He was stable, though, a characteristic her mother had wanted her to seek in a man.

“Women know these things, Tom. Louisa forced her hand when she introduced us. For her, it was sink or swim with you. If you refused to seek my hand, she’d have another chance. Or, if I rejected you, she would have been in a better position than ever to pick up the spoils. At least she got you excited about the subject of marriage.”

“She did no such thing. Subject? Marriage isn’t a course you study in school. I think you give Louisa entirely too much credit. She’s snobbish, wrapped up in her Boston circle, and is as creative as a freshly hewn oak plank—entirely the opposite of you. But if nothing else, she’s pragmatic . . . and all she’s ever been to me is a very dear friend.”

Emma leaned back on her elbows and picked at the white flower blossoms that had been blown near her hand by the wind. “By your own admission, she’s a matchmaker. However, I will ply her with kindness, and she will, of course, be my maid of honor. As our marriage matures and we grow old together, I will continue to smother her with kindness because of her influence upon our lives.”

Tom laughed. “Sometimes, my dear, you can be wicked, whether intentional or not.”

At that moment, the light struck him in a peculiar, unearthly way, as if a halo surrounded his head. She took in his profile from the hairline, past the searching blue eyes, the neatly trimmed mustache of