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

“It sounds exciting,” Louisa said and beamed at Emma.

“I can always count on you, my zephyr,” Emma said.

“Why do you call her that, my dear?” Frances chimed in.

“Because, like a gentle breeze, she has always been there to lift my spirits, and often guide my way. . . .” She patted Louisa’s hand.

“Don’t forget me,” Frances said. “I’ve always been your supporter . . . and you must let me have the first look at your new creation once it’s finished. There’s a place in the music room that might be perfect for it.”

Emma tamped down her enthusiasm, not used to praise being heaped upon her. “Yes, of course.”

Tom picked at the fish with his fork and then covered the dish with his napkin.

“Is something wrong?” Frances asked. “If the catch isn’t satisfactory, I’ll send it back. I’m picking up the bill—my compliments for dragging you out on this hot day.”

“No, everything’s perfect,” Tom said. “I’m not that hungry today.”

Emma knew he was lying. Concern blazed in his eyes, a look that had developed when Frances began talking about the war. They left the restaurant and escorted Louisa to her home before returning to theirs.

On more than one night after that, Emma dreamed of Kurt holding her in his arms, followed by the cooing sound of a baby. She awoke in a sweat, before seeing the child’s face, to find Tom lying next to her in his usual state of exhaustion from his practice. He was kind, generous with money even to the point of getting her a dog for company during the long days and evenings of his absence. Emma named the black Labrador Lazarus, feeling the name somehow appropriate for a resurrection of their relationship. Tom even hinted that it might be necessary to hire a maid to run the household so Emma could concentrate on her art.

In many ways, her husband was perfect, but during those dreams of Kurt, which expanded to unknown men who made love to her in ways Tom never dreamed of doing, she knew the foundation of her marriage had settled like an old building. Was Kurt the love of her life? Had her former lover mortally wounded her heart to the point she could no longer love any man?

* * *

For two years, life went on as normal, a gray page on which the same lines were written every day.

The only friend she could talk to was Louisa, although Emma was never sure how much to disclose, how much might get back to Tom because of their closeness. “Tom seems so distracted by his work,” Emma admitted one day. They sat in Louisa’s sitting room during a purple afternoon as the sun began to set. Lydia came in to light the fire.

Louisa chuckled. “All men are consumed by work . . . would you like some tea?”

Emma shook her head. “I must get home soon to feed the dog . . . I felt the need for a walk.”

“You mustn’t worry too much. After all, Tom is a good man, a good provider, loyal beyond belief to those who are likewise to him, and one who is building his own fortune for his family. I’ve always known and admired those qualities about him. Out of all the fish in the sea, he’s a catch.”

“Tom doesn’t want children.” Shame filled her, its powerful tendrils rapidly turning to sadness, as the faceless child roared into her head. She took a few breaths to calm herself. “I’m not sure I do either because . . .”

Louisa waved Lydia out of the room and sank into her chair. “I’m sorry, Emma. Tom’s never mentioned anything like—”

“Why would he?” Emma blurted out. “I’m his wife.” Tears welled in her eyes as she remembered their sporadic conversations about having children, most dying after a few minutes like their passion. “We’ve talked about it, but there’s always some excuse not to—Tom’s practice, my art career such as it is, money, the war . . . always the war.”

“Of course,” Louisa said, looking askance at the fire, but turning back to Emma after a moment. “He never indicated any such thoughts to me in the past when he and I talked more. . . .”

“I wanted . . . want . . . a child,” Emma said, swiping at her cheek. “Perhaps that will happen someday.” Of the many things working against her, she knew perfectly well what was holding her back more than anything else: the memory of the child she had lost, the depressive secret she could never tell Louisa, which left her periodically only to come racing back when she least expected it. A child on the street, the sign for a doctor’s office, the way the sunlight glinted off a church steeple—any of these might trigger the emotion. The thought struck her that she held as much responsibility for the decision not to have children as Tom did. Had her relationship with Kurt so deadened her to the possibility of children, even if she believed that was what she wanted? She straightened in her chair. “In the meantime, I must count my blessings—be thankful for what I have.”

“That’s what all women must do—only Frances has escaped that fate because she now has the fortune left by her husband. I think she quite enjoys being a widow.”

Emma blew her nose in her handkerchief. “That’s unkind, I think.”

“But true. She doesn’t have that many years left—let her enjoy them.”

“Not a word of this to anyone, especially not Frances,” Emma said, getting up from her chair. “Lazarus is at home in the dark. He won’t be happy.”

“I envy you, Emma,” Louisa said, almost as an afterthought. “You have a man who loves you, your art, a comfortable home, and friends. Whether or not you have a child, not everyone is so lucky.”

“Yes, I am lucky,” Emma said, stiffening. She kissed Louisa on the cheek. “I can see myself out.”

She