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

little. “I’ve been called wicked and cruel by you, and headstrong by my mother, but I always seem to be the one who gets short . . .” Her voice dropped, ashamed of acting like an ill-tempered child.

Tom lowered his gaze. “Short shrift?”

Yes. Short shrift. I don’t have the courage to tell him that I feel I’ve settled—that our romance is dying. Something is missing from my life that comfort can’t provide. That faceless child. I see it in my dreams and when I think of Kurt.

Tom flushed and Emma wondered if he might be having some kind of attack. She looked at him with questioning eyes.

“I have something else to tell you,” he said. “I don’t imagine you’ll be happy, but I’ve made up my mind.”

Her mind raced as she clutched the armrests. Did he want a divorce? Was he leaving her for Louisa or another woman? Blackness, like a veil, descended upon her.

“I’m going to Europe.”

A temporary burst of relief jolted her. Perhaps it was for work, for a project, for a short time.

“I’ve offered my services to the Red Cross in France.”

“What?”

“As a doctor. The Allied Powers need doctors. Thousands are dying at the Front for lack of adequate medical care.”

She looked at him with blank eyes, barely cognizant of his words. “Why?”

He scooted across the floor, settling at her feet, his hands grasping hers. “I’ve told you why,” he said gently. “I’ve felt this way for months. I don’t feel right, sitting here in Boston, doing nothing while men are dying. I’ve a chance to make a difference for thousands of others, to contribute to the war effort. I’ve made up my mind.”

“But what about our future? What about the practice?” Any budding anger was washed away by the shock of his words.

“We have obligations that are greater than both of us—your art and my medicine. Perhaps, later, after the war is over, when the world is a better place, we’ll have a better view of the future—when things are settled. An older physician, Dr. Lattimore, will be taking over the practice while I’m gone. I’m paying him, but any income will be ours.”

She thought of the years that might go by and whether, after the war was over, that future might include a child. She didn’t want to raise the subject because it would only lead to more discord and, perhaps, tears. What if Tom never came back from France? What if he was injured and couldn’t work? What if—a most heinous thought—he met another woman? Certainly, his decision was a noble one for humanity, but what purpose did it serve for them? The questions overwhelmed her.

“I’m tired,” he said. “We can talk more about it later. I won’t be leaving for a while—forms to fill out, clearance, passage to Europe—all that has to be worked out.” He rose from the floor. “Are you coming to bed? Please don’t be too upset—it’s for the best.”

“No, I’ll wait for the fire to die.” It’s for the best—for you.

For an hour, she watched the flames die, until only red embers remained among the blackened coals. The mantel clock struck midnight. She let Lazarus out on the patio to conduct his business and then treaded softly up the stairs to the bedroom.

Tom lay naked under the sheet and blankets. She crawled into bed and settled against him, tears welling in her eyes. Perhaps he was right. She was being selfish. There was a greater good, a higher purpose, for both of them than just blithely existing in Boston. A young woman around the house and the opportunity to perfect her art might be just what she needed. After all, for years she was used to being on her own: alone in the farmhouse, alone after Kurt, as solitary as a cloistered nun.

Tom faced her in sleep. She placed her right arm over him, but he snorted and turned over. The dampness slipped down her cheeks onto the pillow as she shifted to her right side away from him. They were two people next to each other in bed, but as distant as North America from Europe with an ocean between them. Nothing she could say or do would change his mind. Was it even necessary?

PART TWO

BOSTON MAY 1917

CHAPTER 2

The ragamuffin boy, his mouth twisted into a sneer, eyes bulging from his head in disgust, dashed from behind a building to the street corner. Then he turned, jammed his thumbs into his ears, stuck out his tongue, and wiggled his fingers at someone behind him. A woman in a drab black dress loped after the boy, shooing him forward with her hands.

From her spot across the street, Emma was unable to discern what had captured the boy’s attention. She shielded her eyes against the sun and watched as a nanny, resting her hands lightly on the rail of a black-wicker baby carriage, neared the corner. Spotting the same unidentified threat coming toward her, the young woman lowered her head and stretched a white blanket tightly across the pram’s opening before hurriedly pushing the carriage across the street. Her evasive actions reminded Emma of a bird fleeing a cat.

Soon, the object of their attention came into view. He was no terror, no supernatural adversary. He was a soldier attired in a tattered uniform.

Even from yards away, the scope of the man’s tragedy became clear. Emma guessed the soldier to be in his early twenties. He hobbled on spindly wooden crutches patched together with bandages soiled brown by dirt. His face had been burned, partially ripped away, the right side of his head sunken like a crater, the fleshy remains of his mouth grotesque and twisted. Red patches of flesh and black strands of hair floated like islands upon his scalp. In his left hand, he carried a battered tin cup.

Men and women looked away, lowered their heads, or crossed the street to avoid him. The surprised few who happened to look upon him cringed as if confronted by