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

fished out his first letter from Europe. She read the censored text again, searching for some hidden meaning or further deduction regarding his emotional state that she might have overlooked on previous readings.

10th April, 1917

My Dearest Emma (from somewhere in France):

How can I describe what I see here? I cannot, for the censor would never let my words pass. We crossed the Atlantic without incident—although our guard was always up. Several merchant ships had XXXXXXXX. Upon arriving in France, the Red Cross rushed us to a field hospital at XXXXX. The field officer, without endangering our lives, wanted us to understand what we would be up against. The medical conditions are primitive but serviceable. The tents to which the injured are carried strive to keep out the wind, the rain, and the heat. The men lie in single beds under white sheets and service blankets. The smell of bleach and alcohol permeates the tents, but the men, mostly French, seem in somewhat good spirits despite their injuries. Some of them are in desperate shape, however, with wounds so XXXXXXXXXXXXXX they must eventually be moved to a better facility.

I am traveling now and will be happy when we arrive at XXXXX. There, I hope, we doctors will not have to deal with XXXXXX conditions, XXXX, or the rampant XXXXX. My fervent wish is that these men, the most seriously injured, fighting the good fight, have lives ahead of them, and that I, doing my duty, will aid them in their recovery.

Our stop in Paris was brief, and I was absolutely enchanted by the city. I had the chance to sneak away for a few hours and visit Notre Dame. The venerable Cathedral never looked so formidable, or as welcoming, as it did on a Sunday evening when I climbed to the top, to stand amongst the eternal gargoyles and look out over the shimmering silver city. A mass was being said below. The sun was setting in the west, near the Eiffel Tower, and its rays cut through a bank of purple clouds which dripped rain over the arrondissement. The view brought chills to my spine and I wished you were here to see the enchantment as well.

I do miss you and Boston. Enjoy the spring days—you know how precious they are. Take a walk with Lazarus along the river. His name always reminds me of spring and eternal life.

I will write you as soon as I arrive at my destination and tell you as much as I can.

Give Anne my best wishes. Have her bake something special for you—something light for the warmer weather. Soon you will be able to drink lemonade in the courtyard with Louisa.

By the way, how is the faun coming along? I know you were pleased with what you had accomplished so far. I believe it’s your best work to date, especially the face. I fully expect to see it in bronze by the time I return. Hopefully, deadlines will be set for both—completion of your work and an end to the fighting. Most of all, I hope your gallery showing of Diana goes well. I know it will. Have faith in your talents.

Your husband,

Tom

Emma refolded the letter and dropped it in the basket. Not once did he write, I love you. The thought struck her that he missed her and Boston equally, perhaps Boston more. The same feeling had filled her the night before he left for Europe. Later, as she watched the endless stars pass beyond their bedroom window, she tossed, sleepless, but still wondered, why the concern? Would separation be so bad? Their marriage was as worn as an old shoe. She was the trusty book and Tom the trusty bookend. However, one without the other would ruin the pair.

Now that he was gone, she strove to remain placid, resolved not to break under the fear of a distant and bitter war. She shook off a burst of anger about his absence and felt ashamed. Tom was a noble man performing a noble deed, she the sacrifice that he had made in the grand plan to make the world safe. At least he supported her art. For the moment, that was all that mattered.

* * *

The evening’s rain passed and the next morning fled as quietly as a moth on wing.

The day was sunny and clear, but chilled by a northwest wind. In the afternoon, Emma began her preparations for the gallery opening. She and Tom had stipulated a bathroom with hot and cold running water for their home. Anne drew hot water in the claw tub, and Emma took her time, soaking up to her neck. In the bath, she paid particular attention to her hands, scraping the clay from under her nails, polishing them with a buff, and washing her fingers with a bar of oatmeal soap. After, she picked out a simple black dress, jacket, and hat from her closet and finished the outfit with a mauve scarf.

Anne ushered Louisa into the sitting room promptly at six, as Emma relaxed with a cup of tea. Louisa was dressed smartly as usual, attired in a dark coat with an ermine-trimmed collar. The few open buttons of her outerwear revealed an emerald green dress of layered folds accented by a platinum leopard pin studded with silver and black diamonds.

“Where should we eat?” Louisa asked in a chipper voice.

“I hope you won’t be too upset, my zephyr, but I’m in no mood,” Emma said.

“To eat?” Louisa stepped forward and placed a hand on Emma’s forehead in mock concern. “I’ve never seen you too sick to eat. You’ve the constitution of a horse, and the appetite of one as well.”

“Thank you, but I’m too nervous about the opening to eat. I’m worried about what the critics will say.”

“Nonsense. Just a slight case of nerves. Nothing to get worked up about. You must eat.” Louisa slipped out of her coat and settled into the wing chair near the fireplace.

Emma took another sip and