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

the Red Cross has had trouble tracking me down. I wish the same for the Germans.

I’m most concerned about your gallery showing. I hope it goes well. Remember, have faith in your talents despite what others may say. Please give my best to Louisa. I miss Anne’s cooking.

Your husband,

Tom

She read Tom’s letter the next morning and then dropped it on her studio desk.

You came into my reverie. I miss Anne’s cooking.

His words struck her as intellectual and hollow and, in their coolness, a mirror of their marriage. Nothing would change while they were thousands of miles apart. A chilling thought struck her: What if nothing ever changes? The days without Tom were torturous, but so was the thought of grinding on in a marriage devoid of pleasure. She was caught between a desire to break free and the constraints of her marriage contract. What else could a woman expect but to bow to the ways of men?

A knock at the front door echoed up the stairs; Anne rushed to answer, the wooden floor creaking under her shoes.

Hearing the sound, Emma stopped drafting the thoughts she planned to put on paper to Tom, but then resumed, not wishing to be bothered by a visitor. Emma presumed Louisa might be at the door with news of Vreland’s review; on the other hand, the Sunday morning disturbance might be from a salesman peddling sundries.

Two male voices, firm but pleasant, filtered up the stairs.

Not one, but two peddlers? She couldn’t hear them distinctly enough to make out their words.

Emma sighed and replaced her pen in the desk notch. Distracted from her letter, she stared out the window into the milky light of morning and a sky patchy with clouds. The day was as diffuse as her mood. She fidgeted with notepaper on her desk, folding and refolding it, until she settled upon a perfect square to fit the envelope in front of her. She thought of Vreland and cursed him as the soft steps approached.

Anne opened the studio door and peered around it. “I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am, but it’s Mr. Hippel, the gallery owner, with a gentleman caller.”

Emma was pleasantly surprised. “Really? Show them up.” Perhaps the review was palatable after all. She slid two chairs from their places flanking the fireplace and positioned them in front of her desk.

After a few moments, Anne reappeared, followed by the two men.

Alex brushed past the housekeeper, tugging at the man behind him, relinquishing his grip long enough to give Emma a kiss on the cheek.

“Emma . . . Emma,” Alex said, his voice a plaintive sigh. “Have you read the morning paper?”

She motioned for the two men to sit. “I don’t like the sound of that question. No, I had no stomach for it.”

Alex guided his guest to a chair.

“Vreland has finally gone mad,” Alex said, taking off his hat and seating himself next to the other visitor. He settled his brown-felt derby firmly in his lap, revealing the thinning black hair atop his head, and the slight graying of the temples. “The monster wants to kill me—drive me insane—he will only be happy if I throw myself into the Charles. There is no limit to his persecution!”

“Alex, you’re being melodramatic,” Emma said, judging the worth of his words. “Surely, the review wasn’t that horrible.”

“Oh no?”

Emma clutched the arms of her chair. “Well, go ahead, tell me. I’ve been anxious all morning. Louisa Markham didn’t telephone, so I assumed the news was bad.”

“Bad would be a superlative in Vreland’s view.” He pulled a clipped newspaper article from his jacket pocket. “How’s this? ‘A show of horrors . . . art created by lunatics, thrust upon an unsuspecting public . . . the Fountain’s open door is too high a price to pay for these monstrosities.’ Do you call that bad?” Alex’s head sank over his chest.

“No, I suppose not. It’s much worse than bad.” Emma slumped in her chair, defeated by the depth of Vreland’s spleen. “I hate to ask . . . but my Diana?”

Alex lifted his head. “You should be grateful you were dismissed in one sentence. Vreland was kind to you. He reserved his rants about lack of talent and assaults on aesthetics for others. The sum of his commentary about your sculpture was: ‘Diana, by Emma Lewis Swan, unlike nothing else in the gallery, has the soul of an icicle.’” Alex cracked a thin smile. “He wouldn’t even begrudge you an iceberg.”

She thought she had prepared herself for such a remark, but pain slashed across her chest—a swift laceration leaving no visible sign, but somehow bleeding from the heart. “I see,” she said weakly. She looked away from them and out the window. The day seemed darker now even though the strengthening sun had broken through the thinning clouds.

“I’m sorry,” Alex said. “You and I know your work is beautiful. Why, even Mr. Bower has offered to hunt Vreland down—the dog—and thrash him.”

Emma chuckled, but the wound still bled.

“I’ve been such a boor,” Alex continued, “I haven’t even introduced the two of you. This is Linton Bower, the painter who created the wonderful Woman with Still Life which that disagreeable patron with Vreland—Everett—described as ‘rubbish on canvas.’”

Linton nodded and smiled. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Swan. I admire your art, even though we work in two very different styles.”

Emma looked at the man to Alex’s left. When Linton had entered the room, she had avoided looking at him directly. Now she realized why. He was blind and stunningly handsome, so much so that she didn’t want to stare at him like a freak in a circus sideshow. A translucent film covered the pale blue irises of both eyes. His face, however, retained the ruddy freshness of youth—hair profuse, black, and wavy upon his head, his lips full and tinged with red. The extent of his beauty startled her. An instantaneous physical attraction swelled within her and she fought back a rushing blush of embarrassment.

Linton, wearing a cream-colored