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

suit and waistcoat, sat confidently in his chair, his manner dignified yet relaxed. Emma found it hard to keep from staring at his muscled arms and sturdy legs, which were evident through his stylish attire.

“I believe I misunderstood your painting.” She directed her remark to Linton in an effort to draw Alex’s attention away from her discomfort.

“You wouldn’t be the first,” Linton replied.

“I’m . . . sorry. . . .” Emma sputtered.

“You needn’t be,” he said. “Most people are shocked when they’re introduced to a blind painter.” He lifted his hands to his eyes. “Blind is too strong a word. When the lighting is perfect, I can make out fuzzy shapes and colors. Not much more. That’s how I paint . . . I understand that you paint as well.”

Emma glared at Alex, who shook his head, indicating that he hadn’t said a word to Linton about her forays into other art forms. “I attempt to paint, but in a classical manner—my work isn’t as exciting as the work you do.”

“But wouldn’t you agree, Emma, this young man has talent?” Alex asked.

“Exceptional.”

“Of course, considering Linton’s condition, I never took his threat of thrashing Vreland seriously.”

Emma and Alex laughed after catching Linton’s own contagious laughter.

“That is what I love about you, Alex,” she said. “Never one to shy away from scandal—having one of your artists thrash our favorite critic! Boston would be a dreary place without you.” She paused and looked again at Linton, but dared not stare long for fear of being rude. “How about tea? Anne can make a pot.”

“Thank you, but we must be going,” Alex said. “I’m taking Linton to look at new studio space.”

“Actually, feel new studio space,” Linton said. “Five of my paintings from the exhibition have sold. That money and Alex’s support have given me enough courage to think about painting outside my cramped apartment. I’ll know the moment I walk into the place whether it’s right for me.”

“That’s wonderful,” Emma said.

Alex lifted his hat. “I wanted to give you Vreland’s choice words personally. I’d hoped Louisa hadn’t telephoned or dropped by.”

“She would never be a party to destroying my ego,” Emma said. “She and Tom always build me up.”

“Of course. It’s as I said. We must carry on despite what others think. Beauty lives in our work.”

Emma tapped her desk. “Because we aren’t having tea, would you mind if I accompanied you on your walk? It’s a nice day and I’d like to get out of the house—I can’t think of better companionship.”

“Of course not,” Linton said briskly.

Alex frowned, taken aback by Linton’s quick response. “We’ll be doing quite a bit of walking.”

“The air will do me good,” Emma said.

“Please join us,” Linton said. “I love to walk—particularly in the bright light. In the sun, the world becomes a beautiful kaleidoscope of color and form. Alex is one of the few who has taken the trouble to walk with me.”

“Now you have my company as well,” Emma said.

Linton rose from his chair. “I would be thrilled for you to accompany us, Mrs. Swan.”

Alex managed a weak smile. “Well then, let’s be off. The morning is almost gone.”

Emma nodded, excited to talk a walk with a handsome man by her side and to see the prospective studio. Linton was a kindred soul, she knew; that understanding coming from deep within her, as if she had known him for years; much stronger, much deeper, more passionate, than the novelty of a first meeting—this attraction, this drawing toward him, could be dangerous if she let it get out of control. Don’t be a schoolgirl, Emma. You’ve already allowed that to happen one time too many. She would have plenty of time to think as they walked.

* * *

Can I look at him? Dare I walk as close as I wish? The air tingled around her. What a sense of romance—what prickles of excitement—clung to her skin. The pleasure of walking with a man reminded her of the times that she and Tom had strolled the Embankment, arm in arm, enjoying a bright spring day or a sultry summer evening. But, with Linton, the ugly specter of the forbidden reared its head again, as it had with Kurt, and she vowed to push it away, to resist its seductive charm.

Her heart beat faster when Linton’s hand rested upon her arm. Ladies, attired in pleated Sunday dresses of rich greens and blues, wearing brimmed hats, sporting yellow and white parasols trimmed in black, turned their heads as they passed. She enjoyed the scandalous attention that the looks elicited. Being with Linton opened her to freedom, to a giddy expansion of breath and soul, filling her with a vitality she hadn’t felt in years. The sidewalk glided under her feet, the warm sun shone more glorious than ever upon her body. May, a fickle month—one of beauty, life, and regeneration in Boston, if winter can be held in abeyance—had never seemed so beautiful.

They glided under the fresh canopy of leaves, across the avenues, past the brownstones and weathered churches, into a part of the city Emma had never seen before. Even as she enjoyed her companion and the sight of the fading blooms of a bed of red tulips, the nascent buds of the lilac, she marveled at the power of her deceit. Was she unfaithful because she was enjoying a walk with an attractive man? Of course not. But what about Linton drew her to him? In her heart, she knew. He was as forbidden, as dangerous a new love as Kurt had been. Linton’s vitality reminded her of her former lover—a man she hadn’t seen in many years, a man she dreamed of, but hoped not to remember. That time when they were last together in Lowell now seemed as foreign as the faun’s face; yet, being with Linton brought back a strange familiarity.

The call of the illicit, the seductive danger of romance, were siren calls to her artist’s soul. But her conscience reminded her that emotions