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

touched me. Perhaps it was his inherent sensuality, his courage, his obvious tenacity—all qualities I admire. Our walk was refreshing and he, as we glided under the trees, opened up something in me, a vibrancy I haven’t felt in years. I have given away so much of my time, my energy, and my life to my marriage and my art—and for what? To sit at home like a lump? I’ve wondered recently if I would ever feel again. Now, the possibility has arisen; however, I understand my situation. I’m a married woman with obligations and a husband. . . . Well, that’s where the argument breaks down. A husband who wants no children because there isn’t time for a “little one” in the house. A husband who provides financially for every need, including my art, but eschews the bedroom. But I cannot deny Tom his love of medicine and healing. What he does for others is beyond measure. And, for that, I love and respect him.

I must be cautious with my emotions. After I said good-bye to Linton I noticed a butterfly skimming, soaring on beautiful black and yellow wings, through the Public Garden. I have always loved them for their fragility and, at the same time, their strength. They are small with translucent wings, yet able to overcome the storm and travel thousands of miles to fulfill their destiny. I must emulate the strength and beauty of a butterfly.

“So, who is he?”

Emma smiled and settled into the wing chair opposite the French doors of the sitting room. Lazarus curved in an oval at her feet, his black snout propped upon his paws. She looked past Louisa into the courtyard, loving the play of afternoon sun, flooding the stones with light and then plunging them into shade, as the orb toyed with the scudding clouds. The late May wind swept into the room in bursts as the fir trembled in the breeze.

“Don’t smile at me,” Louisa scolded. “You know perfectly well who I mean. I haven’t seen you beam so since you met Bela Pratt.”

“You know me too well, Louisa.”

Anne brought a pot of tea and placed it on the center table.

“Thank you, Anne,” Louisa said. “At least there’s one woman in this house with common sense.”

“Ma’am?” Anne asked with chagrin, startled that Louisa would address her outside of domestic duties.

“Oh, never mind.” Louisa waved her hand in dismissal. “It’s not important.”

“Don’t move,” Emma told Louisa as Anne departed. “How do you expect me to finish this little drawing of you if you don’t hold still?” She paused. “And you shouldn’t tease Anne like that.”

“I’m ready to take off this damnable chapeau.” Louisa fussed with the white plume that stuck like a feathered quill out of her black hat. “And I’ll speak to domestics as I please—I’ve had years of experience.”

Emma studied her friend. She was not beautiful; however, she was elegant, refined in a way that might be termed handsome. Her hair was darker than Emma’s but only by a shade. Her eyebrows were prominent and black, belying her Italian heritage, but pleasing in line. Emma had often thought of her as a model for one of her sculptures; her face, long and angular, would lend itself easily to the sculptural form. Emma considered her own too round and soft as witnessed by the several self-portrait busts in clay she had begun in past years. She had destroyed each of them, dismayed by the ugliness of the work.

“Singer Sargent will fall over himself when he sees this,” Emma said. Her pencil slid softly across the pad in her lap. She concentrated on the plume, the jaunty form of the hat, and the dark hairline of the right side of Louisa’s face.

“Nonsense. Mrs. Isabella Stewart Gardner has him wrapped around her matronly ring finger. It’s highly doubtful we should ever see Mr. Sargent outside of Izzy’s house. You would have to present your drawing personally at Mrs. Jack’s.” Louisa fiddled again with the plume. “Although, I must admit, he was quite respectable to me the last time we met. I think his sincerity grew from the fact that I never asked him to paint my portrait.”

Emma smirked. “He passionately hates you society matrons.”

“I am not a matron, and I will club to death any woman who dares refer to me as such. I am, and always will be, a mademoiselle.” Louisa reached for the teapot and poured herself a cup. “And you are avoiding my question.”

Emma threw down her pencil. “You are insufferable. All right . . . Linton Bower.”

“The blind painter?”

“The same.”

“I saw him at the Fountain the night of the opening. He cuts quite a handsome figure.”

“I missed him that evening—I was so perturbed.”

“Alex told me Linton has sold quite a few paintings, despite his modern style. He considers him one of his rising stars.”

“I’d like to use him as a model,” Emma said.

Louisa sipped her tea and then leaned forward. “You do know he’s a homosexual.”

Emma’s breath caught for a moment as she stared at Louisa, flustered that her friend blurted out something so personal, so insidious, a rumor so potentially damaging to Linton. Of course, such a revelation, if it were true, would mean the end of any romantic fantasies she might harbor, quashed like a fire splashed with water. She chastised herself for letting her feelings get so far out of hand so quickly.

“Why the glare, my dear?” Louisa asked. “There are far worse things than being a homosexual. Alex will tell you so.”

“Really, Louisa.” Emma straightened in her chair and dropped the drawing pad beside it. Lazarus cocked an eye, snorted, and then returned to his nap. “Have you any proof? I would never take gossip at face value—I mean, Alex is one thing. . . .”

“Yes, a homosexual. Alex likes to keep his gentlemen friends. But I have no proof about Linton—after all, I’m not a man. . . .”

Emma sighed. “You are impossible. It makes no difference to me, anyway.”

“I can