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

“Perhaps we should just ask him,” Emma said with an agitated flourish of her hand. “Let’s forget this dreary drawing of you and take a walk. Yes, let’s stroll straight to Linton’s and ask him if he’s a homosexual.”

“Do you know where he lives?” Louisa asked, smoothing the folds of her black dress.

“No, but I can find out.”

“Now who’s being impossible? You’re making absolutely no sense. No sane person would ever ask that question of another human being.”

“I intend to.”

“Then you will be the first—but that doesn’t surprise me, considering the way you tend to stand up to men these days.”

Emma was prepared to respond that her words at the Fountain were merely self-defense, but Anne appeared in the doorway with a letter in hand. “I’ve just picked up the mail, ma’am. This came from your husband.”

“Good,” Louisa said. “A needed breath of fresh air from France.”

Emma took the small brown envelope in hand. It looked rather ordinary—the censor’s mark on the outside, the postage meter, Emma’s name, and the Boston address written by Tom. Despite the number of letters she’d received from him, each new one filled her with trepidation. What if something was wrong—perhaps he was sick, or worse yet, badly injured? She ripped open the letter, read the first page, and then dropped it into her lap.

“My goodness,” Louisa said with alarm. “What in heaven’s name is wrong?”

Emma heard Louisa speak, but it made no difference what her friend said. Louisa’s words vanished in the air as her mind raced. She had to have time to consider, she had to think Tom’s proposition out.

“Tom wants me to come to France.”

Louisa looked at her with a questioning glance and then lowered her teacup silently to the table.

* * *

The fire died in the studio. Embers crackled under the grate. Emma wished she hadn’t instructed Anne to make it for the evening was too warm. Normally, the flames soothed her confused mind, but this one had little effect on her nerves. She held the letter up to her face in the dim light, scrutinizing the words for every nuance.

20th May, 1917

My Dearest Emma (from somewhere in France):

I have such good news for you. I received your letter today and I couldn’t help but write you as soon as I could. I’m sorry your opening was less than stellar, but I hope you’re holding up—don’t stretch the truth on my account. I’m sure Louisa will eventually fill me in on your true state of mind, if she writes me. However, like an epiphany, your letter prompted a wonderful idea on how you can aid the war effort and also utilize your skills as a sculptress.

She reached for a book on her cramped shelves. This one, in folio size by a French engraver, hissed when she cracked open its red leather binding. Near the middle of the book she found more references to her project, including a series of engravings entitled The Three Fates of Narcissus. The first showed Narcissus as a child. His mother bathed him in a pool surrounded by alabaster statuary as he caressed the flower that bore his name. The second portrayed him as a man standing in a Greek temple, a loose garment draped over his torso, staring at his reflection in a handheld silver mirror. The third showed him morphing into the flower, his arms and legs crackled and vein-like, his face partially swallowed by the petals of the Narcissus. Emma considered rethinking her ideas for the sculpture. The youth staring into the pool was, after all, a cliché. However, a man obsessed with his reflection in the ruins of a temple would be more to her theme. She visualized Linton in his studio, draped in an arabesque cloth, staring into a mirror—the silver one bequeathed to Tom by his father, part of his dressing set.

I have seen such horrors, I can’t describe them. You can help these men. I was told of a man in England who made masks for the facially disfigured—yes, masks! Can you imagine? I want to find out how he does this miraculous work. You could do the same in France—perhaps set up a studio in Paris with the Red Cross, far enough away from the Front to be safe, yet close enough for the soldiers to take advantage of your services. There is such need. As surgeons, we can only do so much, but you could return these men to the world of the living. And, best of all, we could see each other again.

Your husband,

Tom

She folded the letter and placed it on her studio desk.

See each other again? Could there be more than sight?

Emma chided herself for being so blasé. How could Tom know what she was thinking? Had she really made her feelings known? Both had slipped into comfort without passion and accepted the consequences without objection. She had no doubt that she loved him and he her, but how could love be measured? Was its quality spent in days spent together, the hours of longing while apart, or nights entwined in the bedroom? Perhaps they loved each other equally as absence diminished their relationship, the war ripping them apart as surely as Europe was split by the Front. Perhaps she had loved Tom more than he loved her, or vice versa; she couldn’t really tell. It seemed that fate, as a trickster, had drawn them together. The thought had crossed her mind that she was being punished by God for ending a life, but she considered her situation. There had been no other choice.

She closed the book and drifted near sleep as Narcissus, followed by the faces of men without eyes, noses, and cheeks like the begging soldier on the street, visages horribly broken and torn, floated in the void.

Lazarus scratched at the door.

“Anne?” she called out while sitting in the dark room, but the house was silent. The fire lay black and cold.