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

A door creaked open from the attic bedroom above and steps flowed down the stairs, followed by a knock at Emma’s studio. Her maid opened the door in her nightgown. “Are you all right, ma’am?” Lazarus padded in past the housekeeper.

“Yes, just tired. Have you taken the dog out?”

“Hours ago, ma’am. Do you know what time it is?”

Emma shook her head as Lazarus nuzzled against her legs.

“It’s after midnight, ma’am.”

“My God, is it? I dropped off.” She brushed her fingers through the dog’s silky fur.

“Were you dreaming?”

“I was—of a man in a Greek temple.”

“A strange dream indeed, ma’am. Was the man your husband?”

The question pierced Emma. She pushed Lazarus gently away, rose from the chair, and replaced the book of engravings on the shelf.

“We should both be in bed. I’m sorry I awakened you.” Emma thought for a moment. “It must be near dawn in France.”

She turned to the window, catching her reflection, as Anne called Lazarus. For a moment, in the darkness, she saw her husband dressed in his white surgeon’s apron. In her vision, a young man, silent, purple in death, lay on a gurney as Tom lifted a bloodstained sheet, the wounds of the flesh raw and crimson before him.

Emma gasped and forced the image from her head.

CHAPTER 3

BOSTON

June 1917

Emma paced herself as she walked to the Fountain, flushed with the thrill of starting a new project, yet wary of the prospect. She also found it hard to keep her model out of her mind. But despite the tamping down of thoughts some might consider indecent, she determined to enjoy the late spring in all its resplendent glory. Heady June days, when Boston emerged from its winter depths after an often dull and bleak spring, were to be savored. She noted this truth as she strode down Arlington Street admiring the purple irises, white-flowering hostas, and yellow pansies that dotted the small gardens and window boxes of the residences.

Her step quickened as she approached the gallery. Newbury Street’s bustle charged her with energy, the shop doors open for business despite wartime rationing, men and women strolling down the street and taking in the sun, the smells of fresh-baked bread and grilled meats emanating from bakeries and cafés. In moments like these, in the majesty of a glorious day, the war seemed far away, almost romantic and magical, as if some distant Crusade was in progress. In many ways, the war was a crusade. Millions of men were caught up in the fervor—Tom being one of them—volunteering to make the world safe for Democracy. She passed a recruiting poster of a Yank, rifle in hand, pasted on a tobacco shop window and remembered the evening Tom had told her of his plans to serve. Her immediate reaction had been shock. His decision was a surprise, made without her consultation, but not unexpected, given his propensity to elevate his career over all else. That night, Emma asked herself the questions any woman would have, but only to herself—questions about his love and commitment to their relationship that she had revisited in her mind so often since his departure.

Only recently, months after Tom’s absence, had loneliness and a sometimes sad desperation filled her mind like a slow-acting toxin. She had thrown herself into her work, attempting a few pieces, including the faun, but nothing came out as it should. And as the days dragged by, there were times when she wondered if her husband missed her at all, or whether she might be able to live without him. Those extraordinary feelings had taken on sharper focus since meeting Linton.

But today, she thrust those troubles aside and told herself she was more fortunate than thousands of poor wives, who had little means of support and sustenance, now that their husbands had been ripped from the house. No, she would remain strong, not because she was putting on a brave face, but because Tom’s absence was of his making, and his decision had led to her current circumstances—a comforting notion when called upon. She could muster her own reserves of courage and creativity if she had to.

Perhaps The Narcissus could be her best project. Today, Linton would serve as her model. A thrill washed over her. She felt like working again, imbued with energy, and dared believe that she might achieve her place among the great sculptors of America.

Through the gallery windows, she saw him sitting in a chair near her Diana. Alex stood behind him, his hands draped over the artist’s shoulders. Her heart dropped, however, when she saw the other occupant of the gallery—Vreland. The critic brandished his arms as he talked, his mouth twisted in exaggeration, the signs of someone who felt his own importance.

She opened the door and stepped inside. Linton instinctively looked her way. Alex smiled, and Vreland gave a brief nod, the first to offer a greeting.

Emma returned the salutation.

Linton, smiling broadly, rose from his chair, forcing Alex to remove his hands. “Good afternoon, Emma.”

“Everyone seems in good spirits today,” she replied.

Alex pulled a chair from behind his desk so Emma could sit. “Yes,” he said, with an air of satisfaction. “Monsieur Vreland has agreed to do a column for his paper on none other than Mr. Linton Bower.”

Vreland nodded and said, “At Alex’s insistence, of course.” He laughed and his joviality boomed through the gallery.

“Really,” Emma said, barely masking her sarcasm, “I thought you despised his painting.”

“I’m not fond of it, but money talks. Alex has made Linton’s sales records available to me—quite confidentially, I assure you—and I was impressed with the attention being paid to this young painter. Of course, there is the other aspect of the story, in respect to Mr. Bower’s . . . condition. . . .”

“That’s despicable,” Emma said, irritation rising in her. “Using a man’s sales figures and blindness to hawk—”

“Emma, please,” Linton said, resuming his seat. “The matter is settled and the arrangement is satisfactory to me. Alex and I appreciate