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

Emma drew in a breath. “You are persistent and you require much of your friends. Let’s cross here.” They strode across the Columbus triangle where a cluster of brownstones rose around them. As they neared Linton’s studio, her body tightened. “I won’t bore you with details, but it’s fair to say my husband and I are in love.”

Linton shook his head as if to admonish her. “Just in love? Nothing more?”

“What’s wrong with being in love?”

“You’re too coy, Emma Lewis Swan.” Linton lifted a finger to his throat. “I can hear it in your voice and feel it in your soul. You may love, but your heart has taken refuge. It’s buried deep inside you, like a treasure chest waiting for the lock to be opened. Who has the key?”

Emma looked away, hiding the blush crossing her cheeks. Linton had gotten far too close too quickly. She regrouped for a moment, and then tugged on his arm, while changing the subject. “Are you certain you want to model for me?”

“Yes, of course. I have nothing to be ashamed of, and I’m not afraid of what you might ask of me.” The burgeoning smile, the strength and warmth of his face, aroused her. She resisted brushing her hand through his hair.

“All right then, let’s proceed,” Emma said. “But I don’t want to take you away from your work because of a selfish interest in my project.”

“Strangely enough, since I’ve moved into my new studio my output has been less than prolific. One could say I’m blocked. It’s as if my cramped little apartment fired my imagination.”

“I’m sure it’s only because you’re getting used to your new surroundings. Soon, your studio will be just like home.”

When they arrived, Linton guided Emma up the dimly lit stairs. At the landing, he withdrew the key and inserted it into the lock. “See how well I do, even when it’s gloomy?” He opened the studio door and gestured for Emma to enter.

She stepped inside, dazzled by the change from her first visit. Linton’s easel stood in front of the broad windows, facing the western light, the easel’s triangular form holding a broad canvas nailed to wooden stretchers. Two stone columns, on the north side of the studio, framed a pair of weather-beaten klismos chairs and a Grecian couch upholstered in faded blue silk. An array of patterned scarves in lacy Moorish design draped the couch and hung from the columns. A worn Oriental rug covered half the studio’s floor. A massive bookcase, mostly empty, concealed most of the south wall. Whistler’s table was centered in front of the case. Despite all its furnishings, the studio felt airy and immense, the cobwebs swept away, the sultry air of late spring pouring in through the open windows. The clay, the sketch pads, and Emma’s bag containing her sculpting tools and drawing instruments lay on the table.

“Linton, I’m amazed,” she said and grasped his hands in congratulations. “You must have worked for hours.”

“I owe it all to Alex,” he said. “He arranged for everything to be purchased and delivered, except the Whistler table. I acquired it on my own.”

“Well, it’s all quite lovely and I’m sure you’ll find the studio—”

“You’re wearing white, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Emma replied, puzzled by his question.

“I wasn’t sure whether it was ivory or white, but in this light I’m certain your dress is white. What else are you wearing?”

“Hardly a question you ask a lady,” she said, somewhat flattered by his interest.

“I’m sorry. I’m so rarely honored by the confidences of the opposite sex. I’d like to get a better sense of what fashionable women are wearing these days.”

Emma laughed and immediately thought better of it because Linton frowned. “Now, it’s I who must apologize. I didn’t mean to make fun. It’s just such an odd question. My husband would never ask such a thing, but then he can see. . . .”

“I can see and feel.”

Suddenly, the painter seemed younger and much more vulnerable than Emma had imagined. She cleared her throat. “Well, I don’t dress like Louisa—I’m certainly not that fashionable. I’m wearing a white summer dress that comes up to about mid-calf, white stockings, and black shoes, with a heel that’s taller than I usually choose for walking. Which begs the question, may I sit?”

“Of course.” Linton led her to the couch and sat beside her. His hand slid to her right calf and then to the front of her leg. “Your stocking has a pattern on it,” he said in amazement.

“Yes, they match. Women buy them that way,” she said and gently pushed his hand aside.

“And undergarments?” he asked without flinching.

Emma shook her head. “That, for modesty’s sake, I will not describe.” She laughed again and clutched his hands. “Linton, are you all right?” She caught sight of the sparkle in the pale blue eyes.

He leaned back against the couch and stared at the windows. “I’m perfect. I’m happy you’re here—in my studio. My cares dissolve when you’re near me.”

His happiness cheered her, but gave her pause. When they were together, time was distended, stretched, as if torn from the clock. His touch lingered, his smile shone, and the emotions they invoked were pleasurable. How could this attraction develop so quickly, she kept asking herself. For his part, Linton seemed perfectly happy, as content as Lazarus before the fire on a chilly night. She had to admit she was scared and wondered if she could distance herself enough from Linton to maintain their artistic relationship. That was the only way. No good could come from any other possibility—even though her heart was teetering on the edge of falling in love.

Emma smiled and touched his hand. “I’m glad you’re happy.” And she knew once the words were spoken she meant them sincerely.

Linton responded with a contented sigh.

“Perhaps we should be serious and get to work,” Emma said. “I don’t want to waste the afternoon.”

“I’m ready. Where would you like me to sit—or stand?”

“Stand, please. Here