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

he looked to her for help, relying on her for emotional support as a blind man, for artistic inspiration, and, worst of all for her, a source of companionship. Her maternal instincts were blossoming, and Linton, in his current state, was hard to resist. An unpleasant choice would have to be made in one direction or the other. Was she to fulfill her marriage with her husband or begin anew with Linton?

As she placed the letter to Tom on top of a stack of books, she pictured Linton standing naked, the perfect model for Narcissus.

* * *

A few days later, Emma, in a restless mood from sketching all morning, planned to surprise Linton by taking an afternoon walk to his studio. He, instead, surprised her after lunch by arriving at her home in a hansom cab. Anne answered the door as Emma watched from the sitting room. Linton strutted into the hallway like an aristocratic gentleman, as animated in gesture and complexion as Emma had ever seen. He handed Anne his gray woolen jacket and asked her to call for her mistress. Lazarus barked at the surge of activity in the normally placid house.

“She’s right down the hall,” the young housekeeper said.

Emma was well within earshot. “What a surprise, Linton. I’m coming.”

Linton’s already wide smile, deepened. He ruffled his right hand through his black hair like a stallion shaking his mane. “It’s a perfect afternoon for a ride. I wish I could have obtained a couple of horses, but I hired the next best transportation I could.”

Emma peered out the door. A mustachioed driver in top hat, dress pants, and long coat stood next to a silky black horse reined to an equally shiny cab. Linton had spent time and money acquiring the perfect driver and carriage.

“I appreciate the extravagance, Linton, but you . . .”

Linton stopped her with a touch to her arm. “Appreciate the moment, Emma. It’s not often I splurge. And I should—I mean, while I have the money. Don’t you agree?”

She could only smile at his infectious attitude.

“So, grab a jacket and let’s start out. I have the cabman for two hours. The breeze is refreshing, and I’m anxious to see the city.” Linton laughed heartily and she joined in at his self-deprecating joke. He retrieved his jacket from the housekeeper as Emma gathered her light spring coat from the hall tree and then said good-bye to Anne and Lazarus.

“I thought you would be working today,” Emma said, as the driver offered his arm for support as she climbed into the carriage. Linton made his way around the horse to the other side of the cab as the man again offered his assistance. Linton settled next to her, his right leg achingly close to her left.

“No, the day is too beautiful to waste. You have to take advantage of precious days like these. There’s plenty of time for work on a rainy summer day, or through a dreary fall and a cold winter. Besides, we have our project to discuss.” He placed his hand upon hers as the driver climbed into the concealed seat elevated behind them.

Emma was tempted to move her hand to her lap but instead kept it in place.

The cabman flicked his riding whip and the horse stepped off at a leisurely walk.

“How is your work coming along?” Linton asked as they moved down the street. The row houses, the sun reflecting off the windows, glided past them.

The late spring air swirled into the cab; the earthy smell of the animal mixed with Linton’s soapy, fresh scent. “I’m satisfied with several of the drawings. I think after a few more weeks of working on the sketches, I’ll be able to start the maquette. The real modeling sessions will begin then.”

He patted her hand. “I’m ready any time.”

“And how is your work—and Alex?”

Linton turned away for a moment and looked out the carriage window. The flesh on the back of his neck quivered before he turned back to her, his mouth drawn at the corners. “Honestly, I don’t know if the studio was a good idea.” He tapped the fingers of his free hand on his thigh. “Don’t get me wrong, I love it, but when I’m alone I stare out the windows into the light as if there’s something out there I can’t reach and must have.”

She nodded.

Linton smiled weakly, seeing, or sensing, her movement. He grasped her hand tightly. “Can you understand this? It’s as if my success has brought on too much pressure. Now, instead of creating art for my pleasure, my edification, I’m creating to satisfy the public. I feel stifled—in more ways than one.”

The cab turned west toward the Charles River. In front of her, snaking lines of pedestrians strolled the Embankment, the river reflecting glittering diamonds of light along its length as it stretched south and west through Cambridge. She inhaled deeply and thought, This is a chance to be happy! Now, in this time, she had her best possible chance at happiness. But hadn’t she felt the same with Tom before they were married? No! Tom was different—he was security and sensibility. How could she desert her husband and the life they had built—for pleasure—for the vagaries of passion and bliss? In the end, wouldn’t the pleasure and intensity of any relationship fade into sameness and the familiarity of failure? How could two artists, with the fluctuations and whimsies of gallery sales, support themselves, especially Emma, who had yet to achieve any kind of fame or self-sufficiency? Linton felt different to her, the bud of romance coming to bloom; but she hadn’t sorted through the complexity of her feelings.

She withdrew her hand from his and stared at the sparkling water because she didn’t want to look into his eyes. “Tom wants me to come to France.”

He seemed to stop breathing, as if life had drained from him. After that, for what seemed an eternity, the only sounds that drifted to her ears were the gentle urges of