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

the cabman to his horse, the clop of hooves, and the rattle of the carriage.

Finally, Linton asked, “Have you decided?”

“ No. ”

He exhaled and her world again seemed on its rightful course.

“I need time to think about what Tom is asking of me,” she said. “The thought is tempting—I don’t think you know my weaknesses, Linton.”

“You have a weakness?” he asked, somewhat bitterly. “I wouldn’t have thought so.”

“Oh, more than one.” She leaned back in the seat as the cab came to a brief stop to let pedestrians cross an intersection. Emma stared at the couples who passed in front of the carriage; a few smiled and chatted, most were captivated by the ground underneath their feet. To go through life staring at the ground, one might as well be dead. Linton was right, the day, the journey, were too precious to waste. She faced him and found him staring at her with his gauzy eyes, waiting to hear of her tribulations. “Well, for one, I have trouble with faces. The critics have always said so. I’d be working with soldiers—making masks to cover their facial injuries. The work would assist me in my art and . . .”

“And?”

“I don’t want to sound too noble . . . I’d be doing something for someone else for a change—something good—not just thinking about myself, or my art, or scouring Boston society for patrons.”

Linton nodded. “Yes, let Alex, Louisa Markham, and Frances Livingston handle that aspect of the business.”

“I know you understand how exciting, but shallow, the whole business can be.”

He said nothing, but she knew he agreed. “But there is our project. Narcissus might keep me in Boston.”

“Am I one of your weaknesses?” he asked.

She shifted in the seat and was certain Linton saw, at least felt, her discomfort. Was he her weakness? The cab jerked forward past the sleepwalkers staring at their feet and, at that moment, she believed Linton was more than a temptation for all the qualities she admired in him. He was a man with whom she could fall deeply, madly in love if she let herself. The question was how far would she go?

As if unwilling to wait for an answer, Linton placed both of his hands on her face.

Emma recoiled as much from the intimacy of his movement as from the vulnerability she felt from public eyes staring into the cab.

She pushed his hands away. “Linton, please!”

He turned crimson and his pale eyes blinked. “I meant no offense. I only wanted to see your face. All you are to me now is a whitish blur surrounded by a dark halo of hair. But with my hands I can truly see.”

“I understand,” Emma said apologetically, and felt ashamed of her rebuff, but still wary of those who might see her with his hands on her face. She lifted the overhead trap and yelled to the cabman, “Driver, could you please take us to the Fenway? I want to see the lush green of the cattails.”

“Certainly, ma’am,” the driver yelled down.

Emma closed the trap and pressed her back into the soft leather. The cab veered away from the river, heading west, passing several busy streets before taking its place on a road bordered by opulent houses with stately columns and wide verdant lawns. They passed Mrs. Livingston’s home before the road narrowed to a lane shaded by tall oaks and cedars. On this part of the journey, her companion had been silent, unmoving, staring through the carriage glass to his left. She wondered what he was seeing, or thinking.

“Linton?” She tapped him on the shoulder, hoping to shake him from his thoughts.

He turned to her and tears glistened in the shaded wells of his eyes.

“Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“I know you didn’t mean,” he said tersely and swiped a hand across his eyes. “I should be more of a man about it, I suppose. But can you understand how hard it is for me to . . .”

“See?” Emma asked softly, verging on tears herself.

Linton nodded and peered out of the cab.

Emma took his hands, now firmly situated in his lap, and guided them to her face.

He shuddered at her touch and turned.

She placed his right hand on her left cheek. Her facial nerves fluttered at the cool dampness of his fingers against the hot flush of her skin. “See,” she said.

His body relaxed against hers as his fingertips rested against her cheek for a time. Then, subtly, like a sculptor molding clay, his thumb and forefinger explored her features, at first dimpling them against the hollow of her cheek. He worked his hand upward across her cheekbone, and then cupped it over her left eye, pressing his index finger over the line of her brow. Emma thought her breath would stop as his hand traced lightly over her skin. He followed the line of her hair, leaned over, and then allowed his fingers to drift down the right side of her face, gently contouring the length of her nose. His hand descended toward her jaw; at that point, he brought up both hands and cupped them around her face. In a languid motion, he slid them down until his palms cradled her neck in a gentle embrace. Her pulse throbbed against his hands.

“You are so beautiful,” he said after a moment.

Emma placed her hands over his. The cab glided under a dense arch of trees and the shadows deepened.

Linton drew his face toward hers and kissed her.

She swooned under the press of his lips as the city dropped away. How long had it been since she had yielded like this to a man? How long had it been since the sweet sensations of passion had overtaken her? She lost control as the fevered air swept through the cab. Fueled by the humidity of the Fenway’s swampy ground, Emma kissed Linton fiercely and he responded by covering her face and neck with his own fervid kisses.

The cab rocked to a stop. The driver’s knock