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

on the trap brought her to her senses. Linton pulled away and Emma, flushed, ran her hands across her face and through her hair.

“The road ends here,” the driver called out. “Back to town?”

Linton arched his neck, directing his voice through the trap. “Yes, back to the city.” He turned to Emma. “We still have an hour left.”

Emma smoothed her dress and tried to smile. She wondered whether Linton could discern her discomfort—perhaps by instinct rather than sight. “An hour,” she stated in a measured tone. She brushed her hands over her coat. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have acted so rashly.” She expected a quick reply, but none was forthcoming. Linton only stared out of the cab as if focused on some obscure object in the distance.

After the cab had reversed course and begun its journey back, he said, “You didn’t act rashly—you acted from your heart.”

“Perhaps, but where the heart leads can be dangerous.” Emma stared at the distant church steeples that rose above the trees. “We need to step back for a moment—let our intellect rule.”

Linton sat stiffly in the seat. The cab passed the resplendent Fenway homes and ventured back to Boston’s crowded streets. Other than polite conversation about the architecture, Emma spoke only briefly. He did the same until they arrived at her home. There he asked the driver to help Emma out of the cab and when she said good-bye, he did likewise, staring at a distant object that seemed visible only to him.

* * *

Emma fanned the program in front of her face. Beads of perspiration formed near her hairline and slid toward her temples. Why had Louisa decided to inflict an afternoon of such torture upon her?

The pianist at the front of the church lifted his hands to perform the Allegro Maestoso of Mozart’s Piano Sonata in A Minor.

Emma wiped her face with her handkerchief as the performer’s fingers touched the keyboard. “My God, it’s hot in this church,” she whispered to Louisa.

“Hot as hell, you might say,” her friend whispered back, fanning herself with a carved ivory fan bordered in black Japanese lacquer.

Emma wondered how Louisa could stay so cool in such a formal dress of heavy cotton. She looked out over the rows of dark pews, nearly all occupied by stiffly dressed men and women who had come to enjoy a Sunday concert at the church.

The pianist’s hands raced over the keyboard as the afternoon sun burned through a clerestory window. A rectangular pane of blazing yellow light fell on an elderly couple three rows in front. The air grew as suffocating as fingers around her throat as the heat intensified.

“I feel faint,” Emma whispered again. “I love Mozart, but I must get some air.”

“I loathe Mozart,” Louisa replied. “Your need for medical attention is the perfect excuse for an early departure.”

“Absolutely,” Emma said before Louisa rose from the pew, clutched Emma’s hand, and pulled her down the aisle.

Though it was only slightly cooler outside, a moderate breeze cheered Emma and the heat lifted from her cheeks.

“Let’s sit for a moment,” she said as they crossed Park Street, her arm intertwined with Louisa’s. They found an iron bench shaded by an elm’s leafy branches. A flock of pigeons pecked and cooed near her feet; two squirrels circled madly around the base of a nearby tree.

“Are you feeling better?” Louisa asked after a few moments. “In the church, you looked like a cherry ready for the picking.”

Emma wiped her brow with her handkerchief, watching as couples traversed Tremont Street and, farther to the south, a throng of people crossed Boylston Street. Activity filled the Common on Sunday: children played with hoops, men courted sweethearts, old men smoked and read newspapers. Carriages rolled down Tremont, competing with the trolley for space.

Louisa sighed. “Give me a modern composer any day. Have you heard of Mr. Mahler? He died a few years ago, but he was a genius.”

“Vaguely,” Emma replied, not much in the mood for conversation. “This was your idea. I didn’t know you hated Mozart. Why drag us to a recital you disliked?”

“To get you out of the house—you’ve been sequestered so. You might as well be a nun. I had no idea you loved Mozart, but, frankly, it doesn’t make much difference, does it?”

“Well, we’ve learned something new about each other. I like music—I may have heard something of Mr. Mahler’s, although most modern compositions strike me as strange.”

“Like Linton Bower’s paintings?”

“Oh, I see,” Emma said, shaking her head. “That’s what this outing is about.”

“Yes, I wanted a private word with you—away from Anne and Lazarus.”

“Lazarus doesn’t care about our conversations, and he doesn’t tell tales.”

Louisa shook her fan at Emma. “Yes, but Anne is a different story. One can never trust the serving class. The walls talk in houses occupied by servants. Besides, what I have to say is rather private.” Louisa placed her fan in her lap and folded her hands over it. “Stories are circulating.”

“About?”

“You and Linton.”

“I see. There’s not much to tell.”

“It’s been said he modeled nude for you, and there’s more. Rumor has it you are having an affair with him.”

Emma shook her head, drew in a deep breath, and smiled. “And where are these rumors coming from?”

“Let’s say I heard them from our friends.”

“Your friends, Louisa. Which brings me to a point—you will not be one of mine if you continue this gossip mongering.”

Louisa laughed, her mouth almost curled into a sneer. “Really, Emma, our friendship is too long and too glorious to be ruined by a flock of cackling hens. I only tell you this because I want to protect your name. You know the affectations of Boston society.”

“I could do without such society.”

Louisa tapped her fan against the bench. “So Linton is not a homosexual?”

“Really, sometimes you astound me. How could you fall into such a trap?” She stopped for a moment to consider what to say next. After a brief, uncomfortable silence, she continued, “He’s handsome—and, yes, he has modeled for me—and we’ve