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

as if I have to make a choice, extricating myself from Louisa—as well as the people who are my patrons. Things haven’t been the same since Tom left.”

“It’s Alex’s fault,” Linton said. “If I could break my dependence on him, I’d leave his gallery and go somewhere else.”

“Please, Linton, you need Alex—for your sake and for your career. He’s the only gallery owner in Boston who would take on work like yours. You’ve been successful with him. He’s set you up in this studio. Perhaps he is to blame for these rumors—but I can understand why he started them.”

Linton flinched. Looking somewhat frail in the dull light, he got up from the couch and walked toward the windows, his head bowed, his back hunched. He stopped near the panes and leaned against the casement.

Emma remained on the couch, unsure whether to follow. After a moment, she grabbed a blue silk scarf from the seatback, walked to him, and looked out to the street below where a few umbrellas bobbed in the mist.

“Why can you understand the rumors?” Linton asked. “Why?”

She wrapped the scarf around his shoulders and stepped back. “Because you are Linton Bower. If Alex did, it’s because he cares for you—not because he’s an evil or malicious man. His actions may have been motivated by jealousy, but also . . . love.”

“I lied to you, Emma.” Linton shuddered and brought his hands to his face, perhaps in shame, perhaps in exasperation. “I deceived you—I did sleep with him, but that’s the only lie I’ve ever told you.” Lowering his hands, he removed the scarf slowly from his shoulders and faced her, sadness swimming in the gauzy eyes. “Only a man like me would allow a woman like you to put a silk scarf around his shoulders. Only a man like me would sleep with Alex more than once . . . a few times . . . because I needed representation—because I needed the money. I’m sorry I lied, but it’s not something a man reveals to a woman.”

“Then, you are a . . . ?”

Linton bunched the scarf in his hands and threw it to the floor. “No! I’m not a homosexual. I’m an opportunist. I’ve been dismissed by men and women alike because of my condition—ignored as the blind man.”

He swayed toward her and his advance caught her off guard. He reached for her, his arms closing around her, his muscular strength pressing against her body, finally capturing her in his embrace and pressing his lips against hers. As one hand held the back of her head, the other drifted toward her breasts and she knew she should struggle against him, but her resistance faded as Linton’s passion increased.

“Linton . . .” she managed to whisper between his kisses. “This isn’t right. Not this way.”

“Please, Emma,” Linton said, guiding her hand to his stomach, his abdomen quivering at her touch. “I adore you. . . .”

She was standing on the edge of the precipice. But as Linton’s hands swam over her body, the encroaching intimacy set her on edge rather than fire her passion. The studio’s cavernous shadows suddenly took on ominous overtones, with Tom, Louisa, and even Alex standing in the corner, watching them with disapproving eyes. As exciting as making love to Linton might be, she could not go through with it. She was trapped—caught between desire and the stasis of her marriage and conscience. Emma turned away, unable to bear the kisses Linton showered on her neck and face, sliding from his grasp as he undid the buttons on his shirt.

Apparently, neither of them had heard the footsteps on the stairs. The door swung open, followed by words blurted out as if in shock: “Your Diana has sold . . . I wanted to be the first to . . .”

An eerie silence fell over them before Linton, his back to the door, gasped and hurriedly tucked his shirt back into his pants.

Emma reeled backward toward the windows.

Louisa, deathly pale, holding a dripping umbrella, stood in the doorway. “Alex told me you might be here—I wanted to give you . . . good news. . . .”

A contorted smile crossed Emma’s face before the tears began.

Linton wheeled in a fury. “Get out of my studio! Get out, now!”

Like a phantom, Louisa turned and stepped out the door.

The sound of the closing latch exploded in Emma’s ears. She collapsed against the sill.

Linton took her into his arms as she sobbed.

She hurriedly wiped her eyes and drew herself together. “I’ve got to catch her!” She pushed him away and rushed to the door. Emma called Louisa’s name as she fled down the stairs to the street. Her friend had disappeared in the foggy dampness; the mist had turned to rain. Emma braced herself against the building, uncertain of what to do; but one thought raced through her head as the tears fell: I will never be able to show my face in this city again.

* * *

Emma tore the sheets one by one from her sketch pad as Anne set the tea service on the sitting room table. Lazarus lay on his back, paws up, against the side of her chair. The courtyard darkened under the evening mist and the fir appeared black and foreboding.

“I’ll get wood for the fire,” Anne said.

“The evening’s chilly for June.” Emma wrapped her dressing gown tightly around her and looked at the drawings gathered in her lap. Soon, the fireplace radiated warmth and cheeriness throughout the room.

Emma looked at Tom’s picture. Anne had kept it conspicuously clean since she’d issued her instructions. She rose from her chair, knelt before the fireplace with the sketches of The Narcissus, and methodically ripped each page in half and tossed the pieces into the flames. The paper whooshed and curled in the fire, and in a few minutes the drawings were reduced to feathery gray ash. She admitted to herself that Linton’s revelations had disturbed her. It wasn’t so much that he had