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

with a red blush on the cheeks, a blue sheen stippled on for the shaven beard. That’s how he would have looked had the mask been completed. If only he had stayed, she could have transformed his face and restored his life. As she drew, the disappointment of her failure touched her heart.

* * *

She sketched in the studio lit by the warm, yellow light of two candles, preferring the flames to the glare of the electric bulb. However, the charcoal drawings seemed more like doodles than studies. She’d thought of sketching Linton from memory but decided against it. Her pencil scratched against the paper—a soothing sound because it connected her to the past: studies at school and sculpting in Boston. She paused and studied the two fresh casts on the wall. Once their masks were finished, the soldiers could rejoin society, walk among the crowd, hold jobs, make love, and have children without fearing the horror precipitated by their faces.

Upstairs, Virginie dragged a log across the bedroom floor to the fireplace. Hassan had already gone to bed in his room. Madame Clement had left hours ago after supper.

The snow Virginie had predicted fell during the day, but only enough to make the streets slick and the air uncomfortably damp. Above the eastern rooftops, and through a broken expanse of pearly clouds, pinpoints of stars glittered like soft diamonds. She opened the window and drew in an exhilarating breath of air. She wondered what Tom, farther to the east, was thinking. What was he doing on this frosty December evening? Was he as alone as she felt?

She gathered a blank piece of paper and a fountain pen, tapping the instrument against the desk to clear the ink before she wrote:

15th December, 1917

My Dear Linton:

I can’t tell you how heartened I was to receive your letter. Of course, I’m not angry with you for writing.

To say that the last four months have been an adventure, more often a trial, would be an understatement at best. Yes, Tom has been injured, but I cannot reveal the details because this letter will be censored. You probably already know the details by word of mouth—in other words, gossip provided by a soldier that made its way home.

She dropped her pen on the table and laughed. Had she come to think of Linton so intimately that his blindness had been cured miraculously? Who would read this letter to him, with all its personal detail? Certainly not Louisa Markham or Alex Hippel. Memory carried her back to a night in late May when Anne found her asleep in her Boston studio. She had told her housekeeper she was dreaming of a man in a Greek Temple.

“Was the man your husband?” Anne asked. Emma at once understood her housekeeper’s capacity for passion and longing. Anne would understand now. She could be trusted to read the letter to Linton.

Emma picked up the pen.

Tom is recovering, slowly, but his doctor tells me he should be able to return to work soon and live life normally as time goes on.

To your first point—I appreciate your efforts in composing your letter. I had no trouble deciphering your “scratches” as you termed them, and I’m happy you were able to overcome the “frailty” of your heart. A letter from a friend, when you are living in a land of strangers, is always welcome. As important as my work is, I often go through days in Paris with a sense of ennui—no, a feeling of dread that the world has shifted; that this war will never be over, that it will consume us all. And, of course, those of us near the Front fear this the most.

To your second point—the hardest to address—I am sorry your work and life have suffered because of our friendship. I have no control over the rumors spread by a malicious person (you know who she is) but I do have the ability to live my life and conduct my work with pride, without the shame induced by others. At times, I have been bullied and sullied into actions I did not want to take and later regretted, though I must admit my mind was clouded by my own insecurities and adolescence. Some decisions were, in the long run, disastrous for me.

Our time was ours alone and perfect in its innocence.

I’m a branded woman in Boston; first, because of my audacity to be a sculptor (I will use the masculine form here for effect), and second because of the wagging tongue of my so-called friend. You believe she spread a lie after her unfortunate arrival at your studio, and my instincts tell me your assumption is correct. When I return, I will have a chat with her about her predisposition for gossip. That conversation, as you will no doubt guess, may come too late to affect change.

You are also correct in your deduction about Tom. Something is wrong. I’m fairly certain this involves correspondence from my friend, but I can’t be sure. The truth will win out in the end.

Please write again. I loved getting your letter. It kept me in touch with Boston—and you.

If the Atlantic were not so dangerous, I would invite you to my studio in the spring. We could sit in the sun in the Luxembourg Gardens and enjoy the tulips and flowering trees. Paris is a most beautiful city, to be savored by lovers and friends, even during a war.

Please take care.

Your friend always,

Emma Lewis Swan

P.S.: I am sending this letter to Anne with instructions to read it to you. She will need to contact you through Alex with utmost discretion. I know she can be trusted to keep our confidences.

The wind clawed its way down rue Monge with fierce talons, sweeping away the gray snow clouds, leaving a sparkling coat of white on the ground and a frosty spray of crystals in the air. The sun shone like a fiery mirror in a flawless blue sky.

The Paris clocks