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

had struck ten on a Sunday morning. Virginie was at church and Hassan was asleep in his room. Madame Clement was off for the day, and Emma guessed she was at church as well. A bit of warmth radiated from the bedroom fireplace and Emma was curled up in bed with a copy of Madame Bovary. She had read it in English, but not in French. She lumbered through the pages, writing the words she didn’t know on a pad. The story held an uncomfortable fascination for her: a woman who craved love and excitement outside the confines of her bourgeois marriage.

A tentative knock, almost apologetic, sounded on the studio door below. Emma threw off the covers, flung on a robe over her nightclothes, and hurried down the stairs. She caught sight of a man descending the courtyard steps—an American, judging from his uniform.

Emma stepped onto the landing and called out, “May I help you?”

Lt. Andrew Stoneman turned, looked up at her, and smiled.

Emma recognized that contagious grin, the wire-rimmed glasses perched on his thin nose, the sandy hair protruding from under the Montana hat. Holding the railing, he bounced up the steps two at a time in a confident gait, his long wool Army coat flapping in the wind.

Upon reaching the landing, he hugged Emma and kissed her on the cheek. After a second kiss, he said, “The prettiest sight in Paris.”

Emma stepped back, flustered by his affection.

“Lieutenant, how are you?” she asked breathlessly, struggling for words.

“I’m sorry,” he said, quieting down at the threshold. “Where are my manners? It’s so good to see a friendly American face—and a lovely one at that.”

Emma blushed and held the door open. “Please, come in.”

“Have I caught you at a bad time? Are you well? You’re not dressed. It’s a beautiful Sunday morning.”

“Please, Lieutenant, calm down,” she said in response to his barrage of words. “I’m fine. It’s wonderful to see you, too. Would you like to sit and have tea?” Emma pointed to an oak chair in the alcove.

Lieutenant Stoneman took off his coat and hat and dropped them on the floor beside the chair. He looked stouter in his tan breeches and tunic than Emma remembered. A holstered black pistol hung from his belt.

“The stove is old,” Emma said. “It’ll take a moment.”

“Don’t go to any trouble. We can get tea—or even better, coffee—in Paris on Sunday.”

“Yes, at a hotel and pay dearly for it.” She clicked on the gas burner and the stove sputtered. Emma struck a match and a blue flame, hissing like a fiery merry-go-round, circled the burner. She took a pan from the cupboard and filled it with water. “We’ll have tea in a moment. Now, tell me how you’ve been.”

“I thought you might be at church,” the officer said.

“No, Hassan and I are the infidels of the studio. I haven’t been in . . . well, too long.”

“Hassan?”

“My Moroccan assistant.” Emma laughed. “I shouldn’t call him an infidel. He’s really a kind and gentle man. I must say, he looks a bit fearsome in his fez, and he’s always quick to point out that the Moroccans are the fiercest fighters in the war.”

“They’re like wild men. I can vouch for that.”

Emma leaned against the wall and studied the officer as the water began to bubble. She was amazed at how fit and healthy he looked in contrast to the tired and demoralized French troops she’d seen at the Front. “How did you find me? No, let me guess. The Red Cross?”

The officer shook his head.

“No?” She placed a finger on her cheek, unconvinced. “Hummm . . . you didn’t walk the streets of Paris.”

The lieutenant smiled. “I met your husband.”

The casualness of his reply caught Emma off guard. “You met Tom?” she asked, trying to mask her uneasy surprise.

“Yes. A wonderful doctor. I was sorry to learn of his injury.” He stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles. “You see, I’ve been on what you might call a tour of the Front—from Ypres to Toul. We’re still training, but eating better rations now than when we crossed the Atlantic. The French have been great teachers, but they want us in the war now. Pershing doesn’t see it that way. He thinks America is an infant when it comes to the battlefield and we should hold back. Still, being near the Front is a good way to get killed.”

“Yes, I know,” Emma said dryly. The pan rattled on the stove. She turned off the burner, spooned tea into infusers, and lowered them into cups of boiling water, the brew’s woody aroma soon filling the alcove.

“Thank you,” he said, accepting the cup from Emma. “You’ve always been kind to me.” He smiled again, but this time Emma caught a more affectionate look in his gaze.

“When did you meet Tom?” she asked.

“A few weeks ago. When I was introduced to Dr. Thomas Swan I asked the obvious question.”

Emma sipped her tea, hoping the brew might quell the uncomfortable feeling rising in her stomach.

“He’s a very lucky man,” the officer continued. “To think an overturned operating table may have saved his life. He walks with a limp and he’s a little hard of hearing—”

“I know about his injuries,” Emma said sullenly. “I’ve not been in Toul as much as I would like since the—”

“War is hard. Your husband is a brave man.”

She leaned forward and placed her cup on the table.

The officer grasped her hand.

She paused, stilled by the gentle touch of his fingers. After a moment, she uncoupled her hand from his.

“I didn’t show him this.” The lieutenant unbuttoned his tunic and withdrew a folded piece of paper—the portrait she had drawn of him onboard the Catamount. He opened it proudly, displaying it for her. “I’m sure its luck has kept me alive on more than one occasion.”

“Looks a bit dog-eared,” Emma said. “Perhaps I should draw a new one.”

He refolded the drawing and replaced it beneath the folds of his tunic. “Not on your