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

unlike his fastidiousness in Boston. The cottage’s chaos added to the chill embracing her heart.

“It’s cold tonight,” he said, still kneeling in front of the fire.

Emma stared at him—acutely aware of the changes in her husband. He had gained a little weight since her last visit to Toul, although his wool sweater and pants still hung on his frame, his eyes were hazier perhaps, his hair a shade darker but combed differently, swept down to disguise his thinning hairline, the mustache spreading below his upper lip. Emotionally, the person in front of her was someone unfamiliar. The connection between them had sagged under their separation. He might as well have been a man she met on the street, a man who could have piqued her interest, but ultimately left her cold and searching for warmth.

“Cold, indeed,” she said, scooting her bag underneath the chair. “Some cheese would be nice. A glass of wine, I suppose.” A half-empty bottle sat on the table.

Tom rose. “I made a plate for you. I hoped you would come, Emma.”

“Was there ever a doubt?”

He limped to the cupboard, opened it, lifted a white plate from the shelf, and brought it to her. It held dried meat, a wedge of cheese, and apple slices. He poured the wine.

“How is your leg?” she asked.

Tom sat next to her and looked out the window spotted with mist.

“My left leg needs patching up, but my limp is excellent.” He smiled and poured a glass for himself. “I’ve had too much to drink of late—it’s a habit I’m not happy about, but alcohol helps pass the time and ease the pain.” He picked up the glass and drained nearly half of it. “My leg has taken longer to heal than Claude anticipated. . . .”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Emma asked. “You never mentioned that when we talked.”

“Frankly, half the time I don’t remember talking at all.” He gulped the rest of the wine. “Morphine. The drug douses the pain, but leaves me in a fog. It’s addictive, hard to get off it.”

Emma frowned. “There hasn’t been much to remember for a long time.” She took a bite of cheese, the food leaving a warm, salty taste in her mouth. “How are you otherwise?”

“My stomach hurts from the wound. Hell, on bad days it hurts to take a piss. Some parts of me have recovered, some parts haven’t.” He turned and looked into her eyes. “I have a lot to say to you, Emma—some of it isn’t very pleasant.”

Emma steeled herself and sipped her wine. “I know what you’re referring to. I found the letter when I stayed over, the night before you were injured.”

His eyes widened, but the expression was one of resignation rather than shock. “The letter? Which one?”

“How many did you receive from my so-called friend?”

“A few.” Tom turned his attention to the glass again. “After a while, the letters became more flowery—her affection toward me unwarranted and unwanted. She was gleeful in her recounting of the situation between you and Linton Bower.”

Emma was no longer hungry. She took her glass and stood by the fire, the crackling heat warming her legs. She placed the wine upon the mantel and watched the flames lick and sputter and then vanish into swirling vapor. After a time, she sat on the bed nearly on top of the spot where she had found the letter tucked under the mattress.

“I guess the time for cat and mouse is over,” she said.

Tom nodded.

“I found it a year ago when you called me to the Front. I supposed then that the letter was the reason you wanted to talk.”

“Yes,” Tom said, and turned his chair in her direction.

“I saw it, quite by accident, under the mattress. The name had been torn off, but I knew it was from Louisa. I was prepared to face the consequences of her—what should I call it? Betrayal? Treachery? But a German shell ended that the next day. . . .”

“I wanted to talk,” Tom said. “I wanted to hear your side of the story, but I have to admit I was scared that I had already lost you to a lover.”

Emma laughed and leaned back on the bed. “Life is funny, Tom. You hadn’t lost me. I was prepared to tell you the truth, but after your injury we both had so much to deal with—your recovery—I didn’t want to upset you when you were ill; then the studio took all my time. Oddly enough, I was yours until I felt us slipping away. You seemed so distant, your calls and letters infrequent. I believed you didn’t want to talk to me.”

“I assumed we were already on the outs.”

“Nothing could be further from the truth. Nothing happened between me and—”

“Linton Bower? Then why would Louisa lie about your relationship?”

Emma resisted the urge to fight with him; however, her defensive instincts clawed at her to get out. “Perhaps Linton and I got closer than we should have. I have to admit he is an attractive man and I was terribly lonely after you left.”

Tom winced.

She could have gone on and cut more deeply. She could have told Tom about the carriage ride and the thrill she felt sitting next to Linton, the excitement she’d experienced in his studio when he posed for her, but she reined herself in. In a way, she wanted to smirk and blame her husband for their troubles, but she knew she was just as much at fault. There was one point she couldn’t resist, however. “Why would Louisa lie? Surely, you aren’t that naïve, Tom.” She’d hit a nerve; Tom’s eyes flashed in distress. “Louisa has always loved you, even though she brought us together. Her intentions were always directed at you. After our marriage, I was her friend so she could get to you. After you left, she talked endlessly about you. Any hint of indiscretion was an excuse to attack me. I think that was her plan from the beginning and