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

it’s been more successful than she could have imagined. That’s what I think.”

Tom lowered his head. “So, nothing happened?”

“Linton is my friend. One time, he showed more affection toward me than he should have. Louisa was a witness to that unfortunate display. But, honestly . . .” She paused, assessing the truth of her confession, knowing she was holding back the true extent of her feelings.

“Yes?”

“Honestly, he does care for me and I do care for him. But I made my decision—I came to France.”

Tom got up and walked to the bookcase.

Emma watched as he created a cleft between two books and pulled a sheet of paper from the opening.

Tom studied it. “I worked on an American soldier last week. I couldn’t save him.” A bright pain crossed his face. “I thought you would want this.” He handed her the creased paper. “I know you cared for him, too.”

Emma stared in horror at the drawing. The delicate lines of the portrait were spattered with splotches of dried, brownish blood; the face was shredded in several places from shrapnel, giving the drawing the appearance of a facially mutilated soldier. Despite its condition, she knew the subject immediately. Only bits of writing were legible because of the stain, but Emma remembered the words: To Lt. Andrew Stoneman, from Emma Lewis Swan. To your safe return . . .

“I did care for him—as a friend,” Emma said. “He was a kind man, a good man.”

“I first met him last fall. He was with you when the Frenchman committed suicide?”

“Yes,” Emma said. “Lieutenant Stoneman was very brave.” She stopped and ran her finger over the portrait. “But from the moment I met him on the ship, I think he knew he was going to die.”

Tom placed his hands gently on her shoulders and Emma recoiled, the strength of her revulsion surprising her. The last thing she wanted was sympathy from her husband. She retrieved her bag from under the chair. “I’m exhausted from the trip. I should go to bed.”

Tom followed her to the table and poured more wine into his glass. “Yes, I understand.” He stuttered a bit and then said, “I have more to tell you.” He sat, his tall frame towering in the small chair.

“Tomorrow.” She placed her bag on the bed and stared at him. “Where is Lieutenant Stoneman buried?”

“A few kilometers from here, near a small village.”

“I want to visit his grave.”

Tom nodded. “Richard can take you.”

She put the portrait in her bag and slid it under the bed. Fighting back tears, she walked to the toilet, looked into Tom’s shaving mirror, and fought back the sobs that threatened to overwhelm her.

* * *

The dead leaves rustled on the oak. Bare branches jutted from the tree, creating weblike shadows across the freshly turned grave. Rows of white wooden crosses rose from the ground and stretched as far as the brown hills that surrounded the village. The number of new graves staggered her.

Emma pulled the lapels of her coat together—it was colder than she had anticipated despite the brilliant sun. Still, it was one of the few bright days she could remember in the countryside near Toul. She stood among the graves, blinking into the light, thinking how alone and foreign she felt, walking the muddy, narrow lanes searching for Andrew Stoneman. In the northeast corner, close to a scrawny leafless tree, she found him, his last name scrawled upon the cross.

She looked back across the graves toward the iron entrance gate coated with rust. Richard sat in the passenger seat of the ambulance, door open, enjoying the sunshine, smoking a cigarette. He waved and Emma politely returned the gesture. She turned and knelt beside the grave.

“So, this is how it ends, Lieutenant Andrew Stoneman,” Emma said over the spaded earth. Tom had told her British and American soldiers were buried in the village graveyards, next to the French. There was no time to ship the bodies home. A quick military funeral where the soldier died had to suffice.

“Time and God would aid your safe return, you said.” Emma stared at the white wood jutting from the damp earth. A ghostly breath of wind passed over her and she shook from a sudden chill. “I remember how you said it was best you didn’t have a sweetheart, a wife, or children, and how you said the war wasn’t about you—that you were just a speck in the scheme of things.” Emma let her tears fall. “You were correct, of course, but your mother and father in Kansas will miss you, and I’m deeply sorry you won’t be going home. . . .”

She remembered their walk in the Luxembourg Gardens and how brave the officer had been at the Christmas party when Monsieur Thibault committed suicide. That night, he had offered to stay with her and she had refused. It would have been easy, even mystical, to have slept with him that Christmas Eve, as she watched the moon and the stars slip by her window, but she was too sad, and he too much of a gentleman to take advantage of her vulnerability.

I can stay with you. She remembered his words and then she sobbed—not for herself, but for all the faceless men and women and defenseless creatures of the world who died alone.

“I do this for you.” She reached into her coat pocket and withdrew the portrait. “You wanted an Emma Lewis Swan and you shall have it for eternity.” She tore the drawing into tiny pieces, dropping them like snowflakes upon the grave, looking back after she walked away. The pieces were already turning black on the moist earth.

Richard lit another cigarette when she arrived at the ambulance.

“Take me to the hospital,” she told him. “I have a few words to say to my husband.”

He turned the vehicle toward Toul. As they departed, the graves swept past Emma and, in the far corner, she saw the slender tree and imagined Lieutenant Stoneman next to it, waving to her,