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

gets on one’s nerves.” He rose, leaned across the table, and kissed her cheek.

“I’ll walk to the cottage,” Emma said. “I don’t want to bother Richard.”

Tom sank into his chair and picked up a folder on his desk.

Emma’s heels clicked on the tile as she walked down the stark, white hall, once again amplifying the loneliness that settled inside her. As she descended the steps to the lobby, she spotted Claude hunched over a chair where soldiers normally sat. However, instead of a man, a darkly beautiful woman in a cream-colored overcoat sat weeping into her cupped hands. As Emma approached, the woman looked up and the color drained from her face. She lowered her hands and stared at Emma with tear-stained eyes.

Claude bowed slightly and said, “Bonsoir, Madame.”

The woman said nothing, but her eyes followed Emma.

She walked past the nurse’s station, opened the door, and nearly stumbled over Richard, who sat on the steps smoking a cigarette. He said hello and smiled rather sardonically.

Emma swept past him into the street, where the dark had already invaded the shop doors and alleyways in the faltering light. She veered to the right, looking ahead, searching for the lane that led to Tom’s cottage, blocking from her mind the face of the woman who so urgently needed him.

* * *

The memory of their conversation about trust and marriage burst as Emma searched the cleft in the bookcase where Tom had concealed the drawing of Lieutenant Stoneman. She pulled a few volumes from the case and several letters dropped to the floor. The light from the fireplace rose and fell with the burning logs; however, Emma could make out the handwriting. They were indeed from Louisa Markham. These, unlike the letter she found tucked under the mattress, were in envelopes. Oddly, there was no return address on them, only a flowing LM in script in the upper left-hand corner. The first letter was dated August of 1917. They continued, broken by the passing of months, until they ended in the following spring.

She lit an oil lamp and settled on the bed, reading the letters carefully, dissecting each word for hidden meaning. Most of them were pleasantly pedestrian and made little reference to Linton or Emma directly, but the underlying meaning was apparent—I, Louisa Markham, am good and noble, while your wife, Emma Lewis Swan, is persona non grata to the whole of Boston society because of her affair of the heart.

The fire had waned when Emma heard the cottage door open. She squirmed under the covers, knowing she had fallen asleep with the letters draped across the bed. One of them fluttered to the floor.

“I see you’ve found them,” Tom said.

Emma nodded, unsure what to say.

Tom shook his head. “Now you understand what I mean about trust?”

She gathered the letters and placed them on the nightstand. She thought of lifting her arms toward him, using affection as reconciliation, but then dismissed the idea. Now was not the time. Tom was right—she had taken advantage of his trust.

He made no movement toward her and instead undressed slowly in the pale light. He removed his shirt and walked to the fireplace where he stirred the embers and added another log to the fire. Soon, the room was filled with flickering warmth.

He stood by the bed, so Emma could see him fully. He unbuttoned his trousers and pushed them to the floor. He swayed a bit and then dropped his underwear as well.

Emma gasped.

The shrapnel wound had left a red gash across his left leg and stomach. All that remained below the brown thatch of pubic hair was the dark stub of a penis. He had been castrated as well.

“Now, you know,” he said wearily and crawled into bed. “I’m no longer a man.”

Emma moaned, then touched his hand. “Claude warned me, but I never knew. Why didn’t you tell me?”

He stared at the ceiling and said, “Timing, my love. When you lose your manhood, it’s a bit of a shock, to say the least. It’s taken months for me to even look at myself in the mirror. Claude’s been a wonderful doctor.”

Emma clutched the sheet and an unexpected wave of anger washed over her. “You should have told me. I had a right to know. I could have helped.”

Tom turned to her, took her hands, and pressed them against his chest. “What could you do? Once the surgery was over, only I could lift myself from the pain, with Claude’s help. I didn’t want anyone else to know about the extent of my injuries. I thought it didn’t matter to you because of the letters. That’s why I wanted you to go back to Paris and your work. I’m back to normal now—as normal as I can be—and when the war is over, as it eventually will be . . .”

Emma, in the flickering light, detected the sorrow building in his eyes. “Yes?”

“We can never have our own children.” A tear rolled down his cheek and onto the pillow.

A chilly sadness swallowed her. She withdrew from his grasp and turned away.

“I understand how you must feel,” he said. “You have every right to be angry.”

“Word got out in Boston that you were injured. I don’t know how they came to find out.”

“In the hospital . . . there was a soldier from Boston. We talked about the shelling, and I suppose he could tell from my wounds what was going on. He must have written home or told others. Who told you?”

“Linton . . . and Anne. They hinted . . . even Vreland knew, of all people, that something deeper was going on with you. Is there?”

He didn’t answer, only sobbed as Emma stared at the dark wall across the room, her body wracked from the emotions that filled her: anger, sadness, confusion. What was to become of their life together? The fact that she could not have a child with Tom made her feel as if no part of her would go forward