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

out in a house of God?” Emma stopped, her hands shaking with anger.

Since our last meeting, I’ve thought of nothing else. I wanted to disappear, never revealing the truth, but I couldn’t. I understand now how pain can devour you—eat you alive. I’m not the monster you think I am. I know you loved me and you still have the power to love. I know you can forgive me.

Tears crept into her eyes. “Oh God, I loved you so much.” She went to his chair and gently touched his shoulders.

He slipped into her arms.

Emma cradled his head against her waist. “The baby was there and then it was gone. It haunts me nearly every day, and I suppose it will for the rest of my life.”

He drew away. I learned about your husband’s injury. I have friends stationed near Toul.

“You know about Tom?”

Yes.

He rose from his chair and faced her, exposing her to the face she had sculpted. The mask, showing darker than the flesh in the dim light, added to the soldier’s unnatural appearance. A few dents pocked the cheeks, bits of paint had chipped near the chin and earpieces; however, the depth of expression in Private Darser’s eyes remained unchanged. He truly sought her forgiveness.

He wrote again and turned the pad toward her. I have no face, but I can give you a child. I can undo the wrong I created.

“No,” she said, shrinking from the preposterous thought. “You can’t expect me to accept such an offer. It’s obscene. Don’t even think it.”

He underlined the words: I can give you a child. I can undo the wrong I created.

Emma backed away until she reached the church doors, the soldier following as she pushed them open and scurried to the street. A dim figure stood under a blacked-out streetlamp to her right. She ran toward the man, plunging into Hassan’s arms.

“Madame, ça va?” he asked with concern while holding her close. “We worry . . . seek, pour toi. . . .”

“I’m fine,” Emma said, and held on to the Moroccan. “However, I’m very happy to see you. Let’s go home.”

Emma looked back at the church several times as they walked away arm in arm. Only shadows draped the stones of Saint-Étienne-du-Mont, one of them shifting almost imperceptibly as she and Hassan stepped briskly around a corner, leaving the cathedral behind.

* * *

She reached under her bed and retrieved a stack of letters secured by a red ribbon. Dust had settled on them. She blew across the ribbon and motes floated like miniature snowflakes in the sunlight.

Emma searched for the last one she had received from Linton Bower, and found it—dated August 31st, 1918, the scrawled writing confirming the authorship. Unlike his previous letters, Linton’s words were perfunctory, with little personal connection, romantic or otherwise, uninspired, and so different from the tone Emma had come to know. He wrote of the weather, a walk through the Museum of Fine Arts (although he found he could see only the brightest objects), scribbled a few terse lines about Alex and then said good-bye without his usual, Your dearest friend. He wrote only, Linton.

She hoped that he was well and not suffering.

Earlier in the day, out of that concern, Emma had asked Madame Clement whether any of Linton’s letters might have been accidentally lost or misplaced. The housekeeper put down her dust rag, picked absentmindedly at the bun knotted in her gray hair, and shook her head defiantly, offended by the suggestion that she would lose important mail.

Emma found a letter from Anne, delivered only a few days before. The handwriting was young and sure.

15th October, 1918

My Dear Ma’am:

All is well here. I’ve managed to avoid the terrible influenza.

I thank the Lord every day for you and Mr. Swan. You have changed my life with your generosity and for that I will be forever grateful. At times, I wish I could be with you in France, but then I know Europe is not a place for anyone these days. I hope the war will be over soon. God knows, Boston is better than Ireland.

The bills have been light. I’ve kept household expenses low. They should be when it’s only Lazarus and me to feed!

I have a friend who comes to call once a week. His name is Robert Merriweather and he studies at the Boston School. He knows Mr. Sargent and other painters. He’s so smart and so handsome, but I am playing coy with him. I wonder what he sees in me. And, God forgive me, I often wonder if I will have the name Anne Merriweather, but any such occurrence is on the far side of the mountain as far as I’m concerned.

Robert doesn’t like Mr. Bower’s painting. He calls it “extreme.” I would be wondering what has happened to Mr. Bower? I know you are friends (and I have told not a soul about your correspondence). Has he written to you? I have not seen him in nearly two months.

I happened on Miss Louisa Markham on Charles Street last week. I was as civil as could be considering the circumstances. She inquired politely about you and Mr. Swan. I told her I hadn’t heard from you in several months—which was the truth, I swear. She also asked about Mr. Bower. Ma’am, I thought she seemed sad. It must be hard for one in her position to be sad, what with all her parties and money and all, but I swear it was so.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if this war was over by our Lord’s Day in December? I will say all my prayers at Mass on Sunday and I will keep you and Mr. Swan in my heart.

Love to you,

Anne

Emma placed the letter on the bed. Light blinked across the floor as silvery clouds blocked the feeble sun, reminding her that winter was coming. She took her diary from the desk.

Entry: 6th November, 1918

The approaching winter chills my soul. A strange feeling has encased my heart