The Sculptress by V.S. Alexander (best books to read for women TXT) 📕

On her way out, Emma spotted Alex at the bottom of the hospital steps. He leaped up them, stopping near her, a frantic grimace on his lips. “A friend told me Linton is here.”

“He has pneumonia,” Emma said. “You might not be able to see him.”

“Oh, God.” Alex drew in a sharp breath and closed his eyes, but only a moment passed before he said good-bye and rushed to the hospital doors.

* * *

From her chair near the sitting room fireplace, Emma watched the snow fall in soft, lazy circles. Winter had arrived full blown in her dark world. The courtyard worktable, nearly obscured by the drifting flakes, was covered in a layer of glistening white. Lazarus stretched on his back in front of her, his limbs sprawled akimbo.

Anne brought a steaming pot of tea and placed it on the table next to her. “I’ll be going to bed now. Is there anything else you need?”

Emma shook her head and sniffled.

“Drink your tea. It will make your head feel better.”

“It’s just a cold,” Emma said, hoping her self-diagnosis was correct. She had stayed away from the hospital for three days because of her illness, and called the nurses’ station to relay her get-well messages to Linton.

Emma sipped her tea and opened her diary. The fireplace crackled and a damp log hissed and popped on the hearth. Startled, she shifted in her chair. The reports reminded her of rifle fire at the Front and the fireworks the night Monsieur Thibault committed suicide. She took a deep breath while holding the warm cup in her hands. After a time, she lifted her pen.

Entry: 14th February, 1919

Today is Valentine’s Day and here I sit, like a lump, on the evening of love. If a Gypsy had foretold my fortune for this day, my laughter would have echoed down Charles Street. I’ve rather made a mess of life and prospects don’t seem to be getting better. Who knows, soon I may be a single mother in Boston—not unlike the woman I met in Saint-Nazaire who lost her husband in the war, or Madame Bouchard—if Tom does return to Boston. When my baby is born I will exorcise many memories. Despite my demons, I know my love for this child will extend beyond my own concerns.

Neither Tom nor Madame Bouchard have written, telephoned, or sent telegrams. Madame Bouchard would be looking for money. I haven’t the faintest idea what Tom’s been up to. Sometimes I feel him in the house, looking into the studio, shaving in the bathroom, sitting in the courtyard, and I do miss him. He was always strong in ways I wasn’t. It’s not that I pine for him; however, I see his picture on the mantel and I realize we’re still married despite our trials. Honestly, Tom is an anchor for me—not a man who thrilled me like Kurt with his sense of the forbidden, or like Linton with his unbridled romance. Tom is kind and strong and always present like a faithful friend. But where was the spark, the fire, in that friendship? I ask myself that question too often. Yet, after he left for France, without him for an anchor, I drifted.

I worry so about Linton. When he recovers, we must settle into our roles as friends. I don’t know if that will be possible for either of us. Sometimes separation is the only option when love causes so much pain. It will take time for us to adjust. There’s so much to be done with the baby and Tom I can’t think about it now. The thoughts of a divorce and settlements, relocation, the disapproving looks and the telling “I knew you’d disappoint me” from my mother sends me into spasms of anxiety. Many times, like this evening in front of the fire, I wish my life could have been different. That’s when I yearn for a world with Linton that I know is just a dream.

I’ve received no word from Louisa about Tom’s letters. Perhaps she is concocting the perfect alibi to prove her innocence.

I did get a letter from John Harvey, telling me he might have a staff opening in London for Virginie. I wonder if she will take my advice and follow a lead I’m sure would benefit her career. A note, I’m certain, is already on its way from Paris to me, and knowing Virginie, she will accept the position, but protest all the way to London.

I have written enough for one evening. There’s a full lover’s moon tonight, but the snow continues to fall and obscure its cold beauty. Tomorrow promises to be windy and cold. This lump must lift herself from her chair, disturb Lazarus, tend the fire, and crawl into bed—alone, but warm, this Valentine’s night.

The knock on the door, the bustle on the stairs and downstairs hall was followed by a deathly silence. Her bedroom clock ticked forlornly as she strained to see its face, the dial partially obscured in shadow. It was a few minutes after two in the morning. She sat up in bed, uncertain, in the haze of sleep, of the sounds below. Soon, hurried steps pattered up toward her bedroom.

Anne called from the hall. “Ma’am . . . Emma . . . ?”

Heart pounding, she jumped from her bed, and opened the door.

Anne stood trembling, a single candle illuminating her wan face. “A man from the hospital is downstairs. . . .”

“Yes?” Emma asked, fearing the worst.

“Mr. Bower died just before midnight.”

Emma reached for the door but instead stumbled backward.

Anne captured her in her arms and silently guided her to bed.

“I am so sorry, ma’am,” Anne whispered as they sat, holding hands.

Emma could only look at the young woman beside her and think about a future swallowed by death, before she burst into sobs that clawed at her throat.

Entry: 18th February, 1919

I’m not much in the mood to write. We buried Linton this morning. When I say we—I