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

“The whole episode is so dreary,” Louisa said. “I’m sure Emma would like us to talk about more uplifting subjects.”

“No, it’s fine,” Emma said. “One more time in the telling, then I’m sure we can leave the subject behind, never to be mentioned again.”

“All right, once more for you, Frances,” Louisa said. The sun glanced off the brim of her hat as she turned. “Do you remember a man—I believe his name is Everett as near as I can recall—a very disagreeable fellow who attended your parties and attempted to ensconce himself in your circle?”

“Oh, yes,” Frances replied. “Mr. Everett, a confidant of Vreland. He went off to war, I believe . . . I haven’t seen or heard of him since.”

“I don’t believe he went off to anything as noble as war,” Louisa said. “I’m certain he’s in prison.”

Frances gasped. “Prison?”

“He’s a forger,” Louisa said, “the primary reason he remained a protégé of Vreland’s. What better way to access art than through a critic? He copied the artists’ techniques, created fakes, and then sold them as if he’d acquired them as originals.”

“An incendiary man,” Emma said. “I had my run-ins with him. At my opening at the Fountain, he termed Linton Bower’s work ‘rubbish’ and then declared I had ‘no place in the male world of sculpture.’” She preferred not to mention that the man had later congratulated her at Frances’s party on the sale of Diana—the sole reason for the purchase, he theorized, being the scandalous rumors surrounding her and Linton.

“Cretin,” Frances huffed. “A certified brute with no morals or breeding.”

“I’m certain Mr. Everett obtained a thank-you note or a letter I’d sent to Alex, studied my handwriting, and forged a series of letters to Tom.” Louisa paused and sipped her wine. “I needn’t go into details—it was a private matter between Emma, Tom, and . . . another party.”

“We all understand your meaning, my dear,” Frances said. “Mr. Everett’s actions were despicable on all counts.”

“When Tom got the first letter, he assumed I’d written it, and so did Emma when she saw it. Thus, the trap was set.”

“But why would Mr. Everett do such a thing—for what purpose?” Frances asked.

“To ruin my reputation and marriage by scandal, and destroy my chance of making a living as a sculptress,” Emma replied. “Perhaps he fixated on me because I’m not primarily a painter; it’s difficult to forge a sculpture. He’s a childish, misogynistic crook who caused more trouble than he’ll ever know. By all accounts he’s an intelligent but destructively evil man who can’t stand to see women succeed.”

“And, of course,” Louisa said, “the whole conceit would have collapsed if Tom had written back to me. But Tom, being the gentleman he is, banished such crass thoughts from his mind and never gave them a second thought. Of course, even if Tom had responded to me, the damage would already have been done. The seed of doubt would have been planted. Nefarious. . . isn’t that right, Emma?”

“Positively diabolical,” Frances said before Emma could answer.

Emma looked toward the garden and the brilliant tulips, placed her hands on her rounded belly, and waited for the maid to serve. After a luncheon plate was placed in front of her, Emma, knowing that Tom had indeed given the letters more than a second thought, said, “Damage occurs in layers. A shell explodes and a man is disfigured. My work in France masked the painful physical injuries of the war, but could do little to soothe emotions, and, as I’ve come to find out, in life other dangers exist besides shells and bullets. A simple letter can injure with the same explosive force, the physical and emotional wounds lingering much longer than the words.”

Louisa lowered her head so the brim of her hat covered her eyes.

“You mustn’t fuss, my dear, not in your condition,” Frances said. “You need to throw yourself back into your work—something less challenging than sculpting, of course—drawing, or painting, perhaps. A diversion—good, solid work—that’s what you need.”

Emma smiled and took a bite of her fish. She stared at the garden’s brilliant colors, thinking how wonderful it would be to capture its hues in sculpture, just as Linton did in his painting. “As always, Frances, you have the best interests of your friends at heart. Work may be just what I need.”

* * *

A few days later the sun retreated, leaving the city cool and humid under a thick layer of clouds. Emma drew in her studio—she had started several new sketches of Narcissus Rising, her planned new work, but the drawings left her as cold and dissatisfied as the weather. She crumpled the papers and threw them on the floor by her desk. Lazarus noted her displeasure and sniffed the detritus that collected around his front paws.

She would hardly have given the knock downstairs a second thought had it not been for Lazarus’s reaction. His ears pointed straight up and a sudden fire, a dog’s expression of joy, coursed through his eyes. Then, he sprang up on all fours, pranced in a circle, and barked wildly at her closed studio door.

“What’s gotten into you?” Emma asked. He responded by nipping playfully at her hand. She opened the door and Lazarus, his tail wagging furiously, raced down the stairs.

“Anne?” Emma called out.

An audible gasp rose from the hall below.

“Anne!”

When her housekeeper didn’t respond, Emma walked downstairs as quickly as she could, clutching the railing along the way. At the bottom she turned and saw Tom. Her housekeeper was plastered against the door as if confronted by a ghost. A woman stood behind him.

Lazarus jumped on his master and barked with joy.

Tom kneeled to pet the wriggling dog and smiled at Emma, a gesture that faded as soon as he recognized the change that had occurred in her body since they’d last met.

“Lazarus, come into the kitchen,” Anne said. She grabbed the dog by the collar and tugged.

Tom rose and kissed Anne on the cheek.