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

A large crate, loaded on a horse cart, arrived just before noon. The driver held the animal in check as a strapping young man struggled with the heavy load at the door.

“I wonder what it could be?” Emma asked the youth.

“I don’t know, ma’am, but it’s heavy,” he said. “Is there a man who can lift it for you?”

“No,” Emma said. “Anne, have him put it on the outside table.”

“Let me help you,” Anne said. “My mistress is with child.”

While the young man grunted, Anne grabbed one side of the crate and guided it through the hall and sitting room to the courtyard. With the housekeeper’s help, he slid the crate onto the table and then sighed with relief. “That’s going nowhere for a long time,” he said, doffing his cap to Anne. “Thank you for your aid.”

“Please give him some money,” Emma said. She studied the crate as Anne and the worker left. Alex had marked it with stamps from the Fountain Gallery. Its top was secured with two-penny nails, but was loose enough that Emma could pry off the lid with her hands. She pushed back the cloth that covered the object inside.

It dropped away to reveal her Diana.

Two envelopes lay next to the bronze, which glinted in the sunlight. One was marked from Alex; the other was unsigned.

Emma opened the letter from Alex.

24th May, 1919

My Dear Emma:

Near the end, I paid the rent on Linton’s studio because his money was beginning to run out. Some months after I ended the relationship, the studio’s landlord (whom I know) asked me to remove Linton’s belongings. I had stopped footing the bill and the landlord hadn’t seen his tenant in a long time. I found Diana concealed by a cloth at the bottom of the bookcase. The shelves had been taken out to make room for it. Linton was in such a state after the Fountain closed, I think he went quite mad. He never wanted me to tell you he had purchased your statue with funds from the sale of his paintings and made me swear that I would uphold his secret. Initially, I advised against the purchase, telling him he needed to save his money for living expenses, and let wealthy art patrons like Fran Livingston buy the work. He wouldn’t hear of it. He said so many of his fingerprints were upon it, it was practically his anyway. So, I reluctantly agreed to sell it to him. He kept it hidden from you . . . well, you know the rest. I’ve had time to grieve since Linton’s death and I think it only fair that the statue returns to you along with a letter I found underneath it. I won’t lie to you and say I didn’t read it, but it belongs to you. It’s from his heart.

Yours truly,

Alex

Emma, her heart beating furiously, opened the undated letter. She immediately recognized it as Linton’s scrawling hand.

My Dearest Emma,

The war has raged on far beyond comprehension and I despair of ever holding you close to me again, ever smelling your skin, feeling your touch. Today, I’m in one of those moods. The sky is bright and blue enough I can write as the sunlight comes pouring through my studio window. But I doubt whether I will ever have the nerve to send this letter because I fear it may fall into the wrong hands, even though I trust Anne implicitly.

My God, how I miss you. I think of nothing else but you and I wonder how you are and what you are doing in Paris. Are you asleep when I’m awake? Do you touch your body and wish it was my hand upon you instead of your own? Do you feel, as I do, that I have missed my one chance at true love?

The memory of the night I fell at Frances Livingston’s runs over and over in my head. I should have begged you to stay—to leave Tom and never go to France—so we could start our lives together. But those were the ravings of an infatuated and confused mind—one desperate with passion and love for you. The longing in my soul cuts through me like a knife. Sometimes in the middle of the night, I shoot upright in bed because my mind screams your name. And then I must calm my heart and wipe the tears from my eyes.

I want to touch you. A man with his full senses has no idea how lucky he is. How many men go through the world oblivious to what is around them? If only they could be blinded for a day and not see the women they supposedly hold in high regard. I’m sure the world would change overnight.

My relationship with Alex is deteriorating and I despair of ever seeing you again. My life seems to be sinking into a morass and I cannot think, cannot paint, cannot speak, but only endeavor to hold you in my heart.

When you do return, I fear you will have changed while I sat frozen in my world in Boston. But know this, my dear Emma, whatever happens between us, I will love you forever. I make no apologies for that love. No matter the time or day we meet again, or if we meet again at all, you must never make any apology for our love—I for you and you for me. I want you to love, Emma, and be happy—you deserve so much in your life. And if the choice comes down to Tom or me, I know you will make the hard decision. Whatever happens I will respect that choice because, in the end, my love for you is greater than my selfishness.

The sun is leaving the room and I can write no more. When the light disappears I am thrust into that dark world once more. I have only my heart and my love for you to spread light