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

that Mr. Vreland has even considered writing a column on behalf of my art and the Fountain—in light of his recent review.”

“I’ve made it quite clear to the artist, and to Alex, that I must love the work in order to compose a positive critical piece,” the critic responded. “However, attention must be paid to any artist who sells like this young man has sold since the opening.”

“I think the whole affair is insulting,” Emma said. “Linton, how could you agree to such pandering?”

Vreland sniffed. “Pandering? On the contrary, Mrs. Swan, this is business. Your attitude is exactly the reason why you will never achieve greatness as a sculptor. You, like most women, have no acumen for the business world.”

Emma pushed forward in her chair. “Sculptress. I’ve had quite enough of the insults. You can label my talent small and my opportunities limited, Vreland, but you cannot disparage the whole of womankind. Men like you have harnessed the yoke for too long.”

“Another suffrage argument I’m bored with,” Vreland responded. “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me, I have other business to attend to—let’s reconvene for our interview at the appointed time tomorrow.” The critic shook Alex’s and Linton’s hands and bowed slightly to Emma. “Good day, Mrs. Swan.” He stopped near Diana and ran a finger across its face. “Still unsold, I see.”

“Insufferable old fool,” Emma said as Vreland closed the door. “His head is as big as his girth, and he throws it around in any way he can.”

Alex bunched his fists in disgust. “My God, Emma, you are trying to ruin me, and doing a damn good job of it. Must you always antagonize him? You know he despises the work in my gallery. This is an opportunity to build good will for all my artists.”

“Don’t be an apologist for reprehensible behavior,” Emma said.

Linton lowered his head and sighed. “I understand your concern, but the man has power. He sways public opinion. If he writes a favorable story it will help us all.”

“I realize that, but we, as artists, are no longer controlled by our patrons. This is not the Renaissance. We have power, too . . . oh, what’s the use. I feel as if I’m talking to myself and always butting heads with men. And men have created most of the messes in the world, including this damnable war. We women should take the lessons of Lysistrata to heart.”

“I can vouch for your sentiments about men,” Alex said, “but the world will go on despite our protests.”

“I’m not going to let Vreland ruin the day,” Emma said. “Are you ready, Linton? I’m prepared to work.”

“What do you have planned?” Alex asked.

Emma rose from her chair and placed her hand on Linton’s arm. “Sketching and preliminary modeling for a new project.”

“I’m sorry I won’t be able to drop by, but I have work to do here in the gallery,” Alex said.

“Indeed.” Emma leaned toward Linton, who shifted in his chair. “Did my supplies arrive? I paid one of the local boys dearly to haul twenty pounds of clay, my sketch pads, and tools.”

“They’re safe and sound on my new table,” Linton said. “Well, new for me. The junk man told me Whistler had mixed his paints on its very boards. For provenance, he wanted an extra dollar.”

Alex kissed Emma on the cheek, and said with true affection, “Take good care of my young man.”

The sentiment unnerved Emma, considering what Louisa had revealed about the artist, but she shrugged off the gallery owner’s words as a gentle admonition, preferring to believe that what she felt for Linton was matched by the painter’s own ardor.

They emerged from the relative quiet of the gallery to the rush of Newbury Street. Men and women strolled on the crowded sidewalk, their sinuous movements creating intricate patterns of color and form. Surrounded by the blare of horns and the rolling thunder of carts, Emma led Linton across Berkeley Street and headed east into the South End.

As they walked in the shadow of the brownstones, Linton hooked his arm around her waist. The gesture felt comforting and familiar, his grasp automatic and without pretense. Strangers passing them on the street would have raised no eyebrows unless they’d read unlikely embarrassment upon Emma’s face. Of course, Tom had walked with her many times in a similar fashion on the Embankment. But this was different. Linton was a stranger who felt, suddenly, as close to her in body and spirit—if not more so—than her husband. It had been years since she had enjoyed such thrilling companionship, and if she had to put a date upon it, possibly since her first meetings with Kurt. The electric charge of sexual attraction threatened to overtake her.

Linton turned his head toward her as they walked, and a few of his wavy locks shivered in the wind against his forehead.

“How is Tom?” he asked.

His question startled her, as if he had read her thoughts. “Fine,” she replied, somewhat perplexed. She studied the handsome face, the pale fires that smoldered beneath the clouded irises.

“I wondered,” he said. “You never talk about your husband. I know he exists. Alex told me he’s serving as a doctor with the Red Cross in France.”

“I wondered why you asked.”

He scrunched up his nose. “Naturally curious. Are you getting along?”

“Rather personal questions, Linton. There are answers, but . . . answers I would share only with the closest of friends.” A warm breeze wafted over her.

Linton unhooked his arm and stopped in the dappled shade of an elm. “I would hope I’m your friend—especially if I’m going to model for you.”

“We know so little about each other.” Emma took his hand and pulled him gently toward her. His coal-dark hair, the fullness of his lips, the pearly luster of his skin, nearly made her swoon. A shiver arced through her back.

“Then, it’s time to learn,” he said and grasped her hand firmly in his and guided her down the street. As they walked farther east, the fashionable buildings of