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

become friends. He’s a kind man and a gentleman—but not a homosexual.”

Her friend picked at the red cloth tassel hanging from the fan. “You sound quite certain.” An arch smile formed on her face. “I’m positive these stories come from Alex. He is the cause, if you need the source. And it only makes sense, what with his jealousy . . . you know Linton is five years younger than you . . . Alex told me so. However, someone we know did see you taking a cab ride with the painter.”

“I’ve had quite enough of this,” Emma said, her anger rising. “God knows how, but what if this innuendo got to Tom? He would be furious. I wrote him that Linton was modeling for me, but having an affair is an entirely different story.”

A smart young couple passed in front of the bench. The sight of the loving pair dropped a melancholy veil over Emma. Louisa’s assertions were far too uncomfortable. After the carriage ride, she had wondered how far away she was from having an affair. Certainly, it was possible if she wanted it. But Tom’s stable voice and steady eyes rushed into her head if thoughts of Linton lingered too long. And it was Tom, she had to admit, who brought her that momentary serenity—a calmness borne of separation and little emotion.

Far down the Common near the intersection of Tremont and Boylston, voices united into a chant. Emma watched as a motor truck, decked out in red, white, and blue bunting, wobbled around the corner and turned north onto Tremont. A group of men and women, some carrying signs, followed the vehicle.

“Peace! We want peace!” the group chanted. “Wilson has betrayed us!” The group continued its protest as the truck rumbled along.

“Oh, for heaven’s sakes,” Louisa said. “Radicals, probably Socialists.”

Emma stiffened. “I understand their thinking completely.”

“Then we’ve learned something else about each other—we are more widely divergent on our musical and political views than I imagined,” Louisa replied smugly. “And I thought I knew you so well. . . .”

“Perhaps not,” Emma said, rising from the bench. She looked across the Common and found herself flushed with anger. How could Louisa be so callous, her comments so shocking? Could her friend’s attitude indicate how superficial their relationship might have been from the start? Her first connection with Louisa was through Tom; then their friendship had been united by a common bond of society parties and art circles. Louisa was always available for a laugh, and a lift if needed, but with Tom gone, their connection was dissipating more quickly than she could have anticipated.

The chanting voices faded as the truck and the marchers passed by.

Emma, followed by Louisa, walked deeper into the Common. Finally, succumbing to the heat and seeing the chance to traverse a street near her home, Emma offered a terse good-bye and left Louisa to fend for herself.

* * *

As quickly as spring had turned to summer, the heat was banished by a succession of cool, overcast days. Low gray clouds smothered the city, and often the afternoon was peppered by a fine mist that sometimes lingered throughout the night. The weather precipitated a feeling of dread in Emma, the associated anxiety gnawing at her. She was certain her apprehension sprang from her feelings for Linton and the spreading rumors of their relationship, but even more beastly was the uncertainty about how to cope with a life controlled by forces she couldn’t conquer. Her conversations with Louisa had become formal and stilted since they had talked on the Common. Her enthusiasm for The Narcissus had dampened because of the gossip, even as she longed to see Linton.

On a day when the afternoon light was dim and bleak, Emma met Linton in the South End. He had telephoned her and asked for a meeting, his constricted voice conveying irritation and worry. As she climbed the stairs to his studio, she wondered what was wrong, her mind channeling her worries in all kinds of strange and bizarre directions.

The studio door was unlocked. Linton, who was stretched across the couch, looked particularly glum.

“Sit by me,” he said without giving her a look, even as she drew closer.

In his presence, Emma was aware of the faint smell of her lavender eau de toilette, the sounds she made upon arrival: shoes clicking against the floor, her dress ruffling against her stockings. These sensory offerings were the calling cards she presented to the young artist.

“I knew it was you,” Linton said.

“Of course,” Emma replied, “you were expecting me.”

“I recognized your step on the stairs. When you’re near I detect your scent.” He held out his hand.

Emma grasped his outstretched fingers. “Pleasant, I hope.” “Your soap is oatmeal, but sometimes you dab on lavender.” He drew up his knees, so Emma could sit. She settled in, somewhat uncomfortably, avoiding brushing against him.

Linton shook slightly underneath his jacket.

“Are you cold?” Emma faced him, bracing herself against the damp air that filled the studio.

“No. Angry.”

She turned up the lapels of her jacket. “What happened?”

“I had a row with Alex. You know why I’m angry.”

“ No. ”

“These damn rumors going around about me—about us,” Linton said furiously. “He had no right to start them. He denied it, but I know he talks when he shouldn’t . . . he has a few scotches and his mouth flies open. First, I’m a homosexual, and now I’m having an affair with you. It’s not fair to either of us. We’re artists trying to make a living, doing something we love.” He stared at her with eyes as cheerless as the day.

She succumbed to his anguish, tenderness flowing from her, her body arching toward his. “The rumors are troublesome, but . . . oh, Louisa irritates me so because she’s such a gossip . . . it’s what I’ve come to expect of Boston society. It wouldn’t surprise me if she was part of this.”

Linton continued his wan stare.

“Do you hear what I’m saying?” she asked. “It’s