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

slept with Alex, but she now questioned his sincerity. Was he an opportunist with her as well?

The drawings were rubbish anyway. How could she have believed such a project could come to fruition?

She stepped away from the fire. The memory of Louisa standing in the doorway, her soggy umbrella in hand, a look of horrific dismay upon her face, floated through Emma’s mind. Tomorrow, all of Boston would know. She would be a branded woman.

“Can I do anything else for you, ma’am?” Anne asked. “If not, I’m off to bed.”

Emma thought for a moment. “Yes, if it’s not too much trouble, could you bring me a pad and pen from upstairs? I’m going to write a letter to my husband.”

“No trouble at all.”

The seconds ticked away and, briefly, Emma felt warm, comfortable, and safe in the sitting room; but, try as she might, she couldn’t shake the thoughts that troubled her: Louisa, Linton, her indifferent relationship with Tom, the city agog with scandal, the persistent specter of the war. All these nagging misfortunes loomed over her like the spirit of melancholia standing behind her chair.

Anne returned with the requested items and said good night.

Emma curled in the chair, and put pen to paper.

17th June, 1917

My dear Tom:

I’m sorry it’s taken me a while to come to this decision....

Emma stopped writing and studied the sentence. The decision was hers and not one to be taken lightly. Either way, someone would be hurt—either her husband or Linton. And as unsettling as that choice was, she most likely would be hurt as well. She rubbed the pen’s nub against the paper and started again.

I’m sorry it’s taken me a while to come to this decision—I’m coming to France.

It would be for the best. She owed it to Tom to give the marriage another chance. He was a good man and an excellent provider. Linton would be hurt, but he would get over her. A man of his looks, talent, charm, and youth wouldn’t be lonely for long.

My work here isn’t going at all well, despite the news today that my Diana has sold. I haven’t even talked to Alex about who purchased it. I must confess, my world has been topsy-turvy since you left. Work on my new project has stalled due to my inability to focus upon it. Too many things have been on my mind—including you. I’m following your suggestion and am seeking passage to Paris, where maybe I can do some good for the world, as you already are. When I consider it, working with the brave soldiers is so much more important than anything I could do here at my artist’s table. When my itinerary is confirmed, I will write you with the details.

You must believe me, Tom, and know this has not been an easy decision, or one taken lightly. Giving up my work here tests all my strength, but there are such good reasons to travel to France. I trust Anne completely to care for the house. We can arrange for appropriate compensation. Lazarus considers her one of the family and, at this point, the dog is probably closer to her than to me. I’m certain the whole arrangement will work out for the best.

Wish me safe passage. I will post my next letter in all haste. In the meantime, I send you my love.

Your wife,

Emma

Thomas Evan Swan.

She studied the black-and-white photograph but imagined him as if he were standing in front of her. Thinning hair lay in wisps across the head, eyes of cornflower blue, fair white skin that reddened easily in the New England summer sun. She tried to smile. In a short time, they would meet again, and she would embrace and kiss him because she wanted his love—or was it needed—his body so close to hers, needed so desperately in this moment of loneliness, this hour of abandonment of a city and a man she might love. Yet, love was so different from passion—a lesson to relearn with each new romance. Would the flames blaze again in France?

The fire sputtered and settled beneath the grate. Emma kept her eyes on the photograph as if charmed by a talisman. Magically, Tom’s face shifted to the darker features of Linton Bower. And then, yet again, to the man she had opened herself to before she met Thomas Evan Swan.

Drugged by the elixir of memory, she fell into an uneasy sleep in her chair.

During the night Lazarus paced between the fireplace and Emma, his keen canine senses aware of the anxiety plaguing her dreams.

Entry: 20th June, 1917

I placed Tom’s letter on my studio desk where it sat two days before I mailed it. I was a mass of nerves when I relinquished it to Anne to be posted. My stomach has not settled since. The world seems to have shifted and fate is about to plunge me headlong into a journey I could never have imagined. When I think about the good times of my life—sculpting, the lush green mountains of my girlhood home, the few serene years with Tom—I feel they’ve passed never to be recaptured.

Half of me is thrilled to make the journey, the other a whimpering child. If I’m honest, I suppose I’m leaving because of Linton. I can’t believe what has happened. I never thought another burst of romance would come into my life yet again, and then be dashed. Our last meeting made me keenly aware of the danger that exists between us. My feelings are not skin deep. Linton opens an aching avenue for love and also great trepidation about what might be. He resurrects memories of a passion gone by that were securely buried. Love is a malleable emotion forged by all manner of feelings. One person sees it as strength, courage, and devotion, while another sees it as slavish need and subjugation. Who can say what love truly is?

After Anne returned from mailing the letter, I sat with her in the kitchen. She was baking