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

a pie and the heat was quite overpowering. A sudden compassion for the young woman overcame me—for this waif who left Ireland to make America her home. Her swirling dark hair, her alabaster face highlighted by ruddy cheeks, gave her the appearance of a figure drawn by a master watercolorist. I marveled at the conditions under which she works: the oppressive heat of the basement kitchen, comforting in winter, but hellish in the summer; the labor required to carry wood and coal for fuel, to tote bundles from the deliveryman; and then, after a long day, to climb three stories to her small bedroom, chilled by winter winds and roasted by summer sun. I wish conditions were easier for us all—particularly for Anne.

She settled upon the uneasiness arising from my letter to Tom. “Did something happen, ma’am? Something terrible?” She stopped and wiped her hands on her apron. “I have no right to ask, but if you need someone to talk to . . . I tire of conversing with the dog. You must be waiting for a caller. The house has been strangely quiet. Not a word from Mr. Hippel, or that handsome Mr. Bower, let alone from your friend, Louisa.”

I, of course, could say nothing of Linton and my situation. At that moment, I realized Anne would bear a great responsibility when I was gone. She would be the master and mistress of the house. She had already taken it upon herself to gauge my feelings. An unorthodox and radical thought occurred to me. My patroness, Frances Livingston, is having a party. What if I took Anne to the gathering? Frances, an early champion of my work, is pure Boston Brahmin, and a good soul at heart, and it’s time Anne meets others outside of her station. I know Louisa will protest, but I cannot be swayed by her objections. Anne is a trusted employee—not a slave. Besides, a night out will do us both good.

When I mentioned the party, Anne, of course, demurred saying she had nothing to wear and she would not fit in. I told her to smile; her face would be her good fortune. If only the faces on my sculptures could be as pleasing as Anne’s.

As they rode in the hansom cab, Emma reconsidered her invitation to take Anne to the party. Perhaps her enthusiasm had clouded her judgment. She knew criticism was inevitable, not just for bringing her housekeeper, but of her pending journey abroad as well. The party would be interesting at the very least—Louisa certainly would be there, possibly Alex and Linton, and others of the artistic and social circle who happened to be in Boston and not summering in Lenox or Bar Harbor. Emma would be pleased if Vreland never showed his face, but she suspected the critic was on Mrs. Livingston’s guest list.

The horse plodded along in the pleasant June evening. Anne sat looking out the window, as if she were a fairy-tale princess. The fading sunlight sparkled on the Charles like glittering stars patched upon the water, and a rosy hue infused the sky. The cab turned away from the river, the driver directing it toward Mrs. Livingston’s Fenway home.

“Oh, ma’am, this is so exciting,” Anne said as she peered out. Emma imagined what her housekeeper must be feeling and marveled at the young woman from Ireland who had come to the United States shortly before the war broke out with no job and only a few dollars in her pocket. She had been referred by an acquaintance of Tom’s who swore the Irish were to be the saviors of Boston, especially when it came to the serving class. Anne had worked a number of odd jobs and been a bit rough around the edges at first, but Emma and Tom had liked her immediately upon introduction and she had more than shown her worth in the time she had been with them. Emma thought of Anne’s solitary journey across the Atlantic, and how the war’s disastrous upheaval of the past three years had changed so many lives.

“Yes, it is, and the evening’s only begun.” Emma patted Anne’s hand. The day of the party, Emma had completed what she set out to do. She’d helped with the cooking, walked Lazarus, tucked in Anne’s borrowed dress—the black one Emma had worn to the opening at the Fountain—and chose her own attire, a maroon dress purchased several years earlier. It was decidedly out of fashion, ankle length, but she had chosen it with one intention in mind. The color seemed appropriate for all that had transpired the past few weeks. Anne was coming along for the ride—another point to be made. Guilt swept over her briefly. Perhaps it was selfish to use a party as a personal forum, but, upon consideration, no one would misunderstand her implication when she walked into the house dressed as she was.

The evening shadows stretched across the lawn as they arrived at the porte cochere. The driver opened the cab door and Emma withdrew coins from her purse. One electric light blazed above the porch, a beacon against the rations of war. The façade was subdued compared with previous functions Emma had attended: the gas lamps held in the stone lions’ paws were cold and dark, no torches lined the walkway, no festive colored lights peppered the shrubs. The house seemed blanched and mute, as if recovering from a long sleep.

Anne sighed as they walked up the steps.

“What’s wrong?” Emma asked.

“I can hardly believe people have so much money,” Anne said.

“More than any of us can imagine.” A doorman awaited them after their climb. “You should have seen it before the war. It’s positively dreary as it is now.”

A servant greeted them with a nod and directed them past a door studded with leaded crystal and gold gilt. “In the ballroom, Mrs. Swan,” the man said stiffly.

A grand marble staircase, carpeted in red, swept up to the right. Violins played down the long