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

“To hell with them,” he said. “They don’t know anything about me . . . about us . . . they’re just a bunch of society busybodies—good-for-nothing sycophants who’ve never had to earn a real dollar in their lives. I’d be done with the lot of them if I could.”

“Linton, you’re drunk.” Emma pulled away from his grip and walked under the trellis.

“Perhaps, but when I’m near you. . . .” He stumbled toward her.

She caught him in her arms.

“You can’t deny it,” he said.

Emma pushed him away. “There can be no us, Linton. There’s an attraction—a schoolboy and schoolgirl crush. We’ve got to recognize what’s going on.” Emma attempted to keep her voice down, out of Anne’s hearing, but with every attempt to quiet herself she felt herself breaking apart, on the verge of tears. “You are a wonderful man, you are handsome and creative; but I’m a married woman with a husband. Do you realize what we would have to sacrifice to make this relationship work—if it would work at all? I can’t take that risk. Can you understand?”

The finality of her question crushed her and her voice verged on a moan as the dark fell around her. She had advanced the same arguments that Karl had used years earlier and she hated herself for it. Any romance with Linton was dead; only the sanctity of her vows and the plodding security of her marriage remained. Her reputation and the only real security she’d ever had in the world would be gone if she pursued Linton. Disgraced, they would have to slink from Boston to another city, living in poverty if their art failed to sell. The shame of her final days with Kurt returned to haunt her again. She was in no position to love another man.

Linton wrapped his hands around the trellis and lowered his head. “I do understand and that’s the tragedy of it. We should be . . . that’s the only way I can say it, Emma . . . we should be together, and because we’re not, it’s tearing me apart. Another time, another place, and we could be together.”

“I’m leaving for France as soon as I can.”

His head jerked upright and a look of terror swamped his face.

“To the war?”

“I can do meaningful work in France. Facially disfigured soldiers need me. A doctor in England makes masks for seriously wounded men and I plan to use his techniques in Paris. I’m going to give injured men back their faces and, I hope, their lives.”

Linton leaned against the trellis and chuckled through the sadness that filled his voice. “And you, a sculptress, who’s afraid of faces. . . .”

“Perhaps I will get better. . . .”

“Giving men back their lives, while taking mine. . . .”

“I’m sorry. I’ve made my choice.” The soft light from the ballroom, the music from the string trio filtered into the garden.

He swayed unsteadily as a tear slid down his cheek. “I’ll miss you more than you’ll know.” With that, he turned, lurching with outstretched arms toward the doors, brushing past Anne and the young man on the bench, stumbling as he reached the steps, falling to his knees on the brick.

Emma, seeing his fall, rushed toward him.

Anne and the young man rose to help.

However, Alex, at the threshold with a ready hand, reached down, grabbed the painter’s forearm, and lifted him from the steps.

Emma came upon Linton, but in her shame and sorrow, could offer him no consolation.

“I’ll take care of him,” Alex said and cradled the distraught man in his arms.

Emma called for Anne, who, after a hasty good-bye to the young admirer, followed her through the chatter and laughter of the ballroom and out the door of Mrs. Livingston’s home. They had passed the hostess, Mrs. Gardner, and Sargent without saying a word. They rode home in silence for Emma had nothing in her heart but a bitter sadness.

2nd July, 1917

My Dearest Emma (from somewhere in France):

I’m sorry it’s been so long, but correspondence between us has played second fiddle to my work. I do have good news, however. I received your letter and was thrilled to know you are coming to France. As yours crossed the Atlantic, my letter traveled to England to uncover more details about Mr. Harvey, who responded almost immediately. He was a bit skeptical at first, but overall, I believe he’s a kind and generous man. With prodding, he shared, as much as he could by letter, the particulars of his amazing therapies. It begins this way....

PART THREE

THE ATLANTIC AND FRANCE AUGUST 1917

CHAPTER 4

She clutched the iron railing at the ship’s bow and looked out over the gently rolling gray sea. The ocean had calmed after several days of squally weather, but the relentless clouds of the North Atlantic retained their stranglehold on the sky. The ship appeared to be sailing into a murky void, where sky and sea melded as one at the horizon. Except for a few officers busy with duties, and several soldiers who craved an early smoke, the deck was ghostly and empty just after dawn.

Emma scanned the leaden waters like a sentinel. Port and starboard, left and right. She had made it her business to learn nautical terms before she boarded the Catamount. Off starboard, a cruiser; another troop ship, the Santa Clara; and a destroyer sailed toward Europe on the ashen sea. The same configuration steamed off port. A fuel ship chugged safely in the middle of the convoy. The vessels formed an impressive iron triangle of men and weapons bound for France, a tactical response to Germany’s unrestricted submarine warfare.

She would not have been on board at all, if not for the efforts of an American Expeditionary Force recruiting officer in Boston. She intended to work in conjunction with the Red Cross, like her husband. Her only goal, after the recent upheavals in her life, was to get to France and begin her