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

“I understand,” Emma said. She leaned back against her thin pillow and studied the officer.

He smiled weakly and fidgeted with his fingers.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I only wondered why you think Tom may be at Toul?”

“There’s a good chance,” he said. “I’m sorry, I’ve said more than I should have. I must be going.”

He shifted, but Emma tapped his arm and smiled. “You have a wonderful face. Would you mind if I sketched you? It would make me happy.”

Andrew laughed and stroked the smooth skin of his bare chin. “I guess I could spare a few minutes.”

She reached under the bunk and produced a pad and pencil, the only art supplies she brought on the voyage because she planned to buy new materials in Paris.

She said little as she sketched. The lieutenant’s glasses masked some of his features—a thin, but finely shaped nose and luminous hazel eyes—but there was more to see through her artist’s vision: a wide forehead, thinning brown hair, and a jaw that clenched whenever he smiled.

He seemed intrigued by her talent and watched as her hands skimmed over the page. After several minutes, he asked, “May I look?”

Emma turned her pad toward him.

The officer’s reaction was muted; he neither smiled nor frowned. In fact, she thought his mood inscrutable. “Don’t you like it?” Her insecurities about faces rose again.

“No, it’s not that.” He touched the paper and a smudge of charcoal transferred to his finger. “It’s quite good. I’ve never seen a drawing like it, however.”

“You know art?” Emma asked, astonished that a man from Kansas would have any knowledge about the subject.

“We’re not all farm boys,” he said, picking up on her implication. “I attended the University of Kansas in Lawrence for two years. I studied art as well as the classics.” He stopped and stared again at his likeness. “I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but my face seems odd—I don’t know how to describe it—like it’s real, but not quite real.”

Emma sighed. “You’ve hit upon the bane of my artistic existence. Have you heard of Winslow Homer, the painter and watercolorist?”

The lieutenant nodded.

Emma turned the pad toward her and continued sketching. “Some critics say he doesn’t paint figures well because the human body is his curse. His paintings are full of light, color, and action; yet, his figures are stiff and uncomfortable on the canvas. I’ve heard the same said about my sculptural faces . . . recently, as a matter of fact.”

“I’m sure your sculptures are beautiful . . . the critics must be wrong.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant, but there’s no need for false praise when you’ve so clearly identified the problem.” She continued sketching.

After a few minutes, the officer said, “I have duties on deck.” He stood up, instinctively taking care not to bang his head on the low overhead.

“Wait,” Emma said. “I want you to have this.” She hurriedly drew a few strokes on the page, tore the sheet from the pad, and handed it to him.

Holding it gingerly in his hands, he inspected it. “I will keep it in my kit as a treasure . . . but there’s one problem . . .”

“What’s that?” Emma asked, expecting another comment on her artistic ability.

“I want a signed Emma Lewis Swan.” He handed her the drawing.

Emma signed it in the lower right-hand corner: To Lt. Andrew Stoneman, from Emma Lewis Swan. And on the back she wrote: August 1917. Somewhere in the Atlantic. To your safe return to the United States. Your loving friend, Emma. She handed the portrait to him.

The officer read the inscription and smiled. “Here’s to our safe return. I’ll see you when we depart ship.” He turned and left the cabin.

The engines chugged below, a constant but sometimes mournful sound, over the calm waters. She fluffed the pillow and the hum of the ship reinforced her solitude, as if she were floating alone on the immense sea. She had little desire for supper, and, as the night wore on, she read for an hour before falling into a sleep deeper than any she’d experienced since leaving Boston.

* * *

Early the next morning, Emma stood on the bow with soldiers who cupped their hands to shield their eyes from the eastern sun, their gazes fixed on a hazy spit of land on the horizon. Happy the night had passed uneventfully after the previous night’s submarine scare, she craned her neck to see what the men said was the French coast. “Do you know where we’re landing?” she asked one of them. No one had told her where the ship would eventually dock.

“I guess it’s safe to say,” one of the officers said. “We found out this morning. We’re docking at Saint-Nazaire.”

Emma motioned for him to proceed. The name meant nothing to her.

He continued. “At the mouth of the Loire.”

She nodded halfheartedly, attempting to construct a map of France in her head. However, there was no spot on her imagined map for Saint-Nazaire.

The morning was fresh: the wind off the ocean swirled past her face; she inhaled deep draughts of air. It smelled different near the coast than on the high seas; the odor of fish and silt overpowered the crisp salinity of the ocean. The sun glinted in large patches on the green water.

A chorus of whoops and cheers arose from the deck. Emma cupped her right hand over her eyes and looked toward the emerging coastline. Then she saw them—a row of fishing boats cutting madly through the waters toward their convoy, escorts to their already formidable firepower. On the distant vessels, tiny figures scrambled forward, men waving their arms, proudly holding French and American flags. Emma looked across the Catamount’s bow, the men crowding as far forward as they could, joyous and smiling in anticipation of the French landing. She marveled at their spirit, living for the moment, unfazed by the hooded specter of death. She steeled herself to be as brave as those men around her and recalled