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

and the faces that haunted her. She pressed her ear against the door and listened for any sign of life in the house.

The carriage ride from the train station had taken her through the Latin Quarter. Along the way, she spotted the massive dome of Montmartre, the airy latticework of the Eiffel Tower and the towering façade of Notre Dame. Like Saint-Nazaire and the villages and towns along the railway, Paris seemed crushed by the weight of the war. The overall mood tempered her excitement as a first-time visitor to the city. Doors and windows were shuttered, and the Parisians moved like phantoms, no small talk or laughter drifting to her ears. Parisian life had been transformed by the war—motorized ambulances, which doubled as troop carriers, rumbled through the city, replacing the clop of horses’ hooves. Carts loaded with food sacks, folded tents, and artillery rolled down the streets. The war at the very least had muted Paris, the once lively city aiding and supplying the unfolding battle lines no more than one hundred kilometers away.

Emma sighed and lifted her head. A half moon shone in a milky blue sky as thin horsetails of clouds traced the heavens. At last, footsteps halted behind the door. The latch clicked and the door creaked open, revealing a young nurse in a starched white uniform. She was pretty, with the spark of youth behind her serious purpose. The woman’s age, dark hair, and flashing eyes reminded her of Anne.

“Bonsoir, Madame,” the nurse said, stepping over the threshold and looking at the sky. “Il se peut qu’il pleuve demain.”

“Pluie? Rain?” Emma asked, unsure of her French.

“Oui, demain.”

“Parlez-vous anglais?”

“Of course,” the nurse replied. “I must. I work for Monsieur Harvey.”

“Is he at home? My husband directed me to come here.” Emma opened her purse, pulled out the message she had received when the ship docked, and unfolded it for the young woman to see.

“Oui, rue de Paul. Monsieur Harvey has just returned from a walk. He’s upstairs in the study.” She motioned for Emma to enter the apartment. “However, it’s not a real study . . . it’s make . . . make . . . ?”

“Makeshift?” Emma asked.

“Yes, makeshift . . . office. I have trouble with some words.”

Emma lifted her bag and followed the nurse into a hall still warm and humid from the day. Drawings and prints—wispy pencil landscapes of streams and willow trees, and etched still lifes of fruits and vegetables—decorated the whitewashed walls. A vase of yellow roses in full bloom sat on a black lacquer table. Several closed doors sealed off the end of the hall.

The nurse led Emma up a narrow staircase. “My name is Virginie. How was your trip? You are Madame Swan, I suppose. Sir Jonathan has been expecting you. Not many strange women show up at cinquante-six rue de Paul.”

Emma laughed, more from fatigue than humor. “This is at least the second time today, I’ve been referred to as ‘strange’—well, a ‘stranger.’ I’m beginning to become quite comfortable with the word.”

“Etrange? Je suis désolée.”

A voice boomed from a room at the top of the stairs. “Virginie, will you stop speaking that abominable language? I’m trying to work. How the devil can I concentrate with you clomping up and down the stairs?”

Virginie stopped at an open door to the left of the landing and motioned for Emma to enter. “His majesty will see you now.”

Emma’s throat tensed as though she, like Daniel, was about to enter the lion’s den. A robust man stood up from his chair and extended his hand. This, Emma presumed, was Sir Jonathan Harvey, the renowned English surgeon and practitioner of facial reconstruction. He was round and corpulent, wearing a black jacket, not at all the serious, thin, bespectacled doctor that Emma had constructed in her mind. She shook his hand as vigorously as she could despite his crushing grip and wondered if the doctor was always this cantankerous.

“Good night, Monsieur, I am finished for the day . . . thank Our Lord. I will see you demain.” Virginie executed a mock curtsy.

“Good night, yourself,” the doctor replied, dismissing her with a wave of his hand.

The nurse nodded and disappeared up the stairs to the third story.

The doctor pointed to a chair across from his desk. Emma placed her suitcase on the floor and watched as he shuffled his papers, scattering pens, clips, and folders in the process.

“So, you’ve arrived at last,” he said. He uncovered a cigarette from under the jumble. “It’s about time. I was bloody well ready to return to England. I must be honest with you, Mrs. Swan, we don’t have much time.” He lit the cigarette and smacked his hand on the desk. “Damn . . . I’ve told that woman more than once not to speak French in this house. How will she learn English if she continually breaks her promise? I’ve taught her nearly every word she knows.”

“It appears she has more to learn,” Emma said dryly.

“Hummmpph. She’s obstinate and smart as a whip.” The doctor settled in his chair and stared at Emma. “I can see we have a long journey ahead of us in a short time. You must be prepared, Mrs. Swan, to learn as much as you can, as quickly as you can. I will not abide a slovenly or cavalier attitude from you, or from anyone else for that matter.”

“You can rest assured that you will have my full attention, Sir Jonathan.”

His fleshy mouth turned down at the corners. “Damn her, again. She’ll be the death of me.” He shook his head. “My name is Jonathan Harvey and I am, indeed, a ‘Sir.’ However, I am not as old as the Round Table, nor am I a member of the Royal Family. John will do, or Dr. Harvey if you prefer.”

“John’s a nice name. It has such a pleasant connotation with Our Lord,” Emma said, hoping her sarcasm drove home the point. “You may call me Emma.”

“I am in no