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

parquet floor. “We’ve created the Studio for Facial Masks, and we should be proud of it. I couldn’t have done it without you and Madame Clement. On Monday, when we open, I suppose we’ll have a line of men waiting for us, if Sir Jonathan’s prediction is correct.”

Emma walked to the window and placed her hands on the sill where the warm fall light dissolved the chill on her arms. When she took stock of all they had created, she was satisfied with their work. The studio was as pleasant as she and her assistants could make it. The process had been long and difficult, especially with John and Virginie butting heads at nearly every turn. But Emma recognized their worth as a team: John, as a pedantic teacher; the intelligence and wit of Virginie; and the steady hand of Madame Clement, the housekeeper, who kept them comfortably fed and on schedule.

For a small salary, provided by the Red Cross and bolstered by a few francs from Tom, Virginie and Madame Clement had accepted Emma’s invitation to remain at the studio. Virginie was thrilled to be rid of John, who had recruited her and Madame Clement in anticipation of Emma’s arrival. Both had suffered tedious demands and rigorous training under him, but his “tyranny” had made the transition easier for Emma. Virginie alone had constructed more than twenty facial masks under John’s tutelage.

Emma had worked with the Red Cross to secure the two upper floors of a building in the Latin Quarter near the church of Saint-Étienne-du-Mont. From the studio’s arched stone entrance on the rue Monge, a passageway led to a small courtyard and a rear wooden staircase. The courtyard walls were covered with ivy and its square filled with marble and bronze statues purchased by Emma at a flea market.

Madame Clement brought meals daily from her home and shopped for fresh flowers every few days. When the housekeeper warmed her dishes on the small stove, the smells of her delicious cooking filled the studio. She made coq au vin when she could procure a chicken; prepared potatoes in all forms; baked small cakes or cookies, which sometimes graced the table, despite shortages of sugar and flour. The studio became a bastion against the war with its warm light, flowers, decorative posters, French and American flags, homemade dishes, and bottles of wine.

Madame Clement lived nearby in the Quarter, while Emma and Virginie occupied one of two small rooms on the floor above the studio. The garret, with its angled window that looked out across the jumbled Paris skyline, contained a battered oak desk, a chair, two iron bedsteads, and was warmed by an open-hearth fireplace. The space seemed small, even by Boston standards, but Emma knew it would be cozy and warm during the gray winter days to come.

The last of the staff yet to join them before the opening was a tall, fez-wearing Moroccan named Hassan, an olive-skinned man with profuse black hair. He had worked with Virginie at a hospital and inquired about a job with the studio. Emma worked out a small stipend for Hassan after his interview, as well as living quarters in the garret, providing the room across the hall in exchange for his services. Hassan could speak or read little English, but through his intuition and intelligence could interpret a look or a gesture as if someone had spoken to him. He was strong enough to haul supplies despite a slight limp from a leg injury suffered in the war. During their introduction, Emma found he handled the clay-modeling brushes and scrapers, used in creating the masks, with ample dexterity.

Late in the afternoon, after a day of cleaning and organizing in the studio, a repeated loud knock on the door disturbed Emma’s brief chance to relax. Soon, Madame Clement, attired in one of the simple housedresses she favored, appeared with a young man in tow. Emma recognized his thin form, the light-brown hair, and distinctively colored amber eyes from a previous meeting. He was a courier from the hospital in Toul who had come with Tom in September to pick up medical supplies in Paris. The courier and her husband had visited briefly at rue de Paul before driving back to the hospital.

Today, Emma sensed something was wrong. The courier lowered his head and whispered to Madame Clement. The housekeeper frowned and then nodded as the courier spoke. The large studio room, one wall hung with the plaster masks of men with missing noses, twisted mouths, and sightless eyes, took on an ominous feel. The masks were used as guides to fill in the flesh lost by injury.

Virginie appeared at the door and asked, “Is everything all right?”

Emma concerned by the courier’s tone, countered, “I think the question is, ‘What is wrong?’”

“Qu’est-ce qui s’est passé?” Virginie asked Madame Clement.

The housekeeper bent toward the nurse and, like the courier, whispered.

“What is going on? Has something happened to Tom?” Emma walked uncertainly toward them, swaying a bit on her feet.

“A moment, Madame,” Virginie said to Emma, and cut off Madame Clement from her conversation with the courier and concentrated her attention on the young man. After a brief discussion, the nurse said, “Your husband wishes to speak to you.”

“He’s here?”

“No, in Toul.”

“Is he safe?”

“Yes, but he has an important matter to discuss with you.”

“The courier has no idea what this is about?” Emma asked impatiently, clasping her hands in front of her.

The courier and Virginie carried on another conversation.

“He has no idea, but Monsieur Swan apparently is worried—more concerned than the courier has ever seen him.”

“I can’t stand this,” Emma said. “Please have Madame Clement telephone Tom at the hospital. There’s no phone at the cottage. It’s too late to travel today. Virginie, ask the courier if he wouldn’t mind staying the night. We can get an early start in the morning.”

Virginie spoke to the courier and then to the housekeeper, who nodded and left the room. The courier took off his hat and bowed