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

at the cottage after a short drive. He held her clothing in his left hand and made a turning motion with his right when they arrived at the door—he hesitated to open it himself.

She turned the brass knob and the door creaked open.

“You were right,” she said, knowing he might not understand her English. “Why would the door be locked? Why would there be theft in a fortified city guarded by troops?”

The courier placed the clothes and her bag on a chair and nodded. “Bonsoir, Madame. À demain.”

“Merci, Richard. Demain.”

Through the small window, she watched as the truck sputtered down the lane until it was out of sight. She took off her coat and cleared a space on the cluttered kitchen table for her supper. The cottage felt familiar; yet, she considered herself a stranger. Little had changed since her time with Tom in August. The table held a jumble of papers and medical books, the bedsheets and blankets were wadded into a ball at its foot. Tom had left in a hurry.

What a change. My tidy Boston husband continues his slovenly ways. She shook her head in wonder, but a prickle of fear raced over her as she thought of any number of calamities that might have befallen him on the battle line.

What does he want to tell me that is so important? I can’t carry on about this, or I’ll drive myself mad.

She shivered and rubbed her arms to ward off the cold. Needing to start a fire, she opened the door and stood on the walk next to the small garden in front of the cottage. Driven by a chilly northwest wind that pushed against her, gray plumes of clouds soared between her and the stars. The nearby oaks stood black and bare in the autumn night while, in the garden, a few yellow and purple pansies bloomed on long, green stalks. Scattered leaves created a brown patchwork against the sprigs of grass yet untouched by frost. Someone, perhaps Tom, had collected wood and stacked it in an iron rick, which leaned against the stone wall.

Emma carried a few logs inside and positioned them on the fireplace grate. Returning to the garden, she collected dead leaves and dry bark and placed them underneath the logs. A tin match safe rested on the rough wooden mantel above the fireplace. The room soon was filled with a warm, crackling light.

She ate her hastily made supper at a space she’d cleared on the table. At Claude’s urging, a nurse had put together a meal—reluctantly, because she had more important duties than to wait upon a doctor’s wife—of a few hard biscuits and dried beef tucked into a cloth napkin. Beggars could not be choosers. A sharp pang struck her stomach because it had been hours since breakfast. Her supper, with a glass of wine from a newly opened bottle, tasted good in spite of its simplicity.

Her gaze shifted to the letters on the table. The wind knocked against the window and a draft flowed down the chimney, a few embers sparking from the logs to the wooden floor. She jumped out of the chair to stamp them out, and a scrap of paper, neatly tucked between the mattress and the underlying metal springs, caught her eye as she passed the bed. If not for Tom’s messy bed making, she would never have noticed the small white triangle. She reached for it, but then stopped, unsure whether she should violate her husband’s privacy in his cottage.

I’m his wife. Surely he has nothing to hide.

Linton Bower appeared in a vivid flash before her—the strength of his arms, the muscular curves of his naked back, the fresh, forbidden taste of his lips. A red-hot flush of shame rose to her face, far removed from the effects of the crackling fire.

She lifted the mattress and withdrew the paper: a letter, dated late July 1917, written on finely woven white stationery and folded in half. She opened it:

My dear Tom,

I am sorry to be the one to tell you this, but I know tongues will wag, and sooner or later the truth will come rushing toward you. Better to hear it from me than one of those silly Boston women who do nothing but gossip and slander others for their own benefit.

From the beginning, our friendship has been based on truth, which we both hold in the highest regard. I treasure your respect for your marriage vows, for your honor and commitment. I suppose that’s why you are where you are today, serving unselfishly in a war far from home. But as you serve, others are lax in their duties. Therefore, I feel it my place—nay, my duty—to inform you of occurrences here—so unpleasant and distasteful I hope you will not loathe me for bringing these matters to your attention. But the truth will come out.

Your wife has been seen in the company of a Boston artist, Linton Bower, and unfortunately the pair appears to be more than just companions. I wouldn’t tell you this if I hadn’t seen this behavior with my own eyes. I’m sure this is distressing to you, Tom, but you must hear out these words. I hope you can understand the pain this letter causes me as well. Writing it was not an easy task.

I believe their first encounter was at the Fountain Gallery. The relationship progressed from there....

The letter ended with a jagged tear across the bottom.

Emma dropped to the bed, shock coursing through her body, the room deathly cold, the fire near yet so small and distant. She clutched her chest and a reservoir of memories rushed toward her.

No, no, no.

Tom’s aloofness upon their reunion, his reluctance to make love, his brief September visit to Paris, the urgency of his message to the courier, all of these “actions” suddenly made sense. Emma looked in disbelief at the letter in her hands. She wanted to tear it apart and fling it into the fire, knowing she was