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

fighting a foe that had already made its presence known. And, from the handwriting, she knew her adversary was Louisa Markham.

* * *

During the night, the wind stopped its rage against the cottage. Emma pulled the blankets close to her chin and stared at the dying embers. Maybe once an hour, frequently enough to wake her, shells exploded at the Front, sending the troubling rumble into her ears like thunder from a distant storm. She tried to sleep, to brush away the demons prodding her dreams: Linton rushing toward her; Louisa laughing maniacally as Linton stumbles and falls on the steps; the smiling boy she loved in Vermont; and the faceless baby taunting her.

* * *

Richard arrived early the next morning, the truck awakening her from a fitful sleep just before dawn. Emma, feeling as if she had fallen asleep only a few minutes before, wrapped herself in a blanket and answered the door, thinking only of the journey ahead. Richard, cheeks shining, smiled and offered her fruit and cold oatmeal.

“Merci,” she repeated several times as she began eating. He bowed slightly each time she thanked him. After Emma pointed to an extra chair, Richard pulled it to the table and munched on an apple as she finished her meal.

After breakfast, while Richard smoked outside, she made the bed and discretely returned the letter to its place under the mattress. The soldier’s uniform lay on the floor.

“A moment,” Emma called out, and picked up the clothes. From his smile, she knew Richard could tell what was coming, perhaps having been informed of her plan by Claude. She walked to the tiny washroom, closed the door, and smacked her elbow against the wall as she struggled to get dressed. If not for the seriousness of the situation, she would have laughed as she viewed herself in the small shaving mirror over the sink. The loose-fitting jacket and pants minimized her breasts and hips. Her hair, piled high upon her head, fit comfortably under the somewhat oversized helmet. She tucked in a few loose strands and pronounced herself ready.

Richard, sitting at the table, laughed when she stepped out of the room, amused by her disguise and predicament.

“Chut,” Emma said, but her admonition fell on a broad smile and continued laughter.

“Non, non,” Richard repeated as Emma wrapped the leggings around her trousers and then pulled on boots. When he had composed himself, he rose from his chair. “Nous partons pour le Front.”

Emma understood and asked, “Do I need anything? Passport? Identification papers?” As soon as the words passed her lips, she realized the ridiculousness of her question. She was attempting to sneak onto a battlefield disguised as a man, her success dependent upon Richard, his guidance, and his knowledge of the Front, not upon documents that showed her to be a woman.

The slight young man shook his head and pointed to the truck, which was parked in the lane. The morning sun shone brightly on the olive green metal.

“It’s a splendid day to go to war,” Emma said. “Allons-y.”

Before closing up the cottage, Emma looked around the room. The tidy bed and the orderly table gave her a momentary sense of serenity. That peace, however, was broken by distant explosions, the first she had heard in hours. After the blasts subsided, Emma listened. The wind pushed through the trees and shook the dead leaves still clinging to the branches, but no birds sang, no animals scurried in the lane. The land was dead, blighted by a war that was close at hand—the morning serving up only the promise of death.

Richard cranked the truck and they drove down the lane, past the hospital, and through the city. The courier waved to the French soldiers as they passed by the gates. “Poilu,” Richard said, as the soldiers returned his gesture.

The truck swept eastward, past thickly wooded hills that lined the rutted road. The Front lay more than thirty kilometers ahead. Richard honked at a convoy of ambulances and fuel trucks headed toward Toul. She turned her head as the vehicles passed. Under the tarpaulins and the makeshift metal covers, wounded men lay on gurneys, their arms and legs bouncing limply as the ambulances rumbled over the bumps.

As they neared the Front, they motored past a column of American soldiers. Three gun carriages, hauling artillery and shells, and pulled by horses, lagged behind the lethargically marching troops. Emma thought the men, without helmets, wearing whatever hats they could on their heads, a ragtag bunch. She recalled the woman in Saint-Nazaire who had told her the Americans would not be able to win the war.

“Les Américains,” Richard said, with a slight edge to his voice. “Ridicule.”

“Why?” Emma asked.

“Parce que—”

“My French is not very good, as you found out yesterday.”

“I speak a little English,” he replied, as if quoting from a language textbook.

“Then, tell me, why do you think the Americans are ridiculous?”

“Nouveau,” he said.

Emma looked past him as he gripped the wheel, wondering if the courier could be right. The American officers on the ship were fresh and inexperienced, but more than prepared to give up their lives. Lt. Andrew Stoneman had assured her of their dedication to the war. She wondered where he was and if he still carried the portrait she had drawn of him.

“Americans are prepared to die for your country,” she said.

“Nos chasseurs. Magnifique.”

Emma looked at him blankly.

“Bleu,” he said. “Le chapeau des Alpes.”

Emma remembered a group of French soldiers near the Paris studio. They were strikingly attired in dark blue tunics and Alpine hats of the same color. Richard seemed correct in his assumption—the chasseurs appeared, at first glance, to be better and more efficient fighters than the ill-equipped Americans.

“Time will tell,” she said. “In war, all men face the same dangers. Bravery and morale count for something.”

Richard nodded as if he agreed, but Emma suspected he understood little of what she said, and even less of what she implied.

The truck rolled closer to the Front. Richard pointed to a hill on