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

Tom attempted to lift his head from his pillow, but he groaned in pain and collapsed back upon the bed.

“Don’t be silly,” Emma said, attempting to quiet him. “You must lie still.”

“I can see that,” he whispered and then turned his head a bit toward her.

Emma thought she could see, in the semidarkness, a watery film of tears forming in his eyes.

“I’ll be fine,” he said. “You must return to Paris and go on with your work.”

“I’ll stay here. Virginie can carry on—she’s quite capable of running the studio.”

Tom flinched. “No. You must do your work. I insist.”

Emma gripped his hand. “Tom, be fair. You have no right to insist. How can you ask me to return to Paris when you’re suffering?”

Without hesitating he said, “Because others need you more.”

Stunned by his words, Emma released his hand and sagged back in her chair.

“I see,” she replied, clasping her hands and fighting against the tears welling in her eyes. “All right, then. I’ll leave in the morning. It will be better for both of us.”

Tom lifted his hand, but then, as if his arm was weighted by lead, it fell to the bed. “It’s the right thing—the injured soldiers need you. Do try to get some rest.”

She turned her head to wipe away a tear. When she looked back, he was asleep.

Emma closed her eyes and tried to do the same. A man drifted by her chair in the night; she was uncertain whether he was a soldier or a hospital aide. For all she knew, he could have been a hallucination. The hours slid by in jumpy fits and starts, punctuated by terrifying memories from the Front and the room’s lurking shadows. There were ethereal moments when she looked across the sick beds and tried to convince herself she was a participant in a terrible dream. Of course, she knew that wasn’t the truth. This was no dream—the world had, in an instant, become much more complicated for her and Tom.

CHAPTER 6

PARIS

December 1917

A bitter wind swept down rue Monge. The wooden door clattered as Emma opened it. Crossing her arms over her chest for warmth, she rushed through the passageway to the courtyard, the air crackling with cold and smelling of snow. Winter in Paris was different from the same season in Boston. The air here was sharp and crisp, not laced with the ocean’s salt and humidity. Virginie had predicted the storm the day before, sniffing outside, formulating her forecast.

Looking out over the courtyard, Emma climbed the stairs. The mottled ivy trembled against the stone walls, while the statues, dusted with flakes, stood gray and white in contrast to the muted green leaves.

She fished for the key in her pocket, found it, and opened the door. A sultry warmth, created by the boiling water on the small stove, enveloped her as she stepped inside.

“Snow today, as I said,” Virginie called out from the large studio on the front of the building. Hassan grunted in agreement.

“Hello to you, too, Mademoiselle. Did Madame Clement make tea before she left?”

“Oui, sur la table.”

The familiar bisque teapot, covered by a white tea cozy, sat on the alcove table. Emma poured a cup and walked to the studio, the room as gray as the snowy clouds visible through the windows. She took off her coat and placed it over a chair. Virginie was busy hanging a facial cast on the wall, while Hassan, attired in a white smock, crimson fez by his side, worked on another. Emma studied him as he etched around an eye socket with a sculpting tool.

“Very nice,” Emma said to him.

Hassan nodded. “Merci, Madame.”

“How many are we expecting today?” Emma asked Virginie.

“Two. One in the morning. One in the afternoon.”

“Not a busy day.”

“But the casualties continue to mount,” the nurse replied. “I read the death toll in the newspaper this morning. The fighting is heavy near Cambrai. British and German mostly.”

“The winter has dragged down the war,” Emma said, rubbing her hands together. “We should be grateful we have this haven. But we need to liven up the studio for Christmas. Perhaps Madame Clement can find some holly and holiday candles, or other festive decorations.”

“And champagne—pour une fête,” Virginie added.

Hassan smiled and tipped an imaginary glass with his right arm.

“Yes, I suppose champagne would be appropriate for a toast.”

“Did you talk with your husband this morning?” Virginie asked, quite out of the blue.

Bitterness swept over her, and, disliking the feeling, she pushed it away. “No. I decided to take a walk instead. I’m sure nothing has changed since we phoned a few days ago. He’s recovering nicely, taking small steps. The doctor expects him to be walking normally by the first of the year. He may even be able to return to work in a limited capacity.”

“The news is better and better,” Virginie said.

Emma nodded, but her heart was not in her gesture. The letter she’d read in the cottage still weighed on her mind, even though she’d tried to trivialize the memory. “I should prepare for our patient.” Emma sipped the last of her tea, picked up her coat, and placed the cup on the alcove table before heading upstairs to her room.

Once there, she tossed the garment on the bed and sat down beside it. The room was chilly under the sunless sky, the heat from below providing only slight warmth. The small fireplace, so cheery when ablaze, held only cold ashes. She sighed, smoothed her cheeks with her hands, and looked at the small desk near the fireplace where two letters from Anne, her housekeeper, rested. Her Boston home now seemed idyllic compared with Paris; such feelings were drawn to the forefront as she read Anne’s account of household life and playtime with Lazarus.

Below, a door opened and closed and Emma heard Madame Clement call out to Virginie. Emma rushed down the stairs, happy to the see the housekeeper, who carried a bag of sundry items, a coveted loaf of bread for lunch, and a