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

life. This portrait is my savior.” He patted his chest and straightened in his chair. “Would you like to go for a walk? It’s a lovely day.”

Emma thought better of it for a moment, but then decided to indulge the officer.

“It would be good to get out. Let me change.” She pointed across the hall. “Take a look in the casting room. You can see our work.”

When she returned from the bedroom, she found the officer studying the facial casts on the wall.

“My God, I had no idea,” he said. “Soldiers with injuries like these are usually dead in the trenches. You must have a strong stomach.”

Emma stood by him and pointed to the line of plaster impressions running horizontally across the wall, the multiple casts representing the reconstruction phases of the injured face. She pointed to one in the top row. “This is the face of a French officer, Monsieur Thibault, an early arrival at the studio. Virginie, my nurse assistant, and Hassan, made the first casts. When I returned from Toul I took over.”

“Half his face was blasted away,” the officer said, incredulously. He ran his hand over the vacant cavity on the right side of Monsieur Thibault’s cast.

“It was. He was bent over in anguish and didn’t want to look at us when he arrived. Virginie struggled to get him to hold his head up. He couldn’t accept that he was a man who terrified children, a man who couldn’t stand to be with his wife in daylight, a man who hid every emotion and thought from the world. The light in his eyes was dead.” Emma drew the lieutenant’s attention to the finished casts. “Look what we’ve done. We’ve restored the dead eyes, sculpted the noses and ears, and perfected the mouths until the soldiers’ faces appear as they were before the injury. It’s chilling, sometimes. In a way, it’s like Frankenstein, only we’re not creating a monster. We’re creating a face—restoring a life that’s been taken away.”

“I never completely understood what you were doing until now.” The lieutenant shook his head in admiration. “I’m amazed.”

She held up a thin piece of metal resting on the studio table. “This is the new face of Monsieur Thibault.” The copper glinted in the winter sun streaming through the studio windows.

“May I take a closer look?” he asked, staring at the oddly shaped form.

“Handle it carefully.” Emma gave it to him.

He held the mask in his cupped hands like a baby bird. “This piece of metal will be his face?”

“It will conceal his wounds. In a few more days, he’s scheduled for his last fitting. Then we’ll put on the finishing touches with paint—matching the skin tone is the most difficult part. The piece is supported by spectacles and conforms to his face.”

The officer stared at the molded copper in his hands.

“Perhaps we should go,” Emma said. “I have to work after lunch.”

“Of course.” He held the mask out to her and let it slide gently into her hands.

She withdrew, the obvious affection in his touch making her uneasy. She thought of Madame Bovary lying on her bed; and, another consideration: Perhaps the lieutenant knew a secret about Tom which she didn’t—one her husband had shared with a genial American officer who liked to talk.

“To the Luxembourg Gardens,” she said as she placed the mask back on the table.

* * *

Lieutenant Stoneman found an iron bench in the sun and whisked away the thin covering of snow, which fell in fractured white chunks to the ground. Emma, wrapped in her coat, huddled near the scrolled side railing. The officer waited for Emma’s invitation to sit and when she offered it, he slid close to her, his body shielding her from the wind. She looked across the snow-covered grass toward the Palais and the marble sculptures that circled the basin. The sun warmed her as she watched a few strollers pass by under the perfect blue sky.

“The gardens must be lovely in the spring,” he said and broke her reverie.

She turned to him. “I plan to come here often when the weather warms.”

“Perhaps I can join you.” He smiled, looking to her for confirmation.

“Who knows? Perhaps the war will be over soon and we’ll all be home safe and sound.”

The lieutenant sighed and his body, overcome with doubt, sank against the bench. “Do you ever think about death?” he asked, staring across the wide garden.

Emma nodded, knowing that every day her work affirmed the fragility of life. Only God could know how long their lives would last. “Often, but death isn’t my concern at the moment. I’m more interested in healing.”

“I understand—but your work must affect you.” He looked upon the brown nubs of grass that protruded from the snow.

She followed the direction of his gaze as it shifted across the grounds. “I must admit I came to Paris for selfish reasons, the primary one being the advancement of my career as a sculptress, but there were more important reasons for coming.”

He turned to her. “What other reasons?”

Emma wondered whether she should confide in this man when she held so much inside: secrets that couldn’t be divulged, the emotional fatigue of her work, so little time to work on saving her marriage. No one other than Virginie was privy to her confidences, and those parcels were carefully doled out; yet, the lieutenant’s questions made her feel vulnerable and open to conversation—as if she had found someone she could trust.

“I don’t want to bother you with my troubles,” Emma said. “I don’t expect you to care.”

“But I’m a friend—and who can predict what the future holds. You can talk freely to me.”

“My feelings are my own, and, yes, considering the times we live in, perhaps I should be more open.” She paused for a moment considering what to say, staring at the people strolling the gravel paths, some in pairs, some alone, all absorbed in their individual worlds. “I was running away from something in Boston. In fact, I’ve been running