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

bit in her chair. “I’m glad to hear it, considering the extent of the conversations we’ve had over the past several months. ‘Hello’ and ‘How are you?’ Not exactly the stuff of romance.”

“Don’t be absurd,” John said. “Romance? Balderdash when it comes to the essence of a relationship.” He planted his hands firmly on the table. “Emma, if you learn one thing in this life, let it be that a good man and a good woman are bound together by vows and duty, not by some cock-and-bull notion of the romantic.”

“I’ve ignored romance for duty too many times,” she said. “I’ll take the stuff of romance.”

“Why are women attracted to such tragic folly?” John asked without a hint of humor. “Flaubert pointed out the absurdity of romantic love years ago in Madame Bovary.”

“I think that depends on your interpretation of the novel,” Emma said. “Why are men so obstinate? Can’t you see the tragedy of it all?”

“No, we are unassailable in our masculine predispositions and assumptions.”

“Really? I thought better of Englishmen . . . ‘this scepter’d isle’ may be more backward than I imagined.”

John sputtered with a “tut, tut” and then added, “There’s no call to slander a nation.”

They stared at each other, as if at an impasse, while the waiter delivered a watery potato soup. They picked up their spoons and, after a few sips, laughed aloud simultaneously. The glint in John’s eye faded with the laughter and he replaced his spoon on the white tablecloth. “I have one impression, though, to tell you. Something is afoot, and I wasn’t able to ascertain the nature of the problem. I was very, very close to discovering the cause—like a barb had pierced Tom’s heart—but my French companion, from the project I’m working on, interrupted our conversation at a most inopportune time. Damn the bloody French—they never quite seem to get it right.”

“So, something is wrong—I’ve known it for a while now. It’s not just the injury. There’s never been a good time to broach the subject.”

John scowled. “It’s clear it’s tearing him up inside.”

Emma sighed. “This can’t go on. I postponed talking to him because of his recovery. Then I got absorbed in my work and, frankly, didn’t want to deal with it. But now, I’ll force the issue. I’ll telephone and say I’m coming to Toul. We have to talk. When my work slows. . . .”

“I believe that’s the only sensible course of action.” John spooned soup into his mouth. “Nasty stuff.” He dropped the utensil on the table. “I thought the French were experts at potato soup.”

“Onion soup . . . you know very well the war has affected cooking supplies. We’re lucky to have this.”

“That’s what I like about you, Emma—grateful for small favors. Speaking of. . . .”

“Oh, yes, my favor. Do you have any contacts in the Canadian forces?”

John looked at her oddly, gauging her intention. “Not directly, but I can make inquiries if you wish. I’ve worked with some Canadian soldiers.”

“I’d like to find out information about one of my cases—a Private Ronald Darser assigned to the Seventh Canadian Infantry Brigade. I have his medical file, but I believe the information has been falsified.”

He shook his head. “Falsified? I have no recollection of the name.”

“Possibly forged.”

“Why would medical information about disfigurement be—”

“That’s all I can tell you. You have your secret project—I have mine.”

John raised an eyebrow. “I’ll do what I can, but don’t expect miracles. If the information is indeed falsified, finding the truth may be harder than you suspect. I assume what you are looking for is the true identity of the man in question?”

“Yes. I believe the soldier may be hiding behind a false name.”

John tweaked his chin and looked around the dining room. “I will say the cultured French know how to dress, particularly those of a mature age. Do you see how refined, how quiet the world can be even during a war? Look at that couple.” John pointed to a man and woman, both elegantly attired and eating calmly, a few tables away. “I could never be as thin as either one of them. His suit is impeccable compared to the rags I have on. It gives one hope, doesn’t it, that the world will go on; and, somehow there are people worth a damn. People worth saving. Unfortunate, that—how you and I work with men so distraught they cannot face themselves, but ultimately, I suppose, are worth our time.”

“You know the French word for them—mutilés,” Emma said.

“I could give a hang what the French call them,” John said. “God, I wish this war were over and I could get back to England. The project I’m working on is an abomination. It only heightens the potential for more death and destruction.” He patted the table. “There, I’ve said it—much more than I should. The King will have me executed for treason. Where in God’s name is our food?”

“The Americans are advancing. More Germans are being captured every day.” Consumed with the thoughts of war, Emma looked at the soup in front of her.

“No more mincing words, my dear. You must talk with your husband as soon as possible. There’s more to the world than work and war, as hard as it might be to believe.”

John was about to unleash another barrage upon her when the waiter arrived with the chicken they had both ordered.

“Tell me, why do I always feel like I’m talking to my father when we chat?”

“Probably because I’m older, and the most sensible man you’ve ever met.” He grabbed the waiter’s arm just as he was about to leave the table. “Another glass of wine, and remain here while I try this dish.”

The waiter, aghast, swiped John’s arm away as Emma translated in French as best she could. The man glared at his customer, and stood next to the table with crossed arms.

John lifted his fork, stabbed a bit of chicken, tasted it, and asked the waiter in a reproachful voice, “You call this