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

As the graves receded, Emma knew this was the last time she would ever visit the officer. And in that instant, a thrill washed over her body and she turned in her seat to see a doughboy standing by the tree, his right hand covering his mouth as if to blow a kiss.

* * *

“I have the feeling you don’t believe me,” Emma said. “I only drew the portrait as a favor for him.” She struggled to control the emotions surging through her, and sat stiffly in the chair across from Tom, her fists clenched in her lap.

Tom brushed his hand through his unkempt hair. Lately, he always looked as if he had just gotten up. If she was an emotional wreck, Tom was her equivalent on the physical spectrum.

His hospital office was dingy and crowded, and pity filled her briefly for all he had been through. However, what she really wanted was to be on her way back to Paris with Richard. Lieutenant Stoneman’s death angered her, and her husband’s implied accusation of a betrayal disturbed her—because of its inaccuracy, and because of its possibility.

Tom was about to answer Emma when Claude stuck his head round the edge of the door.

“Bonjour, Madame Swan,” he said with genuine joy. He lifted Emma’s hand and kissed it. “Ça va?”

“Comme si, comme ça,” Emma replied. Although she liked the French doctor, she wished he had come at another time for she had more important issues to discuss than social pleasantries.

“It’s been so long,” Claude said. “Too long a time.” He cocked his head toward Tom.

Tom returned the look with a scowl.

“A patient with an urgent request . . . needs to see you,” Claude continued.

“Is it an emergency?” Tom asked, leaning forward in his chair, his annoyance diminishing with Claude’s request.

“ No. ”

“Well then, please do me a favor and take over.”

“The patient is not a man,” Claude said.

Emma caught the sparkle in the French doctor’s eyes.

“I see,” Tom said stiffly. “Tell her I’ll be with her shortly.”

“Pardon, Madame Swan, women can be demanding,” Claude said.

“I’ve been told,” Emma said, the hairs on the nape of her neck rising.

“Please, Claude, Emma and I really need this time together.”

“Of course.” He ducked out of sight as quickly as he had come in.

Tom looked resigned, creases etching his face. “I do believe you drew the portrait out of kindness . . .” His words trailed off, as if the certainty of his argument eluded him.

“I’ve been faithful,” Emma said.

“How many times must I repeat . . .” A deep sadness welled in his eyes. “Oh, I’ve been such a fool. I was overtaken by the urge to be the good doctor, and in my obsession I’ve ruined our lives. I was so happy you were coming to France—to make a difference. Then Louisa’s letters began, along with relentless death.”

She reached for him. He drew back a little, not out of refusal, she considered, but from contrition. Perhaps there was hope after all. “What’s been taken can be replaced; what’s been broken can be repaired. I haven’t been a saint, Tom—I’ve been as standoffish as you. Of course, if Louisa hadn’t written those letters—her friendship, after you left, was relentlessly Lucrezia Borgia. She was a beast to Anne. I should never have underestimated her capacity for duplicity.”

“Such a fool . . . such a fool. . . .” He rubbed his forehead and then placed his hands on the desk. “It was so odd, after the letters arrived, how my life changed . . . you became this gray, faceless thing . . . it was as if you didn’t exist, as if our marriage was part of a different universe in a lost time. I got carried away with my work here. France was all that mattered. I belonged here and you weren’t part of that arrangement. I couldn’t answer Louisa. I never wrote back. . . .”

“You never responded?” Emma asked with astonishment.

“Never. I was too concerned she would take my inquiries the wrong way. I didn’t want to exacerbate the situation, and, frankly, I didn’t have the time. After a few months, the letters stopped. I assumed my feelings toward her had been made quite clear. Louisa was always my friend and I will be forever grateful for our introduction, but never beyond that. I was unaware of the depth of her feeling, or her jealousy. By the time her letters ended, the damage had been done.”

Emma got up and walked behind him. She looked through the grimy window into the deep shadows that lined the street. The sun would be setting soon. She was in Toul for another night.

She placed her hands on Tom’s shoulders and gently rubbed his neck, and, for a moment, she rested her chin on the top of his head. His warmth, his scent, drifted up to her and the smell reminded her of the intimate moments they had spent together. “Do you think we can put all this behind us?” she asked and draped her arms around his neck.

He clasped her hands in his and squeezed.

Emma warmed to his touch, but the feeling was like that of an old friend rather than a lover. Despite that, the loneliness that had been so much a part of her life lifted slightly.

“I’m afraid it’s too late,” Tom answered.

She withdrew from his grasp and returned to her chair. “Why?” Her voice quivered as she struggled to maintain her composure. “Why is it too late?”

“The trust between us . . . it’s gone.”

She stared at him, the melancholy sadness she had seen so often of late reappearing in his eyes.

“Doctor,” Claude’s voice called from down the hall, “your patient is hysterical.”

“I must go,” Tom said. “I’ll be on duty tonight and, most likely, getting home late. Richard will take you to the cottage.”

“I must return to Paris tomorrow.”

“I know. I promise I’ll be there for a visit soon. Too much work