She withdrew her hand from his and stared at the sparkling water because she didn’t want to look into his eyes. “Tom wants me to come to France.”
He seemed to stop breathing, as if life had drained from him. After that, for what seemed an eternity, the only sounds that drifted to her ears were the gentle urges of the cabman to his horse, the clop of hooves, and the rattle of the carriage.
Finally, Linton asked, “Have you decided?”
“ No. ”
He exhaled and her world again seemed on its rightful course.
“I need time to think about what Tom is asking of me,” she said. “The thought is tempting—I don’t think you know my weaknesses, Linton.”
“You have a weakness?” he asked, somewhat bitterly. “I wouldn’t have thought so.”
“Oh, more than one.” She leaned back in the seat as the cab came to a brief stop to let pedestrians cross an intersection. Emma stared at the couples who passed in front of the carriage; a few smiled and chatted, most were captivated by the ground underneath their feet. To go through life staring at the ground, one might as well be dead. Linton was right, the day, the journey, were too precious to waste. She faced him and found him staring at her with his gauzy eyes, waiting to hear of her tribulations. “Well, for one, I have trouble with faces. The critics have always said so. I’d be working with soldiers—making masks to cover their facial injuries. The work would assist me in my art and . . .”
“And?”
“I don’t want to sound too noble . . . I’d be doing something for someone else for a change—something good—not just thinking about myself, or my art, or scouring Boston society for patrons.”
Linton nodded. “Yes, let Alex, Louisa Markham, and Frances Livingston handle that aspect of the business.”
“I know you understand how exciting, but shallow, the whole business can be.”
He said nothing, but she knew he agreed. “But there is our project. Narcissus might keep me in Boston.”
“Am I one of your weaknesses?” he asked.
She shifted in the seat and was certain Linton saw, at least felt, her discomfort. Was he her weakness? The cab jerked forward past the sleepwalkers staring at their feet and, at that moment, she believed Linton was more than a temptation for all the qualities she admired in him. He was a man with whom she could fall deeply, madly in love if she let herself. The question was how far would she go?
As if unwilling to wait for an answer, Linton placed both of his hands on her face.
Emma recoiled as much from the intimacy of his movement as from the vulnerability she felt from public eyes staring into the cab.
She pushed his hands away. “Linton, please!”
He turned crimson and his pale eyes blinked. “I meant no offense. I only wanted to see your face. All you are to me now is a whitish blur surrounded by a dark halo of hair. But with my hands I can truly see.”
“I understand,” Emma said apologetically, and felt ashamed of her rebuff, but still wary of those who might see her with his hands on her face. She lifted the overhead trap and yelled to the cabman, “Driver, could you please take us to the Fenway? I want to see the lush green of the cattails.”
“Certainly, ma’am,” the driver yelled down.
Emma closed the trap and pressed her back into the soft leather. The cab veered away from the river, heading west, passing several busy streets before taking its place on a road bordered by opulent houses with stately columns and wide verdant lawns. They passed Mrs. Livingston’s home before the road narrowed to a lane shaded by tall oaks and cedars. On this part of the journey, her companion had been silent, unmoving, staring through the carriage glass to his left. She wondered what he was seeing, or thinking.
“Linton?” She tapped him on the shoulder, hoping to shake him from his thoughts.
He turned to her and tears glistened in the shaded wells of his eyes.
“Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“I know you didn’t mean,” he said tersely and swiped a hand across his eyes. “I should be more of a man about it, I suppose. But can you understand how hard it is for me to . . .”
“See?” Emma asked softly, verging on tears herself.
Linton nodded and peered out of the cab.
Emma took his hands, now firmly situated in his lap, and guided them to her face.
He shuddered at her touch and turned.
She placed his right hand on her left cheek. Her facial nerves fluttered at the cool dampness of his fingers against the hot flush of her skin. “See,” she said.
His body relaxed against hers as his fingertips rested against her cheek for a time. Then, subtly, like a sculptor molding clay, his thumb and forefinger explored her features, at first dimpling them against the hollow of her cheek. He worked his hand upward across her cheekbone, and then cupped it over her left eye, pressing his index finger over the line of her brow. Emma thought her breath would stop as his hand traced lightly over her skin. He followed the line of her hair, leaned over, and then allowed his fingers to drift down the right side of her face, gently contouring the length of her nose. His hand descended toward her jaw; at that point, he brought up both hands and cupped them around her face. In a languid motion, he slid them down until his palms cradled her neck in a gentle embrace. Her pulse throbbed against his hands.
“You are so beautiful,” he said after a moment.
Emma placed her hands over his. The cab glided under a dense arch of trees and the shadows deepened.
Linton drew his face toward hers and kissed her.
She swooned under the press of his lips as the city dropped away. How long had it been since she had yielded like this to a man? How long had it been since the sweet sensations of passion had overtaken her? She lost control as the fevered air swept through the cab. Fueled by the humidity of the Fenway’s swampy ground, Emma kissed Linton fiercely and he responded by covering her face and neck with his own fervid kisses.
The cab rocked to a stop. The driver’s knock on the trap brought her to her senses. Linton pulled away and Emma, flushed, ran her hands across her face and through her hair.
“The road ends here,” the driver called out. “Back to town?”
Linton arched his neck, directing his voice through the trap. “Yes, back to the city.” He turned to Emma. “We still have an hour left.”
Emma smoothed her dress and tried to smile. She wondered whether Linton could discern her discomfort—perhaps by instinct rather than sight. “An hour,” she stated in a measured tone. She brushed her hands over her coat. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have acted so rashly.” She expected a quick reply, but none was forthcoming. Linton only stared out of the cab as if focused on some obscure object in the distance.
After the cab had reversed course and begun its journey back, he said, “You didn’t act rashly—you acted from your heart.”
“Perhaps, but where the heart leads can be dangerous.” Emma stared at the distant church steeples that rose above the trees. “We need to step back for a moment—let our intellect rule.”
Linton sat stiffly in the seat. The cab passed the resplendent Fenway homes and ventured back to Boston’s crowded streets. Other than polite conversation about the architecture, Emma spoke only briefly. He did the same until they arrived at her home. There he asked the driver to help Emma out of the cab and when she said good-bye, he did likewise, staring at a distant object that seemed visible only to him.
* * *
Emma fanned the program in front of her face. Beads of perspiration formed near her hairline and slid toward her temples. Why had Louisa decided to inflict an afternoon of such torture upon her?
The pianist at the front of the church lifted his hands to perform the Allegro Maestoso of Mozart’s Piano Sonata in A Minor.
Emma wiped her face with her handkerchief as the performer’s fingers touched the keyboard. “My God, it’s hot in this church,” she whispered to Louisa.
“Hot
as hell, you might say,” her friend whispered back, fanning herself with a carved ivory fan bordered in black Japanese lacquer.
Emma wondered how Louisa could stay so cool in such a formal dress of heavy cotton. She looked out over the rows of dark pews, nearly all occupied by stiffly dressed men and women who had come to enjoy a Sunday concert at the church.
The pianist’s hands raced over the keyboard as the afternoon sun burned through a clerestory window. A rectangular pane of blazing yellow light fell on an elderly couple three rows in front. The air grew as suffocating as fingers around her throat as the heat intensified.
“I feel faint,” Emma whispered again. “I love Mozart, but I must get some air.”
“I loathe Mozart,” Louisa replied. “Your need for medical attention is the perfect excuse for an early departure.”
“Absolutely,” Emma said before Louisa rose from the pew, clutched Emma’s hand, and pulled her down the aisle.
Though it was only slightly cooler outside, a moderate breeze cheered Emma and the heat lifted from her cheeks.
“Let’s sit for a moment,” she said as they crossed Park Street, her arm intertwined with Louisa’s. They found an iron bench shaded by an elm’s leafy branches. A flock of pigeons pecked and cooed near her feet; two squirrels circled madly around the base of a nearby tree.
“Are you feeling better?” Louisa asked after a few moments. “In the church, you looked like a cherry ready for the picking.”
Emma wiped her brow with her handkerchief, watching as couples traversed Tremont Street and, farther to the south, a throng of people crossed Boylston Street. Activity filled the Common on Sunday: children played with hoops, men courted sweethearts, old men smoked and read newspapers. Carriages rolled down Tremont, competing with the trolley for space.
Louisa sighed. “Give me a modern composer any day. Have you heard of Mr. Mahler? He died a few years ago, but he was a genius.”
“Vaguely,” Emma replied, not much in the mood for conversation. “This was your idea. I didn’t know you hated Mozart. Why drag us to a recital you disliked?”
“To get you out of the house—you’ve been sequestered so. You might as well be a nun. I had no idea you loved Mozart, but, frankly, it doesn’t make much difference, does it?”
“Well, we’ve learned something new about each other. I like music—I may have heard something of Mr. Mahler’s, although most modern compositions strike me as strange.”
“Like Linton Bower’s paintings?”
“Oh, I see,” Emma said, shaking her head. “That’s what this outing is about.”
“Yes, I wanted a private word with you—away from Anne and Lazarus.”
“Lazarus doesn’t care about our conversations, and he doesn’t tell tales.”
Louisa shook her fan at Emma. “Yes, but Anne is a different story. One can never trust the serving class. The walls talk in houses occupied by servants. Besides, what I have to say is rather private.” Louisa placed her fan in her lap and folded her hands over it. “Stories are circulating.”
“About?”
“You and Linton.”
“I see. There’s not much to tell.”
“It’s been said he modeled nude for you, and there’s more. Rumor has it you are having an affair with him.”
Emma shook her head, drew in a deep breath, and smiled. “And where are these rumors coming from?”
“Let’s say I heard them from our friends.”
“Your friends, Louisa. Which brings me to a point—you will not be one of mine if you continue this gossip mongering.”
Louisa laughed, her mouth almost curled into a sneer. “Really, Emma, our friendship is too long and too glorious to be ruined by a flock of cackling hens. I only tell you this because I want to protect your name. You know the affectations of Boston society.”
“I could do without such society.”
Louisa tapped her fan against the bench. “So Linton is not a homosexual?”
“Really, sometimes you astound me. How could you fall into such a trap?” She stopped for a moment to consider what to say next. After a brief, uncomfortable silence, she continued, “He’s handsome—and, yes, he has modeled for me—and we’ve become friends. He’s a kind man and a gentleman—but not a homosexual.”
Her friend picked at the red cloth tassel hanging from the fan. “You sound quite certain.” An arch smile formed on her face. “I’m positive these stories come from Alex. He is the cause, if you need the source. And it only makes sense, what with his jealousy . . . you know Linton is five years younger than you . . . Alex told me so. However, someone we know did see you taking a cab ride with the painter.”
“I’ve had quite enough of this,” Emma said, her anger rising. “God knows how, but what if this innuendo got to Tom? He would be furious. I wrote him that Linton was modeling for me, but having an affair is an entirely different story.”
A smart young couple passed in front of the bench. The sight of the loving pair dropped a melancholy veil over Emma. Louisa’s assertions were far too uncomfortable. After the carriage ride, she had wondered how far away she was from having an affair. Certainly, it was possible if she wanted it. But Tom’s stable voice and steady eyes rushed into her head if thoughts of Linton lingered too long. And it was Tom, she had to admit, who brought her that momentary serenity—a calmness borne of separation and little emotion.
Far down the Common near the intersection of Tremont and Boylston, voices united into a chant. Emma watched as a motor truck, decked out in red, white, and blue bunting, wobbled around the corner and turned north onto Tremont. A group of men and women, some carrying signs, followed the vehicle.
“Peace! We want peace!” the group chanted. “Wilson has betrayed us!” The group continued its protest as the truck rumbled along.
“Oh, for heaven’s sakes,” Louisa said. “Radicals, probably Socialists.”
Emma stiffened. “I understand their thinking completely.”
“Then we’ve learned something else about each other—we are more widely divergent on our musical and political views than I imagined,” Louisa replied smugly. “And I thought I knew you so well. . . .”
“Perhaps not,” Emma said, rising from the bench. She looked across the Common and found herself flushed with anger. How could Louisa be so callous, her comments so shocking? Could her friend’s attitude indicate how superficial their relationship might have been from the start? Her first connection with Louisa was through Tom; then their friendship had been united by a common bond of society parties and art circles. Louisa was always available for a laugh, and a lift if needed, but with Tom gone, their connection was dissipating more quickly than she could have anticipated.
The chanting voices faded as the truck and the marchers passed by.
Emma, followed by Louisa, walked deeper into the Common. Finally, succumbing to the heat and seeing the chance to traverse a street near her home, Emma offered a terse good-bye and left Louisa to fend for herself.
* * *
As quickly as spring had turned to summer, the heat was banished by a succession of cool, overcast days. Low gray clouds smothered the city, and often the afternoon was peppered by a fine mist that sometimes lingered throughout the night. The weather precipitated a feeling of dread in Emma, the associated anxiety gnawing at her. She was certain her apprehension sprang from her feelings for Linton and the spreading rumors of their relationship, but even more beastly was the uncertainty about how to cope with a life controlled by forces she couldn’t conquer. Her conversations with Louisa had become formal and stilted since they had talked on the Common. Her enthusiasm for The Narcissus had dampened because of the gossip, even as she longed to see Linton.
On a day when the afternoon light was dim and bleak, Emma met Linton in the South End. He had telephoned her and asked for a meeting, his constricted voice conveying irritation and worry. As she climbed the stairs to his studio, she wondered what was wrong, her mind channeling her worries in all k
inds of strange and bizarre directions.
The studio door was unlocked. Linton, who was stretched across the couch, looked particularly glum.
“Sit by me,” he said without giving her a look, even as she drew closer.
In his presence, Emma was aware of the faint smell of her lavender eau de toilette, the sounds she made upon arrival: shoes clicking against the floor, her dress ruffling against her stockings. These sensory offerings were the calling cards she presented to the young artist.
“I knew it was you,” Linton said.
“Of course,” Emma replied, “you were expecting me.”
“I recognized your step on the stairs. When you’re near I detect your scent.” He held out his hand.
Emma grasped his outstretched fingers. “Pleasant, I hope.” “Your soap is oatmeal, but sometimes you dab on lavender.” He drew up his knees, so Emma could sit. She settled in, somewhat uncomfortably, avoiding brushing against him.
Linton shook slightly underneath his jacket.
“Are you cold?” Emma faced him, bracing herself against the damp air that filled the studio.
“No. Angry.”
She turned up the lapels of her jacket. “What happened?”
“I had a row with Alex. You know why I’m angry.”
“ No. ”
“These damn rumors going around about me—about us,” Linton said furiously. “He had no right to start them. He denied it, but I know he talks when he shouldn’t . . . he has a few scotches and his mouth flies open. First, I’m a homosexual, and now I’m having an affair with you. It’s not fair to either of us. We’re artists trying to make a living, doing something we love.” He stared at her with eyes as cheerless as the day.
She succumbed to his anguish, tenderness flowing from her, her body arching toward his. “The rumors are troublesome, but . . . oh, Louisa irritates me so because she’s such a gossip . . . it’s what I’ve come to expect of Boston society. It wouldn’t surprise me if she was part of this.”
Linton continued his wan stare.
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