“Do you hear what I’m saying?” she asked. “It’s as if I have to make a choice, extricating myself from Louisa—as well as the people who are my patrons. Things haven’t been the same since Tom left.”
“It’s Alex’s fault,” Linton said. “If I could break my dependence on him, I’d leave his gallery and go somewhere else.”
“Please, Linton, you need Alex—for your sake and for your career. He’s the only gallery owner in Boston who would take on work like yours. You’ve been successful with him. He’s set you up in this studio. Perhaps he is to blame for these rumors—but I can understand why he started them.”
Linton flinched. Looking somewhat frail in the dull light, he got up from the couch and walked toward the windows, his head bowed, his back hunched. He stopped near the panes and leaned against the casement.
Emma remained on the couch, unsure whether to follow. After a moment, she grabbed a blue silk scarf from the seatback, walked to him, and looked out to the street below where a few umbrellas bobbed in the mist.
“Why can you understand the rumors?” Linton asked. “Why?”
She wrapped the scarf around his shoulders and stepped back. “Because you are Linton Bower. If Alex did, it’s because he cares for you—not because he’s an evil or malicious man. His actions may have been motivated by jealousy, but also . . . love.”
“I lied to you, Emma.” Linton shuddered and brought his hands to his face, perhaps in shame, perhaps in exasperation. “I deceived you—I did sleep with him, but that’s the only lie I’ve ever told you.” Lowering his hands, he removed the scarf slowly from his shoulders and faced her, sadness swimming in the gauzy eyes. “Only a man like me would allow a woman like you to put a silk scarf around his shoulders. Only a man like me would sleep with Alex more than once . . . a few times . . . because I needed representation—because I needed the money. I’m sorry I lied, but it’s not something a man reveals to a woman.”
“Then, you are a . . . ?”
Linton bunched the scarf in his hands and threw it to the floor. “No! I’m not a homosexual. I’m an opportunist. I’ve been dismissed by men and women alike because of my condition—ignored as the blind man.”
He swayed toward her and his advance caught her off guard. He reached for her, his arms closing around her, his muscular strength pressing against her body, finally capturing her in his embrace and pressing his lips against hers. As one hand held the back of her head, the other drifted toward her breasts and she knew she should struggle against him, but her resistance faded as Linton’s passion increased.
“Linton . . .” she managed to whisper between his kisses. “This isn’t right. Not this way.”
“Please, Emma,” Linton said, guiding her hand to his stomach, his abdomen quivering at her touch. “I adore you. . . .”
She was standing on the edge of the precipice. But as Linton’s hands swam over her body, the encroaching intimacy set her on edge rather than fire her passion. The studio’s cavernous shadows suddenly took on ominous overtones, with Tom, Louisa, and even Alex standing in the corner, watching them with disapproving eyes. As exciting as making love to Linton might be, she could not go through with it. She was trapped—caught between desire and the stasis of her marriage and conscience. Emma turned away, unable to bear the kisses Linton showered on her neck and face, sliding from his grasp as he undid the buttons on his shirt.
Apparently, neither of them had heard the footsteps on the stairs. The door swung open, followed by words blurted out as if in shock: “Your Diana has sold . . . I wanted to be the first to . . .”
An eerie silence fell over them before Linton, his back to the door, gasped and hurriedly tucked his shirt back into his pants.
Emma reeled backward toward the windows.
Louisa, deathly pale, holding a dripping umbrella, stood in the doorway. “Alex told me you might be here—I wanted to give you . . . good news. . . .”
A contorted smile crossed Emma’s face before the tears began.
Linton wheeled in a fury. “Get out of my studio! Get out, now!”
Like a phantom, Louisa turned and stepped out the door.
The sound of the closing latch exploded in Emma’s ears. She collapsed against the sill.
Linton took her into his arms as she sobbed.
She hurriedly wiped her eyes and drew herself together. “I’ve got to catch her!” She pushed him away and rushed to the door. Emma called Louisa’s name as she fled down the stairs to the street. Her friend had disappeared in the foggy dampness; the mist had turned to rain. Emma braced herself against the building, uncertain of what to do; but one thought raced through her head as the tears fell: I will never be able to show my face in this city again.
* * *
Emma tore the sheets one by one from her sketch pad as Anne set the tea service on the sitting room table. Lazarus lay on his back, paws up, against the side of her chair. The courtyard darkened under the evening mist and the fir appeared black and foreboding.
“I’ll get wood for the fire,” Anne said.
“The evening’s chilly for June.” Emma wrapped her dressing gown tightly around her and looked at the drawings gathered in her lap. Soon, the fireplace radiated warmth and cheeriness throughout the room.
Emma looked at Tom’s picture. Anne had kept it conspicuously clean since she’d issued her instructions. She rose from her chair, knelt before the fireplace with the sketches of The Narcissus, and methodically ripped each page in half and tossed the pieces into the flames. The paper whooshed and curled in the fire, and in a few minutes the drawings were reduced to feathery gray ash. She admitted to herself that Linton’s revelations had disturbed her. It wasn’t so much that he had slept with Alex, but she now questioned his sincerity. Was he an opportunist with her as well?
The drawings were rubbish anyway. How could she have believed such a project could come to fruition?
She stepped away from the fire. The memory of Louisa standing in the doorway, her soggy umbrella in hand, a look of horrific dismay upon her face, floated through Emma’s mind. Tomorrow, all of Boston would know. She would be a branded woman.
“Can I do anything else for you, ma’am?” Anne asked. “If not, I’m off to bed.”
Emma thought for a moment. “Yes, if it’s not too much trouble, could you bring me a pad and pen from upstairs? I’m going to write a letter to my husband.”
“No trouble at all.”
The seconds ticked away and, briefly, Emma felt warm, comfortable, and safe in the sitting room; but, try as she might, she couldn’t shake the thoughts that troubled her: Louisa, Linton, her indifferent relationship with Tom, the city agog with scandal, the persistent specter of the war. All these nagging misfortunes loomed over her like the spirit of melancholia standing behind her chair.
Anne returned with the requested items and said good night.
Emma curled in the chair, and put pen to paper.
17th June, 1917
My dear Tom:
I’m sorry it’s taken me a while to come to this decision....
Emma stopped writing and studied the sentence. The decision was hers and not one to be taken lightly. Either way, someone would be hurt—either her husband or Linton. And as unsettling as that choice was, she most likely would be hurt as well. She rubbed the pen’s nub against the paper and started again.
I’m sorry it’s taken me a while to come to this decision—I’m coming to France.
It would be for the best. She owed it to Tom to give the marriage another chance. He was a good man and an excellent provider. Linton would be hurt, but he would get over her. A man of his looks, talent, charm, and youth wouldn’t be lonely for long.
My work here isn’t going at all well, despite the news today that my Diana has sold. I haven’t even talked to Alex about who purchased it. I must confess, my world has been topsy-turvy since you left. Work on my new project has stalled due to my inability to focus upon it. Too many things have been on my mind�
��including you. I’m following your suggestion and am seeking passage to Paris, where maybe I can do some good for the world, as you already are. When I consider it, working with the brave soldiers is so much more important than anything I could do here at my artist’s table. When my itinerary is confirmed, I will write you with the details.
You must believe me, Tom, and know this has not been an easy decision, or one taken lightly. Giving up my work here tests all my strength, but there are such good reasons to travel to France. I trust Anne completely to care for the house. We can arrange for appropriate compensation. Lazarus considers her one of the family and, at this point, the dog is probably closer to her than to me. I’m certain the whole arrangement will work out for the best.
Wish me safe passage. I will post my next letter in all haste. In the meantime, I send you my love.
Your wife,
Emma
Thomas Evan Swan.
She studied the black-and-white photograph but imagined him as if he were standing in front of her. Thinning hair lay in wisps across the head, eyes of cornflower blue, fair white skin that reddened easily in the New England summer sun. She tried to smile. In a short time, they would meet again, and she would embrace and kiss him because she wanted his love—or was it needed—his body so close to hers, needed so desperately in this moment of loneliness, this hour of abandonment of a city and a man she might love. Yet, love was so different from passion—a lesson to relearn with each new romance. Would the flames blaze again in France?
The fire sputtered and settled beneath the grate. Emma kept her eyes on the photograph as if charmed by a talisman. Magically, Tom’s face shifted to the darker features of Linton Bower. And then, yet again, to the man she had opened herself to before she met Thomas Evan Swan.
Drugged by the elixir of memory, she fell into an uneasy sleep in her chair.
During the night Lazarus paced between the fireplace and Emma, his keen canine senses aware of the anxiety plaguing her dreams.
Entry: 20th June, 1917
I placed Tom’s letter on my studio desk where it sat two days before I mailed it. I was a mass of nerves when I relinquished it to Anne to be posted. My stomach has not settled since. The world seems to have shifted and fate is about to plunge me headlong into a journey I could never have imagined. When I think about the good times of my life—sculpting, the lush green mountains of my girlhood home, the few serene years with Tom—I feel they’ve passed never to be recaptured.
Half of me is thrilled to make the journey, the other a whimpering child. If I’m honest, I suppose I’m leaving because of Linton. I can’t believe what has happened. I never thought another burst of romance would come into my life yet again, and then be dashed. Our last meeting made me keenly aware of the danger that exists between us. My feelings are not skin deep. Linton opens an aching avenue for love and also great trepidation about what might be. He resurrects memories of a passion gone by that were securely buried. Love is a malleable emotion forged by all manner of feelings. One person sees it as strength, courage, and devotion, while another sees it as slavish need and subjugation. Who can say what love truly is?
After Anne returned from mailing the letter, I sat with her in the kitchen. She was baking a pie and the heat was quite overpowering. A sudden compassion for the young woman overcame me—for this waif who left Ireland to make America her home. Her swirling dark hair, her alabaster face highlighted by ruddy cheeks, gave her the appearance of a figure drawn by a master watercolorist. I marveled at the conditions under which she works: the oppressive heat of the basement kitchen, comforting in winter, but hellish in the summer; the labor required to carry wood and coal for fuel, to tote bundles from the deliveryman; and then, after a long day, to climb three stories to her small bedroom, chilled by winter winds and roasted by summer sun. I wish conditions were easier for us all—particularly for Anne.
She settled upon the uneasiness arising from my letter to Tom. “Did something happen, ma’am? Something terrible?” She stopped and wiped her hands on her apron. “I have no right to ask, but if you need someone to talk to . . . I tire of conversing with the dog. You must be waiting for a caller. The house has been strangely quiet. Not a word from Mr. Hippel, or that handsome Mr. Bower, let alone from your friend, Louisa.”
I, of course, could say nothing of Linton and my situation. At that moment, I realized Anne would bear a great responsibility when I was gone. She would be the master and mistress of the house. She had already taken it upon herself to gauge my feelings. An unorthodox and radical thought occurred to me. My patroness, Frances Livingston, is having a party. What if I took Anne to the gathering? Frances, an early champion of my work, is pure Boston Brahmin, and a good soul at heart, and it’s time Anne meets others outside of her station. I know Louisa will protest, but I cannot be swayed by her objections. Anne is a trusted employee—not a slave. Besides, a night out will do us both good.
When I mentioned the party, Anne, of course, demurred saying she had nothing to wear and she would not fit in. I told her to smile; her face would be her good fortune. If only the faces on my sculptures could be as pleasing as Anne’s.
As they rode in the hansom cab, Emma reconsidered her invitation to take Anne to the party. Perhaps her enthusiasm had clouded her judgment. She knew criticism was inevitable, not just for bringing her housekeeper, but of her pending journey abroad as well. The party would be interesting at the very least—Louisa certainly would be there, possibly Alex and Linton, and others of the artistic and social circle who happened to be in Boston and not summering in Lenox or Bar Harbor. Emma would be pleased if Vreland never showed his face, but she suspected the critic was on Mrs. Livingston’s guest list.
The horse plodded along in the pleasant June evening. Anne sat looking out the window, as if she were a fairy-tale princess. The fading sunlight sparkled on the Charles like glittering stars patched upon the water, and a rosy hue infused the sky. The cab turned away from the river, the driver directing it toward Mrs. Livingston’s Fenway home.
“Oh, ma’am, this is so exciting,” Anne said as she peered out. Emma imagined what her housekeeper must be feeling and marveled at the young woman from Ireland who had come to the United States shortly before the war broke out with no job and only a few dollars in her pocket. She had been referred by an acquaintance of Tom’s who swore the Irish were to be the saviors of Boston, especially when it came to the serving class. Anne had worked a number of odd jobs and been a bit rough around the edges at first, but Emma and Tom had liked her immediately upon introduction and she had more than shown her worth in the time she had been with them. Emma thought of Anne’s solitary journey across the Atlantic, and how the war’s disastrous upheaval of the past three years had changed so many lives.
“Yes, it is, and the evening’s only begun.” Emma patted Anne’s hand. The day of the party, Emma had completed what she set out to do. She’d helped with the cooking, walked Lazarus, tucked in Anne’s borrowed dress—the black one Emma had worn to the opening at the Fountain—and chose her own attire, a maroon dress purchased several years earlier. It was decidedly out of fashion, ankle length, but she had chosen it with one intention in mind. The color seemed appropriate for all that had transpired the past few weeks. Anne was coming along for the ride—another point to be made. Guilt swept over her briefly. Perhaps it was selfish to use a party as a personal forum, but, upon consideration, no one would misunderstand her implication when she walked into the house dressed as she was.
The evening shadows stretched across the lawn as they arrived at the porte cochere. The driver opened the cab door and Emma withdrew coins from her purse. One electric light blazed above the porch, a beacon against the rations of war. The façade was subdued compared with previous functions Emma had attended: the gas lamps held in the stone lions’ paws were cold and dark, no torches lined the walkway, no festive colored lights peppered the shrubs. The house seemed blanched and mute, as if recovering from a long sleep.
&nb
sp; Anne sighed as they walked up the steps.
“What’s wrong?” Emma asked.
“I can hardly believe people have so much money,” Anne said.
“More than any of us can imagine.” A doorman awaited them after their climb. “You should have seen it before the war. It’s positively dreary as it is now.”
A servant greeted them with a nod and directed them past a door studded with leaded crystal and gold gilt. “In the ballroom, Mrs. Swan,” the man said stiffly.
A grand marble staircase, carpeted in red, swept up to the right. Violins played down the long hall. She followed the music as Anne trailed behind like a stray puppy. About midway down, Emma turned left into the ballroom. About two dozen of Boston’s most well-heeled men and women milled about the room. Some ladies wore their finest gowns, encrusted with jewels real and faux, egret-feathered hats resting upon their heads; others were attired in brown dresses, white blouses, and brown jackets imitating the current fashionable style of the American Expeditionary Force uniform. The most dramatic dresses had been purchased before the war because colored fabrics were in short supply now. The current muted tones reflected the war’s deprivations. The gentlemen in attendance wore dark suits or tuxes.
The chatter in the room was hushed compared with the lively banter Emma had heard at previous parties. A few heads turned as she and her housekeeper entered.
Mrs. Livingston, attired in an emerald green dress dripping with silver spangles, rushed toward her.
“Emma, so good of you to come,” the socialite gushed. Her gray hair was piled upon her head, the strands held up in back by a long Japanese pin, her cheeks flushed with a hearty helping of rouge, her dancing eyes delicately lined in black. She heartily took Emma’s hands in her own, and cast a sly look toward Anne. “Who is this attractive young lady accompanying you?”
“Frances, this is my housekeeper, Anne,” Emma said. “I rarely entertain at my home, so you’ve not met her. I asked her to come tonight because she’s never been to a party such as yours, and I think all of us can use some cheering up during this difficult time.”
The Sculptress Page 16