Frances smiled at the housekeeper.
“Anne, please say hello to Mrs. Livingston,” Emma said with some embarrassment because her guest stared openmouthed at the hostess as if she was meeting royalty.
“It’s an honor, ma’am,” Anne finally said, while attempting an awkward curtsy.
Frances offered her hand. “You’re more than welcome, my dear.”
“I also wanted Anne to be here because . . . I may be leaving Boston for a time. I wanted you to meet the young woman who’ll be taking care of our home and managing our affairs.”
Frances frowned. “Leaving? Whatever for?”
Emma saw her hostess’s eyes shift toward the door as a man and woman entered the room.
“Excuse me, my dear . . . I do want to know about wherever it is you’re going, but I must greet Mr. and Mrs. Radcliffe.” And she flitted away like a butterfly in the breeze.
Anne took a deep breath and rubbed her hands together.
“She’s a grand old dame, really,” Emma assured her. “This is a simple party for her. Not a bad bone in her body . . . I can’t say that for everyone here.” The soft notes of a string trio rose from its position near a long table encrusted with silver platters holding meats and vegetables, as well as steaming chafing dishes. Emma glanced toward the opposite end of the ballroom where wide French doors opened to a garden.
“Isn’t that Miss Markham by the door?” Anne asked.
Emma nodded. It was Louisa, holding court with several other women and a man.
A server walked by and offered them a choice of wine. Anne declined, but Emma encouraged her to take a glass, asking, “How often do we experience a night like this?” She walked toward the garden as Anne, after accepting the wine, followed.
Louisa cast a cold glance toward her as she approached.
She recognized the man in Louisa’s circle as Everett, the disagreeable gallery patron who had termed Linton’s painting “rubbish” and also concluded that women had no business sculpting.
Louisa, her eyes icy and unforgiving, nodded as she arrived. The other women glanced at her as well, and then turned and continued their conversation with the lone gentleman, tittering and carrying on like sparrows about a topic Emma could not discern.
“Good evening, Mrs. Swan,” Louisa said. An arch smile crossed her face after the words left her red lips.
“So formal, my zephyr? Has our relationship deteriorated so much since our last meeting?”
“I could hardly call our last encounter a meeting—more an outrage.”
Several in the group snickered as if they were secretly listening to their conversation.
“There was no outrage committed, unless you consider intrusion into one’s privacy an equivalent violation.” She turned to Anne and said mildly, “Take a walk in the garden and enjoy Mrs. Livingston’s roses.”
Louisa laughed. “Are you concerned word of your indiscretion will get out through your servant? I’m afraid you’re too late.”
A red flash burst in front of Emma’s eyes, blinding her with fury. “Anne is not my servant, and you would do well to remember that fact! She’s a woman employed by my family.”
“I’ll take that walk now, ma’am,” her housekeeper said, her eyes wide and the wineglass grasped in her hands as if it were a fragile, precious jewel.
As Anne left for the garden, Louisa blurted out, “Fine company you keep, Emma—bringing your housekeeper to a party like this. How many other domestics do you see here besides those who belong to this house?”
“I’m not responsible for Boston’s prejudices. It’s amusing that you dare question my motives. Who anointed you as the arbiter of my life and relationships?”
“You’re the one who will ultimately suffer,” Louisa replied firmly. “If Tom knew what was happening. . . .”
Emma retreated based on her friend’s threat and motioned for Louisa to step away from the group toward the garden. They stopped a short distance from the French doors, the music and the guests’ chatter calming her for a moment. After a time, she said, “Truce. Can’t we put this behind us? I think about the fun and laughter we’ve shared, and how it’s come to this.”
Her friend turned and inched toward the garden door. Emma wondered if she was considering her peace proposal or was attempting to flee. Overall, she seemed unmoved.
“I am willing to forgive and forget, but I’m afraid the damage has been done. I was in such a state after the incident—after what I had seen,” Louisa said, her lips curling. “Can you blame me?”
“Nothing happened between Linton and me,” Emma countered, knowing she had broken away from Linton’s embrace when Louisa entered the studio. She felt compelled to add, “Linton was going to model for me.”
“That hardly appeared the case. You can deny your attachment to Linton, but it’s clearly obvious to everyone else— including me.” Louisa lowered her head. “But, I suppose, I, too, must be forgiven.” She pursed her lips. “Society is not to be trifled with, particularly in Boston. It’s a lesson my mother taught me in childhood and I have never forgotten. Society cannot be denied, nor can those who uphold it.” A steely resolve filled her friend’s eyes. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have, but I returned to the Fountain. I felt I had nowhere else to go—to the only person who might understand what I had seen. Alex had begged me to tell him your reaction to the sale of Diana. You must believe me, I tried to lie, but he saw through me from the beginning. I sat, overcome with emotion, and shed a few tears. Alex was understandably upset—he had no idea where my grief was coming from—and after much pleading from him, I disclosed what I had witnessed. You must remember that your husband is my friend. I swear I told no one else, but the rumor has gotten out. I’m afraid even Tom may know before long.”
“I see,” Emma said and clasped her hands together. “My intuition about this maroon dress was correct.”
Louisa sighed, the corners of her mouth turning down in sadness.
The disagreeable man from the group stepped toward them as a chilly silence took hold. “I’m indeed sorry to interrupt, but I wanted to congratulate you, Mrs. Swan, on your recent sale.” Everett offered his hand.
Emma stood stone-faced, not willing to reciprocate to the one who had maligned her.
He withdrew his hand. “I must say, after seeing your statue and reading Monsieur Vreland’s review of the opening, I was quite amazed it sold. However, scandal has a way of making objects more valuable. Shall we say curiosity overcomes taste?” He laughed, then scowled at her and returned to the group.
Louisa smirked. “See, the rumor has spread. He’s a buffoon with no manners and very little breeding. He’s attached himself to Vreland like a leech.”
“It’s worse than I thought,” Emma said. “If I don’t leave Boston, I’ll be run out on a rail.”
Frances, arms aflutter, breezed toward them. “Mrs. Gardner and Singer Sargent have arrived,” the hostess said. “Please do say hello to them.” And then she darted on to her next destination as quickly as she had come.
“I’ll be leaving soon for France,” Emma said.
“France?” Louisa’s brown eyes glittered with skepticism. “So, you’ve decided?”
“Yes. I’m following Tom’s suggestion.” Emma looked into the garden. The scene was tranquil, aided by the string trio’s soothing music. Anne sat on a white marble bench under a wisteria arbor. Bent with interest and attentive eyes focused on the young lady next to him, a handsome young man in a black tuxedo sat next to her housekeeper.
“Anne seems to be having a good time,” Emma said. “I must remember what it was like to sense the first blush of love.” She thought better of her words as soon as she said them. “I’m glad she’s here.” She gripped Louisa’s hands and looked into her eyes. “You must promise me that you will stop behaving like a duchess and treat Anne like a human being.”
Louisa’s eyes narrowed. “She’s a domestic—an Irish immigrant.”
“You mustn’t let her status
influence your behavior. If something happened to me and Tom, Anne would be in charge of the household, until the legal arrangements could be straightened out. I’m not so concerned about Tom’s parents, but my mother . . . she might put Anne out on the street.”
Louisa nodded reluctantly.
Emma looked toward the fireplace where a regal, bearded, middle-aged man in a dark suit stood smoking a cigarette. “Would you like to accompany me? I’d like to reintroduce myself to Mr. Sargent.”
“No,” Louisa said. She pointed toward the ballroom door where Mrs. Gardner had attracted a flurry of activity. “Mrs. Jack has arrived. I’ll see what stories she has to tell. You have more common ground to cover with Sargent than I do—as one artist to another.”
“Well,” Emma said, “Good-bye for now. This may be our last meeting before I leave.”
“Good-bye, then. Bon voyage.” Louisa turned quickly and headed toward the crowd gathered around Mrs. Gardner.
For a moment, Emma was left alone at the end of the ballroom. She looked at the ornate crystal chandelier hanging in the middle of the room, the sedate groupings of fashionable women and cigar-smoking men, the domestics who stood like formally attired pawns behind the serving table. All of it seemed like a gauzy dream as she contemplated her move to France and how she would break the news to Linton.
Overcome by apprehension, she walked toward Sargent and the gilt fireplace. A frown crossed his face as Emma headed his way, indicating he’d rather not be bothered. She continued to walk, with reserve, toward the artist, who apparently valued his time with his cigarette. He looked somewhat like a stately grandfather with his high hairline, gray-flecked beard, and thick eyebrows. She greeted him with a firm, “Good evening.”
The painter flicked a bit of cigarette paper from his mustache and returned a slight smile.
“I don’t know whether you remember me from a brief meeting at the Fountain Gallery long ago,” she said. “I’m Emma Lewis Swan, the sculptress.”
Sargent tilted his head and his shaded eyes took on an interested glow. “Of course, I remember you, Mrs. Swan. You created the lovely Diana, which recently sold.”
Emma wondered how he knew of the sale.
“Oh, don’t look so puzzled. I make it my business to know what’s selling and what’s not. You know how easily art falls in and out of fashion. In fact, I had some interest in your sculpture, but Alex Hippel had already promised it to another buyer.”
“I’m flattered, Mr. Sargent—a great painter like you interested in my work.”
“Your statue was very good—in fact, the best work in the gallery, I believe.” He inhaled deeply, arched his neck, and puffed smoke toward the ceiling. A server drifted by and the painter took wine, drank from the glass, and set it on the mantel. “I’m not keen on what’s being sold these days. Monet and Renoir I can live with—but Linton Bower? Much too modern for me. Do you know who bought your statue?”
“Actually, I don’t. Alex and I haven’t spoken recently.”
Sargent chuckled. “That’s unlike him. Perhaps he wants to keep your money in his clutches. He’s constantly gabbing my ear off—‘John, you should paint this, and John you should paint that’—as if I needed to sell through him. He doesn’t seem to understand that I paint what I want now. I’m well past those abominable society portraits.” He laughed at his own good fortune. “What are you working on? Something I might be interested in?”
“I’m not sculpting at the moment. I’m going to France to aid the war effort.”
Sargent arched a brow. “Have you been there? Do you know what it’s like?”
“No, my mother wanted to take me there when I was a child—”
Sargent cut her off with a wave of his hand. “Mrs. Swan, may I tell you something?”
“Of course.”
His forehead furrowed, as if a morbid intensity had seized him and a series of horrifying pictures had formed in his mind. “This war is unlike anything ever conceived by man and can only be the devil’s work. If Satan exists, his claws have gouged holes in the earth and left them filled with blood. I’ve seen it. I’ve painted it—the death, the destruction, the overwhelming sadness of it all.
“Certainly, it’s the good fight, but so many soldiers and innocents have died. And for what? A mile of turf at the Front, only to be pushed back two kilometers, only to repeat the process the next month. The cost has been enormous—hundreds of thousands of lives. If you go, Mrs. Swan, be prepared for horrors you never dreamed possible. The France of your dreams is not the France you will see today . . . nearly every country in Europe has suffered the same fate.”
Emma was about to reply when laughter erupted near the ballroom door.
Sargent stared, fascinated by the commotion.
Emma turned to see Alex and Vreland supporting a tipsy Linton Bower.
“So, this is the state of modern art,” the painter said. He coughed and the beginnings of a smirk transformed into a quizzical smile.
“Pardon me,” Emma said, making her excuses. “I believe this may be the moment to collect my commission.”
“An excellent strategy, Mrs. Swan. Good evening. It’s been a pleasure seeing you again, and do take care in France.” Sargent picked up his wineglass and reached for another cigarette.
Emma looked for Anne. She was in the garden, still fascinated by the young man who had inched closer to her on the marble bench. Then she directed her attention to Linton, Vreland, and Alex, who as a trio walked somewhat unsteadily toward the food table. Mrs. Livingston, always the charming hostess, greeted them discreetly and then brushed past as if Linton’s tipsiness was cause for some uneasiness. Emma made her way across the room.
Vreland spotted her first, his slightly drunken smile turning to a sneer.
Emma sensed an uncomfortable condescension flowing from the critic and Alex.
“Mrs. Swan. Care to join us in a drink?” Vreland asked.
“No,” Emma replied, “your head start has put me at a disadvantage.”
“Oh come now, Emma,” Alex said, “we’re celebrating Linton’s success.”
“Success?” she asked.
Vreland lifted the cover of a chafing dish and replaced it quickly after wrinkling his nose. “I don’t care for rare beef,” he said and turned to Emma. “Yes, since my article about Linton and the Fountain Gallery appeared, Linton has sold . . . how many paintings, Alex?”
“Six more,” Alex said proudly. “Eleven in total.”
She looked at Linton, who had avoided looking at her since hearing her voice. “Eleven. That’s a remarkable achievement—particularly in wartime.”
“An excellent point, Mrs. Swan,” Vreland said. “I shall have to point that out in my next article: how the Boston art market is prospering thanks to patrons like Mrs. Gardner and Mrs. Livingston—and in no small part, if I do say so myself, to my own efforts to bear the art standard.”
“The Pershing of the art world,” Emma said.
Linton’s filmy eyes fluttered at her sarcasm, and in them she detected a deep sadness.
“Please don’t spoil the evening for us . . . for me,” he said. “These celebrations are so rare in the life of an artist. Surely you understand that.”
Emma moved toward him. “May I speak to you privately?”
Vreland shrugged and Alex reluctantly let go of Linton’s arm.
“Don’t be long, Linton,” the gallerist said. “We have a big night ahead of us.”
Linton nodded as Emma took his arm and led him toward the garden.
The sun had set behind the high walls and the crepuscular birds had begun their mournful calls. The shafts of green, the red and yellow early roses, the purple blooms of the rhododendrons glowed in the twilight. The dark beauty of the moment sent chills coursing through Emma’s body. Had she the power, she would have frozen time, the evening was so lovely. She guided him past the bench where Anne and the young man talked, onto a white stone path that led deeper into the lilacs and evergreens.
“Why haven’t you called on me?” Linton asked as they stopped near a whitewashed rose trellis.
“I could ask the same question,” Emma answered.
“Congratulations on the sale of Diana.”
Indeed, the whole world knew of her sale. “Thank you.”
Linton rubbed his eyes and then took hold of Emma’s shoulders. He turned her toward the ballroom doors, so he could see into the light that shone from the house into the garden. “You’re wearing a red dress—dark, the color of blood.”
“Maroon sounds much better.”
Linton took her hands and pulled her gently toward him.
“Not here,” Emma protested. “We’ve done enough damage.”
“To hell with them,” he said. “They don’t know anything about me . . . about us . . . they’re just a bunch of society busybodies—good-for-nothing sycophants who’ve never had to earn a real dollar in their lives. I’d be done with the lot of them if I could.”
“Linton, you’re drunk.” Emma pulled away from his grip and walked under the trellis.
“Perhaps, but when I’m near you. . . .” He stumbled toward her.
She caught him in her arms.
“You can’t deny it,” he said.
Emma pushed him away. “There can be no us, Linton. There’s an attraction—a schoolboy and schoolgirl crush. We’ve got to recognize what’s going on.” Emma attempted to keep her voice down, out of Anne’s hearing, but with every attempt to quiet herself she felt herself breaking apart, on the verge of tears. “You are a wonderful man, you are handsome and creative; but I’m a married woman with a husband. Do you realize what we would have to sacrifice to make this relationship work—if it would work at all? I can’t take that risk. Can you understand?”
The finality of her question crushed her and her voice verged on a moan as the dark fell around her. She had advanced the same arguments that Karl had used years earlier and she hated herself for it. Any romance with Linton was dead; only the sanctity of her vows and the plodding security of her marriage remained. Her reputation and the only real security she’d ever had in the world would be gone if she pursued Linton. Disgraced, they would have to slink from Boston to another city, living in poverty if their art failed to sell. The shame of her final days with Kurt returned to haunt her again. She was in no position to love another man.
The Sculptress Page 17