“A magnificent idea,” Virginie said, “but what about the soldiers?”
“Well, we’ll have to plan our vacation and catch up with as much work as we can before we go. . . .”
Emma started. Two voices, both speaking French, rose from the stairs. She recognized one as Madame Clement’s; the other she was unsure about until he appeared at the studio door. It was Richard, the driver from the hospital. Madame Clement opened the door.
A smiling Richard followed. “Bonjour, Virginie,” he said, taking in the nurse’s figure with obvious delight. Turning to Emma, as an afterthought, he added, “Bonjour, Madame Swan.”
Her heart raced, hoping Richard had only good news to bear. After Tom’s injury, Richard had visited the studio several times, but his visits had fallen off recently. The courier appeared as vigorous as ever, his scruffy, sandy beard making him appear older; however, the facial hair only enhanced the rakish attitude and figure he cut.
Virginie apparently noticed as well and offered her cheek for a kiss.
Richard willingly complied. “Monsieur Swan asks you to return to Toul,” he told Emma, his voice earnest and brassy.
“Is something wrong?” She dreaded his answer.
“No. He requests your company.”
“He said nothing about coming to Toul when we last talked,” Emma said to Virginie.
“You must go,” Virginie said. “The trip will do you good. Hassan and I will conduct business.”
“We have three appointments today,” Emma said, apologetically. “I have nothing packed.”
Richard spoke in French to Madame Clement and the housekeeper chuckled.
“What did he say?” Emma asked Virginie.
“He said women are too, too . . .”
“Too what?”
“Like a statue.”
“Stone-like . . . rigid?”
“Oui.”
“It’s like Tom to issue a challenge, when I’m not in the mood for one. Tell Richard I’ll be ready in a half hour. We’ll talk about a holiday when I get back.” Emma rushed up the stairs as Virginie, Madame Clement, and Richard chatted in the alcove. She gathered a few toiletries and clothes, pushed them into a bag, brushed her hair, grabbed her coat, and was downstairs in ten minutes.
Emma said her good-byes and Richard escorted her from the studio. The courtyard slept lifeless and gray under the fog, the statues black with mist, the ivy clinging to the walls with their dark tentacles.
Entering the tunnel, Emma saw the back of the ambulance parked on rue Monge. A soldier in a greatcoat rushed past the truck. He turned his head for a moment and Emma thought she saw Private Darser grinning at her. As quickly as the man appeared he was gone. She realized the soldier couldn’t be Darser—his mask had no smile. The lips had to be neutral, pleasantly full, and slightly open; otherwise, the mouth would appear fixed in a disquieting expression. She recalled the sad smile she thought she had seen on his mask at their final meeting.
She said nothing to Richard about the soldier, and climbed into the truck. They said little as Richard drove east through the Paris streets. When the city finally dropped behind them and the ambulance had traveled far along a country road, Emma relaxed enough to strike up a conversation.
“Ça va, Richard?” she asked as they putted through a village. It was the only small talk she could think of—his health. She remembered his arm injury—the one mentioned by Claude, Tom’s doctor in Toul. Emma looked at the shop windows, which appeared dismal and forlorn in the enveloping gray mist. It swirled around the ambulance and Richard switched on the headlights.
“Très bien,” Richard said.
“How’s your English? My French could be better.”
Richard cleared his throat and pronounced each word slowly, “Your . . . husband . . . is teaching . . . me.” He turned to her and smiled. “I thank him . . . each day.”
“Well, you’re making remarkable progress. Where did you stay last night? You know you are always welcome at the studio. We can put a cot in the casting room.”
“No, thank you,” he said firmly. “The masks are too frightening.”
Emma laughed. “They can be a bit scary in the dark.”
“I stay with my sister. She lives in Saint-Denis.” He paused for a moment and then asked, “How did you meet?”
Emma turned to him, confused by the abrupt change in subject.
“My husband?” she asked, knowing Tom was the object of his question.
“Yes.”
“In Boston. Tom was studying medicine. I was getting ready to attend art school. We met through a mutual friend—Louisa Markham.” Emma stopped, realizing Richard may not have understood her. “I’m sorry. Was I going too fast? Can you understand me?”
Richard nodded. “Most, yes.” He peered through the windscreen as intermittent drops of rain splattered against the glass. “Was he always so sad?”
His question seemed casual, as if sadness was normal for Tom, but his inquiry unsettled her and a queasy sensation fluttered through her stomach. “So, you think Tom’s depressed . . . sad?”
Richard stared blankly at the road.
“I can’t speak for Tom, but the war has been difficult for both of us,” Emma continued. “I would expect he might be depressed after his injury at the Front, and his continual work with injured and dying men. I’ve never been able to understand how doctors keep their sanity.”
“When we met . . .” Richard considered carefully his next words. “He was happy . . . happy to be a doctor.”
Emma slumped in her seat, guilt momentarily overpowering her. Was Richard attacking her, and not the war, as the cause of their problems? Certainly, she had done nothing inherently wrong, other than form a relationship with a Boston painter who had demonstrated affection for her and sparked her own reciprocal feelings. She embraced the thought. After all, how could innocent fondness be so misconstrued compared to the world’s ongoing horrors? But was her relationship so innocent? What of her fantasies about Linton?
“When Tom and I met we were both overly optimistic, I think. The war hadn’t begun and we were filled with joy and life. When fighting broke out, Tom grew anxious. He was eager to do something—anything he could to help. That’s why he volunteered to work with the Red Cross in France. He saw the need, and, in the beginning, I know he was happy to be here. I could tell from his letters.” She stopped, unsure of how much of her conversation Richard had understood.
“The village is small,” Richard said. “People talk. Americans are watched.”
“What are you getting at?”
“I have no proof. People say he walks.”
“Walks?” A prickle of fear rose in her chest.
“Yes, at night.”
Emma chuckled, more from anxiety than humor. “Well, I’m certain Tom isn’t a vampire. He loves to take walks—we both do. If that’s what you’re talking about?”
“You will ask him. That’s all I know. Le bruit court que . . .”
“Pardon?”
“How do you say . . . stories about people?”
“Rumors?”
Richard nodded. “Oui, rumors.”
“I’ll be sure to ask him.” Emma settled in her seat and looked out at the dull sky. As the truck rolled on, she was certain she heard shells exploding in the distance. It was too cold for a thunderstorm.
By the time they reached Tom’s cottage, night had fallen and the camouflaged city lamps fought weakly against the overarching power of darkness. The night spread a dreary cloak over Emma, which lifted only briefly when Tom limped past the damp garden and brushed his lips against her cheek. Her husband thanked Richard, and the ambulance disappeared down the lane in a spray of mist.
“Have you had anything to eat?” he asked after they had entered the cottage. “Please, sit down.” He pointed to a chair at the kitchen table. “Let me take your bag.” He reached for it, but she held on to the straps. Rebuffed, he sighed, and walked to the fireplace, knelt, and threw a birch
log into the fire. The flames roared and several red embers popped and sputtered to the floor. He swiped at them with his hand.
The clutter Emma had so carefully put in its place earlier in the year had reappeared: papers were strewn about the table, the bookcase was crammed with volumes, clothes were scattered across the bed, the messy behavior so unlike his fastidiousness in Boston. The cottage’s chaos added to the chill embracing her heart.
“It’s cold tonight,” he said, still kneeling in front of the fire.
Emma stared at him—acutely aware of the changes in her husband. He had gained a little weight since her last visit to Toul, although his wool sweater and pants still hung on his frame, his eyes were hazier perhaps, his hair a shade darker but combed differently, swept down to disguise his thinning hairline, the mustache spreading below his upper lip. Emotionally, the person in front of her was someone unfamiliar. The connection between them had sagged under their separation. He might as well have been a man she met on the street, a man who could have piqued her interest, but ultimately left her cold and searching for warmth.
“Cold, indeed,” she said, scooting her bag underneath the chair. “Some cheese would be nice. A glass of wine, I suppose.” A half-empty bottle sat on the table.
Tom rose. “I made a plate for you. I hoped you would come, Emma.”
“Was there ever a doubt?”
He limped to the cupboard, opened it, lifted a white plate from the shelf, and brought it to her. It held dried meat, a wedge of cheese, and apple slices. He poured the wine.
“How is your leg?” she asked.
Tom sat next to her and looked out the window spotted with mist.
“My left leg needs patching up, but my limp is excellent.” He smiled and poured a glass for himself. “I’ve had too much to drink of late—it’s a habit I’m not happy about, but alcohol helps pass the time and ease the pain.” He picked up the glass and drained nearly half of it. “My leg has taken longer to heal than Claude anticipated. . . .”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Emma asked. “You never mentioned that when we talked.”
“Frankly, half the time I don’t remember talking at all.” He gulped the rest of the wine. “Morphine. The drug douses the pain, but leaves me in a fog. It’s addictive, hard to get off it.”
Emma frowned. “There hasn’t been much to remember for a long time.” She took a bite of cheese, the food leaving a warm, salty taste in her mouth. “How are you otherwise?”
“My stomach hurts from the wound. Hell, on bad days it hurts to take a piss. Some parts of me have recovered, some parts haven’t.” He turned and looked into her eyes. “I have a lot to say to you, Emma—some of it isn’t very pleasant.”
Emma steeled herself and sipped her wine. “I know what you’re referring to. I found the letter when I stayed over, the night before you were injured.”
His eyes widened, but the expression was one of resignation rather than shock. “The letter? Which one?”
“How many did you receive from my so-called friend?”
“A few.” Tom turned his attention to the glass again. “After a while, the letters became more flowery—her affection toward me unwarranted and unwanted. She was gleeful in her recounting of the situation between you and Linton Bower.”
Emma was no longer hungry. She took her glass and stood by the fire, the crackling heat warming her legs. She placed the wine upon the mantel and watched the flames lick and sputter and then vanish into swirling vapor. After a time, she sat on the bed nearly on top of the spot where she had found the letter tucked under the mattress.
“I guess the time for cat and mouse is over,” she said.
Tom nodded.
“I found it a year ago when you called me to the Front. I supposed then that the letter was the reason you wanted to talk.”
“Yes,” Tom said, and turned his chair in her direction.
“I saw it, quite by accident, under the mattress. The name had been torn off, but I knew it was from Louisa. I was prepared to face the consequences of her—what should I call it? Betrayal? Treachery? But a German shell ended that the next day. . . .”
“I wanted to talk,” Tom said. “I wanted to hear your side of the story, but I have to admit I was scared that I had already lost you to a lover.”
Emma laughed and leaned back on the bed. “Life is funny, Tom. You hadn’t lost me. I was prepared to tell you the truth, but after your injury we both had so much to deal with—your recovery—I didn’t want to upset you when you were ill; then the studio took all my time. Oddly enough, I was yours until I felt us slipping away. You seemed so distant, your calls and letters infrequent. I believed you didn’t want to talk to me.”
“I assumed we were already on the outs.”
“Nothing could be further from the truth. Nothing happened between me and—”
“Linton Bower? Then why would Louisa lie about your relationship?”
Emma resisted the urge to fight with him; however, her defensive instincts clawed at her to get out. “Perhaps Linton and I got closer than we should have. I have to admit he is an attractive man and I was terribly lonely after you left.”
Tom winced.
She could have gone on and cut more deeply. She could have told Tom about the carriage ride and the thrill she felt sitting next to Linton, the excitement she’d experienced in his studio when he posed for her, but she reined herself in. In a way, she wanted to smirk and blame her husband for their troubles, but she knew she was just as much at fault. There was one point she couldn’t resist, however. “Why would Louisa lie? Surely, you aren’t that naïve, Tom.” She’d hit a nerve; Tom’s eyes flashed in distress. “Louisa has always loved you, even though she brought us together. Her intentions were always directed at you. After our marriage, I was her friend so she could get to you. After you left, she talked endlessly about you. Any hint of indiscretion was an excuse to attack me. I think that was her plan from the beginning and it’s been more successful than she could have imagined. That’s what I think.”
Tom lowered his head. “So, nothing happened?”
“Linton is my friend. One time, he showed more affection toward me than he should have. Louisa was a witness to that unfortunate display. But, honestly . . .” She paused, assessing the truth of her confession, knowing she was holding back the true extent of her feelings.
“Yes?”
“Honestly, he does care for me and I do care for him. But I made my decision—I came to France.”
Tom got up and walked to the bookcase.
Emma watched as he created a cleft between two books and pulled a sheet of paper from the opening.
Tom studied it. “I worked on an American soldier last week. I couldn’t save him.” A bright pain crossed his face. “I thought you would want this.” He handed her the creased paper. “I know you cared for him, too.”
Emma stared in horror at the drawing. The delicate lines of the portrait were spattered with splotches of dried, brownish blood; the face was shredded in several places from shrapnel, giving the drawing the appearance of a facially mutilated soldier. Despite its condition, she knew the subject immediately. Only bits of writing were legible because of the stain, but Emma remembered the words: To Lt. Andrew Stoneman, from Emma Lewis Swan. To your safe return . . .
“I did care for him—as a friend,” Emma said. “He was a kind man, a good man.”
“I first met him last fall. He was with you when the Frenchman committed suicide?”
“Yes,” Emma said. “Lieutenant Stoneman was very brave.” She stopped and ran her finger over the portrait. “But from the moment I met him on the ship, I think he knew he was going to die.”
Tom placed his hands gently on her shoulders and Emma recoiled, the strength of her revulsion surprising her. The last thing she wanted was sympathy from her husband. She retrieved her bag from under the chair. “I’m exhausted from the trip. I should go to bed.”
Tom followed her to the table and poured mor
e wine into his glass. “Yes, I understand.” He stuttered a bit and then said, “I have more to tell you.” He sat, his tall frame towering in the small chair.
“Tomorrow.” She placed her bag on the bed and stared at him. “Where is Lieutenant Stoneman buried?”
“A few kilometers from here, near a small village.”
“I want to visit his grave.”
Tom nodded. “Richard can take you.”
She put the portrait in her bag and slid it under the bed. Fighting back tears, she walked to the toilet, looked into Tom’s shaving mirror, and fought back the sobs that threatened to overwhelm her.
* * *
The dead leaves rustled on the oak. Bare branches jutted from the tree, creating weblike shadows across the freshly turned grave. Rows of white wooden crosses rose from the ground and stretched as far as the brown hills that surrounded the village. The number of new graves staggered her.
Emma pulled the lapels of her coat together—it was colder than she had anticipated despite the brilliant sun. Still, it was one of the few bright days she could remember in the countryside near Toul. She stood among the graves, blinking into the light, thinking how alone and foreign she felt, walking the muddy, narrow lanes searching for Andrew Stoneman. In the northeast corner, close to a scrawny leafless tree, she found him, his last name scrawled upon the cross.
She looked back across the graves toward the iron entrance gate coated with rust. Richard sat in the passenger seat of the ambulance, door open, enjoying the sunshine, smoking a cigarette. He waved and Emma politely returned the gesture. She turned and knelt beside the grave.
“So, this is how it ends, Lieutenant Andrew Stoneman,” Emma said over the spaded earth. Tom had told her British and American soldiers were buried in the village graveyards, next to the French. There was no time to ship the bodies home. A quick military funeral where the soldier died had to suffice.
“Time and God would aid your safe return, you said.” Emma stared at the white wood jutting from the damp earth. A ghostly breath of wind passed over her and she shook from a sudden chill. “I remember how you said it was best you didn’t have a sweetheart, a wife, or children, and how you said the war wasn’t about you—that you were just a speck in the scheme of things.” Emma let her tears fall. “You were correct, of course, but your mother and father in Kansas will miss you, and I’m deeply sorry you won’t be going home. . . .”
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