“Well, I can understand your reluctance, my dear,” Frances said sweetly and leaned forward, trying to make the best of Emma’s sour mood. “I’m sure my reserve isn’t nearly as grand as the champagne you drank in France.”
Emma resisted the urge to snap at her hostess. “I rarely had time to celebrate. In fact, I can only remember drinking champagne once and that was at a Christmas party where a soldier . . .”
Frances’s eyebrows bunched together.
“Another time,” Emma said. “That story isn’t fit for company.”
Frances smiled, determined to save her get-together, and then turned her attention to Louisa. “Don’t you look well, my dear. Don’t you think Louisa looks well, Emma?”
She reluctantly admitted to herself that Louisa had retained her looks through the war, uncertain the same could be said for her own appearance. The cold weather had added a rosy blush to Louisa’s cheeks, yet her face remained nearly alabaster, contrasting dramatically with her dark hair. Her svelte black dress was cinched at the waist by a white sash, which added to her fashionable appearance.
“I feel positively dowdy,” Emma said.
“You do yourself an injustice,” Louisa said. “The gray in your hair is significantly less than I imagined it would be—and you’ve only added a few more lines to your face. But that’s understandable, given the war.”
Emma leaned forward and smirked at her friend. “The Germans weren’t the only ones shelling France. Volleys were lobbed from Boston as well.”
Louisa sipped her champagne.
Frances scooted forward in her seat, as if she were about to witness a cataclysm that might tear the room in half.
“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Louisa said perfunctorily.
“You know perfectly well, you do.”
“More champagne?” Frances asked.
“No thank you, Frances,” Emma said. “If your maid will get my coat, I’ll be on my way, for I really must be going. Thank you so much for your hospitality . . . I look forward to the day when we can continue our conversation—alone.”
The maid, aware of the tension in the room, retrieved Emma’s coat promptly. “Good day,” Emma said, as the woman assisted her. “Please don’t end your party on my account.”
The maid walked as fast as she could ahead of Emma and held the door open. A hansom cab waited down the street. Hearing footsteps behind her, Emma turned to see Louisa hurtling down the hall toward her.
“How dare you insult me in front of Frances,” Louisa said, cutting in front of the maid and slamming the door behind her.
“Careful,” Emma said. “It’s cold out—you’ll catch your death and that would be an unmitigated tragedy.”
“What have I possibly done to deserve such treatment?” A tempest arose in Louisa’s eyes. “I’ve respected all your wishes. I’ve been kind to Anne—as much as I could without kowtowing to a domestic. I’ve taken your side in the onslaught of criticism against your foolhardy venture in Paris. I even extolled your art—let it be known what a great sculptress you are, despite your abject failure with faces.”
Emma swung her hand, striking Louisa hard on her left cheek.
Louisa gasped and reeled backward, clutching her face.
Emma swayed on her feet. The slap, a furious, instinctive reaction, shocked her as much as it did Louisa.
“My God, Emma,” Louisa said, when she recovered enough to speak. “We are through.” She turned and placed her hand on the door.
“How could you destroy my marriage?” Emma asked, her voice quaking with anger.
Smirking, Louisa took her hand off the latch. “Destroy your marriage? I had no hand in destroying your marriage—you’re quite capable of managing that task by yourself.”
“I’m talking about your letters to Tom.”
“What do you mean?”
“You wrote Tom about my relationship with Linton.”
The fury in Louisa’s eyes subsided. “Yes, I wrote Tom, but I never mentioned Linton. I only mentioned the most innocuous subjects—Boston and our friendships—I wanted to lift him up from the troubles of war.”
“I don’t believe you. I saw your letters. You wrote Tom because you’re still in love with him and you desperately wanted to break us apart.”
Louisa laughed and steadied herself against the doorframe. “You poor fool. You don’t believe me? Well, you will someday. . . when it’s too late for you and Tom.” She paused and looked at her with disdain. “You’re correct. I do love Tom, but I would never break you apart. It’s not something I would ever think of doing to a friend. Your zephyr would never betray her best friend.”
Emma stepped toward her.
“Stop,” Louisa ordered. “There’s no reason to continue this conversation. I’m the one who will still have friends and the chance of marrying a man—a good husband who will love me and provide a happy home. I pity you.”
The door shut gently and Emma stood alone on the porch. As she walked down the steps and hailed the cab, she wondered whether she would ever see Louisa or Frances again. The ride home seemed as cold and lonely as the January day. Emma shivered in the seat and thrust her hands in her coat pockets. As the horse’s hooves clopped on the cobblestones, a thought, at first as dim as a distant star in the night sky, filled her head until she could ignore it no longer. It spoke maddeningly and threatened: Listen to her—she’s telling the truth!
* * *
“Have you heard from Mr. Bower?” Emma asked her housekeeper.
Anne, who was slicing potatoes and dropping them into a pot of boiling water, stopped her hands in mid-cut. “No, ma’am, not a word in months. It’s very strange. He seems to have disappeared—like the goblins took him overnight.”
“Yes, it is strange.” Emma sat at the kitchen table and watched as Anne continued her work. “In his last letter to me, he told me he would like to . . . oh, I shouldn’t bother you with such details.”
Anne smiled, clearly eager to hear more. “Ma’am, do continue.”
“Please, stop. Ever since my return you’ve insisted on addressing me as ‘ma’am.’ We came to a decision about that salutation weeks ago.” Emma returned Anne’s smile. “You’re part of the family now—at least part of my family. You’ve been wonderful to me—guarding my heart so closely. There are good people in the world, Anne. You’re one. Virginie, Hassan, and Madame Clement are good, too. Virginie reminds me of you in so many ways—I think you would be quite good friends.”
“And your husband?”
Emma paused. “Would you be good friends with my husband?”
Anne laughed. “No—I love Dr. Swan, but he wasn’t on your list. Is your husband a good person?”
Emma lowered her gaze, taken aback by her housekeeper’s perceptive question. After a time, she said, “Yes, he is . . . I think we both lost our way.” Emma rubbed her hands together. “But let’s not talk of that. I’ll have an attack of melancholy and that won’t do for this evening. I have other plans.”
“I see.”
“No, you don’t see,” Emma said in jest. “Although you’re part of the family, I still have my secrets. By the way, how is that young man of yours? Mr. Merriweather?”
A blush flowered on Anne’s cheeks. “He’s a fine gentleman and talented, too. He doesn’t like Mr. Bower’s art, but he certainly appreciates the skill and dedication it takes to be an artist.”
“Yes, we all do.”
“And even a starving artist at that.”
Emma nodded, all too familiar with the vagaries of making a living as a sculptress. “I’ll confess point-blank to remove that devil from your eye. After dinner, I’m taking a walk. I’m hoping to inquire about Mr. Bower before I visit him. One man, above all others, can tell me what I want to know, and I’ve avoided him.”
“The man who introduced you to Mr. Bower,” Anne said matter-of-factly.
Emma smiled, knowing her housekeeper was no simpleton.
* * *
Emma confirmed Alex Hippel’s address from a previous letter and, after eating, set out to find his apartment. In all her dealings with him, she had never been to his home. All their business had been conducted in Emma’s studio or at the Fountain Gallery. Unless he had moved recently, Alex would still reside on Fairfield Street between Boylston and Newbury.
The night was cold, but not bitter by Boston standards. Emma enjoyed the walk down Boylston, past the imposing façade of the Public Library, and the towering Romanesque steeple of Old South Church. The wind brushed against her face and she breathed deeply, drawing the fresh air into her lungs. In her estimation, the city lights seemed brighter now that the war was over, and she was certain more people were on the streets, gaiety blossoming on the faces she passed. The number of motorcars had increased, and the overall mood was lighter, the air charged with mechanical energy. And strangely, she walked with a quicker and lighter step—a consequence of her confrontation with Louisa at Frances’s. Now that her feud was out in the open, she no longer feared venturing from her home. The gauntlet had been thrown.
Emma arrived at the address to find the name Alex Hippel floating in flowing script on the brass nameplate. She rang the adjacent buzzer and soon heard footsteps on the stairs. The door swung open, and, Alex, clad only in loose trousers, stood in front of her, his eyes forming wide circles of surprise.
“My Lord . . . Emma . . . Emma . . .”
She grinned at his sputtering and held out her hand.
He closed the door halfway and positioned his body behind it. “I’m sorry, I was expecting someone else.”
“Clearly,” Emma said, suppressing a laugh. “May I come in? Boston is a bit chilly this time of year.”
“Of course. Pardon my manners and my nakedness.”
Emma stepped into the hall and Alex closed the door. As soon as it latched, he sprinted up the stairs. Emma followed, taking each step in slow measure, giving him time to dress. When she reached the second-floor landing, Alex stood in the doorway, pulling on a white shirt. He reached for her hand—cordially, she thought—and motioned for her to come inside.
“It’s such a surprise to see you. I heard a rumor you might be in town, but I never expected to see you. Well, I don’t suppose you know—or do you?”
Alex’s apartment was in disarray. Paintings, many only on stretchers, were slanted like dominoes against the walls, packing crates stood like monoliths in the center of the room, and mountains of paper rose in front of crammed bookcases.
Emma spotted a lone chair between a desk and the crates and sat down despite not having an invitation.
Alex’s brows lifted, anticipating a question. “Would you like something to drink? I only have scotch.”
“No thank you. Do I know what?”
Alex fiddled with the buttons on his shirt. “I made the decision to close the gallery. Last August.”
“Oh, I’m so—”
“Don’t bother to feel sorry for me,” he said abruptly. “I knew it was coming, despite my optimism. Boston was never a city for the avant-garde; it’s like a small town, really. I reduced the hours, conducted a few private sales, but I’ve spent most of the last five months disengaging from the business. I attempted to keep the closing a guarded secret, at least from Frances and Louisa—you understand how one can feel like a failure, especially from their viewpoints—but it was useless really. Word travels. The unrelenting war sealed the coffin—the war and Vreland.” He stood by the desk, lit a cigarette, and poured liquor into a tumbler. “As hard as I tried, I could never get him to understand my artists or the purpose of my gallery. The only ploy I didn’t try was sleeping with him.”
“Every critic has his price.”
“Not Vreland. If I remember correctly, he wrote that your statue had the ‘soul of an icicle.’ That criticism alone laid bare his foul soul.” Alex sipped the scotch, then tilted the glass toward Emma. “But, what do I care now. I survived the war without a scratch. I can thank my mother for giving birth to me when she did—making me just old enough not to be drafted.” His mouth puckered as if he had said something distasteful. “I’m seeing a wonderful man and we’re moving to New York. . . .” He set his drink amid the books and papers on his desk and fidgeted with his cigarette, acting as if he had revealed too much.
Emma nodded, signaling him that she understood his concern. “I’m truly sorry about the gallery, but I’m happy that the Fountain exhibited my work, and equally pleased that you sold my Diana. But that’s not why I ventured out tonight. I came to ask you a question.”
Alex leaned against the desk. “I’m sure I know the question and the answer—I haven’t seen Linton for months. I don’t even know where he lives. I think he moved to a smaller apartment somewhere—because he couldn’t afford . . .”
Emma sat silently, uncertain what to say.
Alex reached for his glass. “We had a falling out . . . to put it politely.” He poured another shot of scotch and gulped it. “Shortly after I made my decision to close, Linton left the gallery in a rage. I held out for my artists as long as I could, but I couldn’t keep pouring money into it forever. Sales had slowed, including Linton’s work. I didn’t know the war would be over so quickly after reaching my conclusion. The war wasn’t the only reason, however. You were a cause as well. Are you sure you wouldn’t like a drink?”
Emma shook her head.
“We argued about you,” Alex continued. “Linton said he was in love with you and could never be in love with me . . . or a man at all. I held on to the fantasy of a life with him for a time, even after Louisa told me about the two of you in his studio.”
Pain swirled in his eyes.
“But, I finally said enough was enough. Every fixation . . . obsession, if you will . . . has a precipice where one falls into madness. I think you might understand what I mean . . .”
Emma nodded.
“Fortunately, I recognized our personal relationship was over and stepped back—our business dealings as well—because the gallery was dead. Linton stormed out after I told him, more hurt and frustrated than angry, I think, and that was that. I shipped his paintings to his studio the next day along with the money I owed him. A few weeks later, I saw him on the street, looking haggard and depressed, like he’d lost his last friend. It nearly broke my heart. I didn’t want to see him—don’t want to see him, until I can bear the pain of my . . . ‘unrequited’ love. I suppose that’s selfish, but it’s how I protect myself.”
“You don’t know whether he’s well or not?” Emma asked.
A flush spread across his face. “No. I’m sorry. I love—rather loved—him too much. I hope you understand—it’s not healthy for me to see him.”
She understood all too well.
Alex jumped at the electric buzz that filled the room. “That’ll be . . . at the door. Oh, you could give a damn.”
“I do, but I must get home.” Emma got up from the chair. “Does Linton still have his studio?”
Alex grimaced. “Not unless he found someone to bankroll him, but that would be a happy ending to a sad story. Let’s go down. I’m sorry to cut our visit short, but my friend is here . . . I didn’t know you were coming.”
“I wanted it to be a surprise.”
“It certainly was,” Alex said as they descended the stairs. He opened the door and a handsome young man doffed his hat, brushed past Emma without a word, and headed up to the apartment.
“Ah, the manners of youth,” Alex said. “At the very least, he’s discreet.”
“Good-bye, Alex,” Emma said and kissed him on the cheek. “I hope life works out well for you in New York . . . I hope life works out well for both of us.”
“We shall see. Perhaps New York will be kinder to me than Boston. Good-bye, Emma.” He closed the door, leaving her on the cold landing.
* * *
Anne’s footsteps padded on the stairs, preparing Emma for the knock on her studio door.
Gray light filtered through the
window. She closed the cover on a sketch pad she hadn’t touched in more than two years. In it were some of the first drawings of The Narcissus. The flowing lines brought back memories of her time with Linton, but the sketch depicting the face was off—too formal, too stilted, with little regard for human feeling.
Why does everything revolve around the face?
“Emma,” her housekeeper said awkwardly, still uncomfortable with addressing her by her first name, “it’s Miss Markham to see you.”
“Really?” Emma asked, surprised that Louisa would call.
“Yes, I told her you weren’t to be disturbed, but she insisted on discussing ‘a matter of importance.’”
“Well, the topic must be important for Louisa to come here. Send her up, please.”
In a few moments, Emma heard the click of her guest’s heels on the stairs. She glanced away from her desk when Louisa arrived, but the flash of color was too much to ignore. Attired in a scarlet coat, matching dress, and black sash, Louisa entered like an exotic bird, her lips on the verge of a sneer. At least she appeared that way in Emma’s eyes.
“I’ve come for an apology,” her guest announced with perfectly nuanced haughtiness, “and the chance to clear my name.”
Emma pointed to the chair across from her desk.
Louisa took off her coat and draped it across the seatback.
“Louisa, I—”
“Please, this pains me more than you . . . but in the interest of veritas.” She placed her hands in her lap and looked directly into Emma’s eyes. “I never wrote those incriminating letters to Tom, but I believe I’ve uncovered the culprit. It was positively evil on their part.”
Emma attempted to speak, but Louisa held up her hand. “I told you I would never betray you and you must accept that statement on trust. If you don’t, we might as well end all aspects of our friendship as of this moment; be done with it, and never strive to revive it again. But let me tell you, my dear Emma, all would be fair game then. I would avoid you like the plague. Your name would be anathema to me.” Louisa arched her eyebrows threateningly. “I might even make a play for your husband.”
“Don’t be a ninny,” Emma finally managed to get in. “Neither of us are silly schoolgirls. Tom might have something to say about the matter as well.” She locked eyes with Louisa. “I have a confession to make—when I left you at Frances’s, the thought did occur to me that you might be telling the truth. Assumptions were made by Tom and me, and they made sense at the time. I’m sorry I acted as I did at Frances’s. I had no right to strike you. I’m ashamed and deeply sorry for my sudden temper.”
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