“You never know until you try,” Chardoney said. “I had a patient who left about a year and a half ago. He was big on this. He had all kinds of equipment, and he left it all here. Come on. I’ll show you.”
He led her to a room that was used mostly for storage. “Never mind the clutter. We can get rid of that. This could be your studio. Those windows let in plenty of light.” Chardoney went to a cabinet and opened it. “Here’s where I put all the things he left, including his books on sculpture. I don’t know much about it, but I do know that he made his clay by mixing this powder with water, and this other powder is what he used for plaster of Paris. Look, he left one of his pieces with us.”
Sharon moved forward, intensely interested. She looked at the bust that Chardoney held up and exclaimed, “Why, that’s you!”
“I’m much better looking than that,” he said with a grin. “It is pretty good, though, isn’t it? He was going to make a bronze out of it, but we didn’t have that kind of equipment here, so he just let me keep it as is.”
Sharon said with discouragement, “I don’t know a thing about all this.”
“You didn’t know anything about opera either, but you learned to sing. Why don’t you try it?”
“All right, but what will I make a statue of?”
“How about Rooney?”
She laughed. “He’ll probably look like a dinosaur.”
“So he’d be a dinosaur dog, then. Like I say, you won’t know until you try. And if you do well, we’ll get you a kiln.”
Sharon was amused by the doctor. “I know what you’re trying to do.”
“What?”
“You’re trying to cure me.”
“Of course. Or trying to help you cure yourself.”
“You think I’ll find God by messing around with clay and plaster of Paris, Doctor?”
“Maybe. You’ll never know until you try.”
****
As Sharon and Nelson Kane spent more time together chopping wood, they actually became friends, although neither one was inclined to engage in lengthy conversations. When he had expressed some interest in her sculpting work, he’d said, “Maybe I’ll come and watch someday.”
“Of course,” she had agreed. “Anytime.”
It was late afternoon now, and Sharon had worked all morning cutting wood, but she now looked forward to her afternoons, when she would come to her studio to work with clay. She had been so engrossed in what she was doing that she did not hear Nelson come in, and his voice startled her. “That’s very good, Sharon.”
She jumped and turned to him, smiling. “You scared me.”
“That’s very good,” he repeated.
Sharon turned back and examined the bust herself. She had been astonished at how much pleasure she had found in working with the clay. She had tried only very simple things at first, making more bowls than anything, but spent her evenings now reading books about more complex sculpting. “I think I’m ready to try something a bit more complicated.”
“Why don’t you make a statue of Rooney? Of his head anyway. The legs might be hard.”
“Okay, I’ll try it. And if it’s good, I’ll give it to you, Nelson.”
****
Dr. Chardoney stood back, his eyes intent as he studied the work that Sharon had finished. “I can’t believe it. It looks just like Rooney.”
“As you can see, I was afraid to try the whole body. I’m not sure I could make good legs.”
“I think you need to build those up with wire first to give them the needed support. At least that’s what Ramsey did.”
“Oh yes, there was a chapter in one of the books about how to make that kind of a framework, but I wanted to try just the head first.”
“Well, you’ve captured him. I’ve seen him look just like that a thousand times.”
Sharon had worked for several days on the bust of Rooney. She had given up twice and destroyed her work, but this time she was pleased with what she had caught. Chardoney continued to praise her work, and then he said, “Would you like to try a bronze?”
“I understand that’s very complicated, Dr. Chardoney!”
“I guess it is, but there’s a friend of mine who does bronzes. He doesn’t live too far from here. Not more than a two-hour drive. If you’d like, we could make a trip over to see him.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to take up his time.”
“Nonsense. He’s a fine fellow. He’d be interested in what you’re doing. He likes to encourage young talent.”
“I guess I would like to learn,” Sharon said, realizing how true that had become.
“All right. I’ll call him. His name is Giles Frenoit. I’ll see when it would be convenient for us to see him.”
Sharon felt a warm glow. Somehow her sculpting work had released a new interest in life. She turned and said very quietly, “I’d like to talk to you—about myself, Doctor.”
Chardoney smiled. “That’s fine. Would you like to do it now?”
“I think I would.”
“Come on. Let’s go for a walk.”
Sharon left with the doctor, and as they reached the woods, she found herself talking as she had not been able to for more than three years. She told the doctor how she had met Robert, about performing with him in H.M.S. Pinafore, and about struggling to decide whether or not they should marry before he went overseas. She hadn’t spoken to anybody in this way since his death. And as she told him more and more, she suddenly knew that something was taking place inside her that she needed desperately.
****
Spring was now in full bloom in Canada, so Sharon’s woodcutting work took much less time. She had, however, thrown herself fully into her sculpting work. It had come as a surprise to her when Chardoney had suggested she move out of the big house into one of the cabins, but she had been willing. She had a roommate, Lillian Brough, with whom she had learned to get along quite well.
Sharon had mastered the fundamentals of bronze casting, and her prize was the statue of Rooney. She had worked on it for over a month, and Giles Frenoit, the sculptor who had taught her the art, had helped her with the final bronzing.
Early one Thursday afternoon in June, Dr. Chardoney came by to watch her. He had followed her progress, and he was curious about the new piece she was working on. After he watched for a time, he broke the silence by saying, “I think it’s time for you to go home and pick up your life now, Sharon.”
Chardoney’s words came as a shock to Sharon. She turned quickly and stared at him. She was wearing a white cotton smock, and her hands were stained from the clay. “Go home? But I’m not ready.”
“I think you are. You’ve done what you came for.” Chardoney hesitated, then said, “God wants more of you than you’re willing to give Him right now, but as you get stronger and become more comfortable in your faith, that will come. You’ve learned to live with your loss, Sharon. You’ve learned how to be at ease around people again, and you’re listening to God. That’s all I can do for you. Your life is just beginning afresh. Go home, draw near to God, and enjoy being with people.”
Sharon found herself shaken by his words and could say little in response. But all afternoon she thought about what he had said, and when she went down to supper that night, she found herself seated with a new patient who had just arrived. Her name was Patricia. She was obviously frightened, and Sharon, along with Greta and Lillian, tried to encourage her. “You’re going to love it here, Patricia,” Sharon said. “I know it feels strange right now, but you’ll make friends, and Dr. Chardoney can help you.”
Patricia said nothing, but obviously she had serious problems.
“You’ll have to watch out for her, Greta,” Sharon said.
“We both will,” Greta said quickly.
“No, Dr. Chardoney told me this afternoon that it’s time for me to leave.”
Greta shook her head sadly. “I knew you wouldn’t be here much longer. Dr. Chardoney doesn’t let people hang around when he feels they’re
ready for the real world.”
“What about you, then?”
Greta chewed her lip. “I’m getting better, but I still have some problems I need help with.”
After dinner the group gathered in the concert room, and the woman who had been planning to sing, a large woman named Tilly, said, “My throat’s sore, Doctor. I can’t sing tonight.”
“Well,” he said, “I guess I’ll have to sing, then.” He looked around from the piano stool, and his eyes met Sharon’s. “Unless someone else will.”
Sharon understood his message, and in a moment of boldness stood up and said, “I’d like to sing.”
“Fine! Come along. I’m afraid I’m not pianist enough to accompany on most things unless it’s ‘Three Blind Mice.’”
“That’s okay,” Sharon said. “I can play a little.”
Chardoney took another seat, and Sharon sat down at the piano. She put her hands on the keys, hesitant for a moment, but then she looked up and saw the doctor watching her intently. He nodded and smiled, and she began to play. A murmur went over the group as she played for a time; then she lifted her voice and sang. She had no more started the song than she saw the shocked amazement of the crowd.
When she finished the song, the group applauded and cheered, and Greta yelled, “Hey, you’ve been holding out on us. Shame on you!”
She sang five numbers, the last one a tune she had sung with Robert many times. When she finished there were tears in her eyes, and she stood up. Chardoney came to her and did something he had never done. He put his arm around her and squeezed her. “You are ready to go home,” he said proudly.
“All right, Doctor. I think you’re right.”
“God wants more of you than you’ve been giving, but I think He’s going to find it soon enough. I think you’re equipped for whatever comes your way.”
“I’ll miss you, Doctor, and I’ll miss all my friends here.”
“That’s as it should be. I’ll be expecting to hear from you.”
Chardoney then turned and announced, “It’s time for Sharon to leave us. So in the morning we’ll have a special good-bye breakfast.”
After that announcement, many in the group came to talk to Sharon, and she found herself sad to have to leave them—something she had never expected. After the group thinned out, she saw Patricia, the new patient, sitting alone. Sharon went over to her and said, “I’m leaving, but you’ll be in good hands. You’ll find friends here.” The woman nodded silently.
Sharon went to bed that night feeling strange about leaving a place that had become a haven for her. She picked up her Bible and read the Twenty-third Psalm aloud, as had recently become her practice.
Finally she climbed into bed and, before falling asleep, said, “God, thank you for bringing me to this place. Now please go before me, wherever it is you want me to go. . . .”
CHAPTER TEN
“Grandfather Was a Poor Immigrant”
During the four months that Sharon was in Canada, Leland and Lucille had made the decision to sell their home in New York City and move to a lovely location in a secluded area north of the city. They thought it would help them all to get away from the memories the old house held and give the family a fresh start in a new environment. Clayton was an energetic and growing boy and needed room to run and play and ride his beloved Lucky Lady. And Sharon had made a new life for herself, with the help of Dr. Chardoney, and needed a place where she could enjoy the fresh air and peaceful surroundings, as well as have a spacious and well-lit studio to devote to her sculpting work.
The family servants had all decided to stay in the city, and Leland helped them find other positions in prestigious homes. Then he hired some new young servants for their country home. Now a year had passed since Sharon had returned, and life at the Winslows’ country estate was a pleasant place for servants and visitors alike.
The young chauffeur, Mike Jones, was sitting in the kitchen, reared back on a chair, helping himself to the cookies that Mabel had made. She promptly reached over and slapped his hand. “You’re gonna be fat as a pig if you don’t stop eatin’ those cookies!”
“That’s all right. There’ll be that much more of me for you to love.” Whenever Jones wasn’t driving the Winslow family around, he was in the kitchen romancing the cook at every possible opportunity.
Mabel giggled and went back to the counter, where she began mixing the dough for a new batch. “It’s amazin’ how well Miss Sharon does with those sculptures of hers, ain’t it, now?”
“Yeah, she sure is a good artist. I hear she had a lot of troubles after her fella was killed in the war, but it seems like she’s over that now, doesn’t it?” Jones said. He got up silently and crept up behind Mabel, throwing his arms around her and kissing her on the neck noisily. “How long would you grieve for me if I went up the plume, Mabel?”
Mabel squirmed but not very hard. “Not long, I’m sure. I’d be up dancin’ again ’fore you knew it. Now, you go sit yourself down.”
Jones went back to his seat, pausing to fill his coffee cup. He bit off half a cookie and said, “That Miss Sharon stays busy all the time. I haul her around day and night, it seems like.”
“Yes, I know. But she works so hard in that studio of hers, it does her good to get out and about. Did I show you that statue she made of my head?”
“Not half pretty enough to do you justice, sweetheart.”
“Never mind that blarney.”
“Only the truth. But I will admit she does good with animals. I was always partial to dogs. So is she, it seems.”
“You know I think she could make a livin’ at it if she really wanted to.”
“Make a living at it! With all her money? Why would she want to?”
“I suppose you’re right. She doesn’t need any more money, does she?” Mabel shrugged. “I guess you’re driving her to that big party in the city at the Vanderbilts’ tonight. My, I’d like to go to one of those parties.”
“I don’t suppose we can go to the Vanderbilts, but there’s a new Doug Fairbanks movie on at the Royal. Maybe we could take that in after I drop Miss Sharon off at the party. Then afterwards we can park and study the moon.”
Mabel giggled. “None of that, now. You’d better be on your way before Mrs. Winslow catches you loafin’ around here.”
****
Sharon had been working diligently in her studio all day, and it was now almost three o’clock. The sculpture in front of her was the most challenging piece she had ever tried, and she intended to cast it in bronze. Having mastered the technique now, she had equipped her new studio in the old carriage house with a complete foundry. The studio no longer resembled the original building after all her renovations. A crew had taken out the second-story floor and inner walls to create a large, airy work space, and they had added skylights in the roof.
She stepped back now and looked at the piece she had been working on for over a month. It was a full-sized statue of an officer with a pistol in his left hand and his right hand waving forward. He was turning back as if urging his men forward into battle.
Sharon quietly studied the face. It was Robert, of course. She did not talk about him even now, but somehow she had conceived the idea of creating a sculpture that would commemorate his life. It saddened her that one day no one would remember Robert, but if people could see this statue, they would at least understand a little of what he was like. She had thought at times that this was the purpose of art—to keep things we wish to remember frozen in time. As her favorite poet, John Keats, had expressed in his poem “Ode on a Grecian Urn”—art is better than life because everything in life we lose, but art lasts forever and never changes.
The thought gave her an inner satisfaction, a sense of purpose to her life. As she continued to work she remembered warmly how Dr. Chardoney had led her into sculpture. She had found a passion for it she had never had for anything—even singing—and she was better at it too. The fulfillment it brought her was both calming and exciting.
She mulled over memories of the last year since she had returned from the Camp—how she had been welcomed back with joy by her parents and had the opportunity to begin a new life in a new home. For the first six months she had stayed away from the city and had attended no parties while she had immersed herself in building her studio and setting it up. For the last six months she had gone out occasionally and found that she was able to cope with society even at its worst.
“Miss Sharon, please come! It’s time to get ready for the party.”
“Just a few minutes, Ruth.”
“No, come now!”
Ruth was Sharon’s new maid. Lorraine had left for another position when Sharon had gone to Canada and had since gotten married. Sharon missed Lorraine a great deal, but young Ruth had a fresh and bubbly personality and had proven to be a good helper and companion for her.
“Come now,” Ruth said again. “I want you to look very beautiful tonight.”
“That’s going to be difficult, but we’ll do the best we can,” Sharon said with a smile. She put down her tools and took off her smock, and as she left the studio, she felt a twinge of regret. I much prefer doing this to going to any party, she thought, but Ruth was insistent, so she went without protest.
****
The party was a large, ornate affair, with the usual lavishness that seemed so wrong now to Sharon. She had always felt that the ostentation of the very rich was somehow crude and gaudy, but now she felt even more strongly about it. Her parents obviously did not agree, so Sharon kept her opinion mostly to herself. Even though they had moved out of the city, her mother was still anxious to maintain the important social connections that could lead to a suitable marriage partner for Sharon.
She had danced with several such potential partners and found herself putting these men under a microscope of scrutiny. The chances of her caring for any of them were slim, especially after what had happened to her friend Hannah Astor, now Hannah Astor Fulton. Sharon had been hopeful that Hannah’s marriage would be happy, but from the start it was miserable. The last time she had seen Hannah, Sharon had learned that her husband had been unfaithful to her. Hannah occupied her life with her two children, rarely speaking of her marriage. It was obvious to Sharon that Charles had married her solely for her money.
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