Matilda, Charlene and her parents, even Patsy and Jane who traveled with Jane’s parents, attended the funeral, but the gathering after, at the house, was so uncomfortable Charlene asked me how I could stand to live here. All of my friends were bored under the watchful eye of my mother. Of course, I have no choice but to stay here until I can make my own way. I have no money to pay rent since everything was left to my mother until I’m twenty-one, when only a small portion will come to me; thus, no money for art school. My life has been decided by ill fortune. Even Matilda agreed with me that I’d had “a streak of bad luck.”
My thoughts have often swung to Kurt and the hope that he might, like a knight in shining armor, rescue me from this miserable existence, but that is only fantasy if I’m any judge of his character and situation. Still, I think of him often.
How I wish I could escape this prison! My mother’s footsteps on the stairs, although she has no desire to enter my room or say anything to me other than to order me about, remind me that I should end this entry and lock it safely away.
Emma dropped her studies at Chesterwood, primarily because of money, although her mother found the time and funds to make several trips to see Edith Wharton. “Mr. French must be paid from funds that are now too dear,” Helen said with no hint of irony in her voice.
During those times alone, for the most part without Matilda’s company, Emma read and drew as if they were acts of revolution, tended her father’s horses, and sat with Charis on the sofa, staring at the lawn as if looking through a prison window.
Only through the urging of Charlene’s parents was Emma allowed travel to the Vermont farmhouse one weekend in mid-October. Her mother laid down strict restrictions: the family must pay for Emma’s transportation there and back; she was to be picked up on Friday afternoon and returned no later than eight on Sunday evening; no men, outside of Charlene’s father, were to be allowed in the house unless supervised. Emma gladly agreed to the rules in order to leave the confines of home. She had been nowhere except to classes.
The carriage arrived after her dismissal from school. Emma gave her unsmiling mother a peck on the cheek before the horses pulled away.
“Remember what you’ve agreed to,” Helen called out, standing stiffly on the porch like Lot’s wife turned to a pillar of salt.
Emma stuck her head out the carriage window, waved, but said nothing. A forty-mile trip lay ahead, between the mountains, through the river valleys, past Pittsfield and Williamstown, until she’d arrive at the farmhouse south of Bennington. A sudden exhaustion struck her like a blow as the team proceeded northward at a brisk pace—relief poured in as the miles between the carriage and her mother lengthened and the heavy feeling of being suffocated in a coffin lifted. She thought of pulling the shade down and sleeping, but the transformed lightness of her soul, combined with the excitement of being away for two days, kept her awake. After a change of horses halfway through the journey, she settled back in the seat and watched the dark hills and the metallic glint of the nearly full moon on black waters glide past the carriage.
Shortly after ten, she arrived at the farmhouse. The windows shone with lamplight, the wide porch held wooden rockers, pumpkins, and fall chrysanthemums—the whole appearance gave her the warm feeling of a home, in contrast to the cold starkness of her own life. She alighted from the carriage to the open and embracing arms of Charlene and her parents.
The hour late, Charlene’s mother and father excused themselves for bed, leaving her alone with her friend and the admonishment not to stay up too late for a full day of shopping lay ahead the next day in Bennington.
After hearing the door close upstairs, Charlene drew Emma aside to the farthest reaches of the living room away from her parents’ bedroom.
“I have a surprise for you,” her friend whispered, “but you must say nothing about it to anyone or we’ll both get the switch.”
“What? A surprise for me?” Emma couldn’t believe that her stay could get any better than what she’d expected.
“You can’t go to Bennington with us, tomorrow.” Charlene’s eyes sparkled in the lamplight. “You must stay here in order to receive your surprise—at noon—and you must be done by two.”
“Done?” Now she was intrigued but also somewhat frightened by Charlene’s deviousness.
“You have a cold—or don’t feel up to travel—make up an excuse. Then we’ll return later in the afternoon for dinner and afterward you can tell me all about it.” Charlene smiled broadly, her feet planted firmly on the floor, hands wedged into her waist. “Let’s extinguish the lights and get to bed. See you at breakfast.”
They did so and soon were off to their rooms after a quiet embrace. The upstairs tall clock ticked in its stately, monotonous tone, and soon Emma was asleep, but dreaming of opening presents, like an excited child on Christmas morning.
* * *
Emma spent the morning complaining of a minor sore throat and a headache, enough so that Charlene’s father threatened to call off the journey—until his daughter’s tears took over.
“You can’t, Father,” her friend said in her best whiny voice. “I’ve been looking forward to this trip for so long and I want that new dress for Christmas.” She took out her handkerchief, turned her head toward Emma, blew her nose, and gave her an artful wink. “I’m sure Emma doesn’t mind spending a few hours alone.”
“Not at all,” Emma replied. “I don’t want to spoil the weekend. You go ahead. I’m sure I’ll be fine by tonight.”
“See? Emma doesn’t mind.”
“Well . . .” her father said, sounding unconvinced.
“Please. . . .”
“All right, all right,” he said, “stop acting like a petulant child. You’re behaving like this to get your way.” Frowning, he turned to Emma. “But you must rest and get well. Your mother will be as mad as a wet hornet if we send you home sick.”
Charlene smothered her father with hugs and the matter was settled. The hours were set: They would be gone from ten until about two in the afternoon with lunch in town. Emma was welcome to help herself to bread and the soup on the stove, if she was hungry.
As planned, the family left and she was alone again in a farmhouse. The surprise wasn’t scheduled to arrive for another two hours, so she sat in the living room and tried to read but couldn’t, her anticipation growing as the minutes dragged by like hours. She attended to herself in the mirror, applying powder, rouging her cheeks, and combing her hair. There was no harm in being presentable when the family returned. She sat on the porch for a time, enjoying the warm morning sun, and taking in the brilliant oranges and reds that blazed upon the hills.
She was about to sit down for lunch when the screen door opened behind her.
Shortly after eleven thirty, Kurt Larsen stepped inside.
Emma had considered that he might be the “surprise,” but had discarded the thought as an impossible fancy believing Charlene would never devise a plot that dangerously crafty and deceitful—unless she and Kurt had dreamed up the scheme together. Perhaps he really did want to see her! Her breath caught and she dropped the napkin she was holding into her lap.
There could be no mistaking her thrilling attraction to Kurt, that pulled at her stomach and heart like a yearning—a butterfly attempting to burst forth from its cocoon—and the mixed sense of liberation and peril that the feeling generated. She was aroused by and, at the same time, terrified of his presence. He stood in the doorway, framed in the dazzling fall light, in a dark jacket and pants, seeming more confident and mature than he had the previous Christmas. The breeze had mussed his hair; he smoothed it back with a strong hand and took a seat at the table.
He took her hand in his and smiled in a way that Emma thought kind and sincere.
Her heart pounding, she fought the urge to pull away. Instead, she leaned close to him. “Charlene told me about the ‘surprise, ’ but I didn’t think it possible.” A jolt rushed from his hand to hers and raced up her arm—the same as when
they had first touched by the river such a long time ago.
“I wanted to be here,” he said. “We planned it together, knowing . . . I’m sorry about your father. Charlene said your mother has made your life miserable, even getting angry because I dared write to you.”
“Yes. I’ve been crushed. She blames me for my father’s death. I wasn’t even allowed to study with Mr. French over the summer.”
“Have you had any enjoyment since he died—any chance to recover?”
“Hardly a day.”
He released her hand, pushed back in the chair, and crossed one leg over the other. “Things haven’t been going so well for me, either.” His eyes dimmed for a moment and he lowered his gaze. “My grades aren’t up to par—at least Harvard’s idea of par—so I’m rethinking where I might go to law school. My father’s furious. My mother is keeping the family together at the moment.”
“I’m sorry,” Emma said, reaching for his hand. “You’re smart. I’m sure things will work out.”
He flinched, jarred by her touch.
“I think about you all the time,” she said.
“I wondered.” He leaned toward her, even closer, until his lips neared hers. “I think about you all the time.”
The heat from his body reached her, the fresh scent of his skin enveloped her, as their lips met. She flushed with desire, as if she could sink into him and never return. The lonely hours in her room, the feelings of guilt and betrayal that had dogged her since her father’s death, vanished with his kiss.
“We don’t have much time,” he said, caressing her face with his hands. “Would you like me to model for you?”
She nodded, unable to speak because of the images coursing through her mind.
He lifted her from the chair and carried her like a princess to her bedroom on the second floor. The sun splashed outside the windows, the day relatively warm even for mid-October. The crimson maples shook in the breeze and an undulating fiery light shimmered across the walls.
Emma felt as if she were consumed by a fire ignited by youth, the warmth of the dying season, and Kurt’s kisses. There was no pretext for modeling now as they both explored each other’s body. The room fell away as her passion exploded.
He disrobed by the bed, the first time she had seen a man, other than her father, naked. She took off her dress and undergarments. He spread her legs with his hands, enjoying her moistness with his fingers and then his mouth. Then, he pulled a rubber condom from his jacket, put it on, and straddled her, pushing his erection into her. She cried out as an unexpected slickness permeated her insides. Eventually she relaxed into his rhythm, but soon—too soon for Emma—he moaned, shuddered, and withdrew from her body.
He said nothing as he washed himself in the basin.
The breeze filled the curtains like billowing sails and ran pleasant, cool streamers over her heated body. Her breath waned as the light fell in dappled patches on her stomach and breasts. She expected him to return to bed, to thank her for making love, and to cover her with kisses. Instead he muttered, “Shit,” and looked down at the white sheet. She shifted her legs and saw a reddish-brown spot where their bodies had joined.
“That’s done it,” he said. “Now they’ll know. Charlene’s parents will suspect a man was in the house and the trail will lead to me. My father will disown me if he finds out. He thinks I’m on a study weekend.”
“Don’t worry,” she replied, still unsteady from the experience. “I’ll say I had an accident—my time of the month.”
He stood naked at the foot of the bed and smirked. “I never for a moment suspected you were a virgin.”
She sat upright and pulled the sheet over her breasts, shocked at his presumption of her promiscuity, after such boisterous lovemaking at his initiation. “Of course I was a virgin. Why wouldn’t I be? I’ve lived with my parents all my life. I don’t sneak around with men.” She got off the bed and grabbed her slip. “I can’t put this on. I’m bleeding.”
He sighed and sat on the bed. “Wash yourself off. I wouldn’t have gone through with it had I known. A gentleman doesn’t deflower a . . .”
“Deflower a virgin? What kind of girl does a gentleman deflower?”
“The virtuous woman he’s just married,” he snapped.
Emma’s body tightened, as if a blow had been aimed at her gut. “I see. So, obviously, I’m not that kind of woman?”
He started toward her and she instinctively drew back.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice dropping. “I got caught up . . . in the passion of the moment.” He placed his hands on either side of her face and pushed his fingers back through her hair. “Help me, Emma. Please don’t tell anyone about this—not even Charlene. If anyone found it, it would ruin me . . . and you.”
“You don’t love me?” she asked, falling back on her innocence as she walked to the basin.
“I adore you, but we have our lives ahead of us, as well as my career. We have to think about the future.”
“According to my mother I have no career other than as a wife—the collector of the scraps a man sees fit to throw my way.” She wiped a washcloth between her legs. “Or as a mistress.”
“What about your art?” he asked, resting his hands on her shoulders. “You have your studies as well.” He sighed and turned away from her. “This is a strain. I was wrong to do this. Please, help me out of this jam—don’t say a word.”
“What will you do for me if I promise?”
“Anything you want.”
“Make love to me as often as I wish.” She drew in a sharp breath. Because her virginity was gone she would have him whenever she wanted; she could control him if she used her sex. She would no longer be lonely. He would pay attention to her and tell her she was beautiful, and maybe even take her away from her mother and her miserable home.
Kurt left her alone in the bedroom for a few minutes and returned with a pair of scissors from the kitchen. “You accidentally cut yourself trying to mend your slip.” He handed her the scissors.
She took the instrument from him, ran a finger along the sharp silver blade, and gritted her teeth. With a quick slash, she opened a cut on her left index finger. The blood pooled in a red patch and when the quantity was sufficient, she turned her hand over, let the flow drip onto the stain, and smeared it across the sheet.
“We have a pact,” he said. “I must get back to my friend’s house before they return.” He kissed her and pulled on his pants as the leaves’ crimson reflections flashed against the walls.
“She doesn’t live far away?” she asked, baiting him.
“He. I’ve known him for years through Charlene. The house is just over the mountain—I can walk from here.”
“When will I see you again?” she asked, forgetting that she sought to control him. She walked to the basin and wrapped the washcloth around the cut.
He smiled, kissed her once more, and walked quietly down the stairs. She fell back on the bed, knowing that she should take a bath and tidy up the room, preparing her story for the reason behind the bloodstained sheet. As the warm breeze played over her, a strange sadness filled her and she felt as if she had lost much more than she had gained.
* * *
“Well?” Charlene asked after dinner.
Wrapped in sweaters, they sat on the porch steps, drinking in the cool night air, watching the flash of stars rise in the east, hearing the flutter of moths around the oil lamp, thinking of nothing but the present and little of the future.
“Why did you do it?” Emma’s voice seemed lost in the void, the words empty and meaningless.
“What happened?” Charlene turned to her with a concerned look in her eyes.
“Nothing . . . nothing at all.” She bowed her head.
“I don’t believe you . . . I’m worried, Emma. You’ve seemed distant—far away from me—since we got back from town.”
“All I want to know is why you did it?”
Charlene pursed her lips and exhaled. “Becau
se I know you like him and he likes you . . . and you’ve been under such strain since your father died. You need to break free from your mother’s talons. She’s reduced you to a servant. You deserve some happiness and Kurt was willing to come. He likes you.”
Emma rose from the steps and leaned against one of the white porch columns at the top of the stairs. “I guess he does. He was very nice, but I was glad to see him go.”
Charlene got up and stood beside her. “Why? I thought you’d be happy and that you might even share a kiss.”
A chill ruffled her body. “No . . . no. We talked and then he was gone. Now I feel lonely again and all I see is his face.” She wondered why everything in her life seemed to revolve around the face.
“It sounds to me like you’re in love.”
“Maybe. I’m not sure.”
“Well, you can see him again. I’ll invite him back any weekend you want—maybe on the up-and-up. If your mother goes on a trip and leaves you at home—he could visit. That would be nice, wouldn’t it?”
Her voice rising with each word, Emma said, “Oh, I’ll see him again, when and where I want to.”
Charlene shook her head. “Sometimes I don’t understand you.”
Emma looked at the weather-beaten planks that made up the porch, feeling like it was hard to stand. Then, she turned her eyes to the sky, allowing the blackness to seep in. “I don’t understand me either,” she said, walking to the door. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”
The Sculptress Page 4
