“You need only remember one,” Louisa replied. “The rest have met you—that’s what’s important.”
“I think I’m getting a headache,” Emma said, swiping at her brow with her handkerchief. “It feels hot in here.”
“It is, and you must strike while the iron is as well. Return to Bela Pratt and tell him how much you’d like to study here. Don’t fail to mention that you know me, Mrs. Livingston, and, of course, play up your association with Mr. French.” She clutched the high collar of her dress lightly and urged Emma on with dark eyes. “Go ahead . . . don’t be shy.”
Emma screwed up her courage, thinking she had nothing to lose. Pratt, an eminent sculptor in his own right and teacher at the school, seemed pensive, as if he would rather have been anywhere else than at the reception. He sat alone at a table, glowering at a glass of water, and looked up as Emma approached.
“Miss Lewis, isn’t it?”
“Yes. I’m a friend of Mrs. Livingston and Louisa—”
He waved his hand. “No need to impress me, young woman. Who you know isn’t nearly as important as what you can do. Please sit.”
Deflated, Emma did so, awaiting his next words. He studied her for a moment, taking in her features with an unsettling gaze. “Daniel Chester French tells me that you have a modicum of talent that might be developed, but that you have trouble with certain aspects of the art.”
“Yes, sir. Faces.”
A forest of dark hair, parted near the middle, topped his head; his cheeks sagged naturally, and his eyes sunk like black stones in their sockets. “At least you’re up front about it and don’t prattle on about how good you are. You have no idea how many candidates build themselves up only to fail miserably—the school has been fooled before.” He paused, looking her over again. “However, I trust my good colleague’s judgment. I’ll have to see your work, along with the applications, interviews, and other necessary processes for admittance.”
“So, I may be able to study here?” Emma asked, overcome with enthusiasm.
“It’s possible . . . but there is one drawback.”
Emma nodded, waiting for him to continue.
“You excel at drawing, do you not?”
“Yes.”
“It may be that painting, drawing, and colorization become the focus of your art . . . rather than sculpture.”
Emma was puzzled and the anxiety that had plagued her since her arrival in Boston forced its way upon her again. “Why?”
“There are many men—I do not subscribe to it and neither does Mr. French—who believe that the world of sculpture is no place for a woman. They say the medium itself is the domain of the masculine; that the feminine mind cannot conceive of or create monumental works of merit.”
The thought struck Emma as absurd. Her father had never discouraged her, but her mother had done so for a different reason—not for her creative abilities, but because she believed such a career would make it difficult to find a husband.
“I say we prove them wrong,” Emma replied.
Pratt smiled for the first time since meeting her. “Yes, let’s. Just be aware that many men think as I’ve warned. In fact, a certain art critic in Boston will eviscerate you if you dare threaten his way of thinking.”
Louisa arrived at the table, as if to rescue her from Pratt. Emma shook hands with the sculptor and left him to his thoughts.
“He wants to interview me,” she told Louisa, her breath fleeing in excited puffs.
“Time to move on—never overstay your welcome,” Louisa said, talking over her. “I want you to meet someone. There he is—Thomas Evan Swan.”
Emma clutched Louisa’s arm and stopped cold, as if her feet were mired in mud.
“For heaven’s sake, what’s wrong?” Louisa asked, perturbed by Emma’s reluctance.
She found it hard to talk and even harder to explain that the man Louisa had pointed out bore a striking resemblance to Kurt Larsen. He was fair and blond like Kurt, but with noticeable differences. Their facial structures were somewhat similar, but Thomas was older by a few years and his face had begun to develop the creases of a man more careworn than her former lover. His hair was thinning on top, the pinkish scalp showing through the fine strands, his shoulders stooped a bit from too much studying, Emma assumed. A pair of reading glasses was nestled inside his tuxedo pocket. His fingers were thin and delicate unlike Kurt’s stronger hands.
He turned his gaze toward her from the glass of red wine in front of him and a warm smile graced his face as Louisa pulled her forward.
“Emma Lewis,” Louisa said, “this is Thomas Evan Swan—Tom to his friends.”
He rose and offered his hand, which Emma took in a cordial handshake.
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Lewis,” Tom said. “I’ve heard about you through the grapevine telegraph—I’ve been told you’re studying to be a sculptress.”
“That’s right, Mr. Swan.”
“Call me Tom,” he said, and asked them both to sit at his table. Louisa took the chair beside him, while Emma sat across trying to judge the pair’s relationship. They seemed good friends, perhaps nothing more, with a long history and understanding of what made each other tick. Emma couldn’t help but notice that Louisa looked at him with affection, almost to the point of fawning over him.
“Tom’s in medical school and will be a doctor in good order,” Louisa said and hooked her arm through his. He patted her hand.
“How nice,” Emma said, trying to bolster her friend’s conversation. “Do you like medicine?” The moment the question left her lips, she silently cursed herself for her stupidity. Of course he loves medicine! Why on earth would he be studying it if he didn’t? Oh, God, I’m making a fool of myself. As these words coursed through her head, she thought of her diary and how she would record her “disastrous” first meeting with Tom.
Louisa laughed. “Oh, Emma, I knew we’d get along the moment I saw you. What a funny question to ask.”
She inhaled sharply, hoping to keep the blood from rising to her face. “Yes, it was a stupid thing to say. I’m sorry.”
Tom leaned forward, his blue eyes glittering in the lamplight. “It’s not a stupid question at all; quite perceptive, really. People get into all kinds of things they shouldn’t because they never ask it of themselves, ‘Is this something I like—is this something I love?’”
Warmth connected the two of them, while Louisa sat in her chair taken aback by Tom’s interest in what Emma had to say.
“Emma, wouldn’t you like a glass of wine?” Louisa asked. “You’ve had nothing all evening—and you’ve reason to celebrate.”
Tom, still gazing at Emma, unhooked his arm and got up from his chair. “Allow me. Will you have what I’m drinking?”
Emma nodded.
Tom left and Louisa turned her attention to her gown, fiddling with the buttons near the cinched waist. “I do believe Tom likes you. I hope we can all be great friends.” Her lips parted in a meager smile.
“I’ve learned not to presume anything,” Emma said, thinking of her failure with Kurt and the years she had spent in seclusion since. The world she had entered for the evening was as foreign to her as if she were on the continent of Europe; she might as well have been in a reception hall in France or Germany, struggling to converse in languages she didn’t understand, for familiarity had fled.
“I do hope we’ve not chased you away,” Louisa said, her tone brightening.
“No. Everything’s so different in Boston, so many miles from Lee. I’m not used to the attention. Even when Mr. French and I were working together, we were isolated in his studio with nothing but our thoughts and nature surrounding us. Here, life assaults you, comes at you from every street corner.”
Louisa reached across the table and grasped her hand. “You will adjust. We’ll be the best of friends.”
Tom returned with the wine and placed the glass on the table in front of her. Mrs. Livingston flitted by once more, to say good night while on her way to �
��yet another social function.” Tom rose, smiled at Frances, and kissed her hand.
If nothing else, he’s a gentleman.
He sat down again, gazed at Emma, sipped his wine, and drank through his smile.
* * *
On the carriage ride back to Louisa’s, visions of the evening ran through her head: the seemingly endless parade of names and faces at the reception, the meeting with Bela Pratt, her introduction to Tom, the possibility of studying in Boston. However, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t get Tom’s face out of her head. Was it because of his similarity to Kurt? Why does everything revolve around the face?
As the horses clopped toward the house, Louisa said little, her gaze turned toward the window, her hands clutching at her fur collar.
Feeling snubbed, Emma decided to clear the air. “May I ask you a personal question, Miss Markham?”
Louisa turned, her body clothed in sable, her face dark under the brim of her black hat, the only ornamentation upon it being the flash of white egret feathers. Her hostess said nothing, but Emma decided she was free to state her inquiry.
“What is your relationship to Thomas Evan Swan?”
Louisa stiffened and was silent a few moments before speaking. “We are the best of friends.” She turned back to the window. “Please call me Louisa.”
Emma watched as the large houses, their windows lit by the warm, rippling light of oil and gas lamps, slipped by the carriage. The air in the cab had grown cold, and she thought of curling up in the ornate bedroom; a fire, perhaps, blazing on the hearth; alone, again.
Louisa said nothing more about Tom for the remainder of the evening. After they had retired, Emma thought of him before falling asleep. She continued to see his face in her memory even as she returned on the Sunday train to Lee.
* * *
Emma—with the help of Daniel Chester French, Bela Pratt, and Frances Livingston, in her indirect way—was accepted to the School of the Museum of Fine Arts. At first, her mother balked at the cost of her training and the “fantasy” of an artistic career, but that was before Helen met Thomas Evan Swan in the summer.
“Such a fine gentleman,” her mother said enthusiastically after Tom had spent the weekend as a guest at the farm. “I like him—he will do well financially.”
Emma knew that her mother was endorsing him as a potential husband and that a doctor would offer stability to the family. “I know what you’re thinking, Mother, but Tom is a man, not an investment.”
Helen scoffed and turned away, muttering about the “obstinate blindness of my daughter,” and “you could do much worse . . . I’ll probably end up selling the horses to make ends meet. . . .”
When the acceptance letter came, Helen displayed a happiness Emma had rarely witnessed. Her mother suddenly was more than willing to accept the school’s opportunity, and Louisa Markham’s offer of accommodations. The prospect of having a doctor in the family overpowered her mother’s objection to any artistic career. Emma also received a stipend from the school and some financial help from Mr. French.
Everything fell in place for her move to Louisa’s in the fall of 1911. Her mother shed no tears when she left and neither did she. Emma felt more sadness for her cat, Charis, and the horses that might be sold, than she did for leaving home. She made her mother promise to take good care of the animals. Matilda, she supposed, might be able to keep Helen in check.
She headed to Boston with a large trunk containing most of her clothing and a few notable possessions, including her diary, and settled into the spacious room at Louisa’s with more ease than she thought possible. Their first night alone, Louisa brought up the subject of Tom, a topic Emma dreaded. However, if the two were indeed to be friends everything would be out in the open soon.
“Tom tells me he’s been to Lee several times over the summer,” Louisa said. “You didn’t mention that in your letters.”
Emma once again took in the splendor of the sitting room, the cheery fire having been lit to take away the September evening’s chill. As much as her father had planned for the future, nothing in the Lewis estate could ever match the opulence of the space she now occupied. If she would let it, it might become as familiar as a wonderful dream, one she didn’t mind living, one that signaled a new direction in life. On the other hand, how honest could she be with Louisa—if she was indeed to be called a friend—and not compromise the opportunity that had arisen?
She hesitated to answer, but knew that sooner or later their relationship would be out in the open. “I didn’t want to mention it.” She stared out the broad windows for a moment as a carriage passed. “Frankly, I was never certain how you felt about Tom—I thought there might be more to the story than you were willing to admit. I do consider you a friend—one that I don’t want to hurt.”
Louisa studied her with a look of earnest candor, absent of cold or calculating intent. With her back straight against the cushion, her feet crossed at the ankles, her body exuding a relaxed confidence, Louisa presented the perfect picture of conviviality. “I would never go against a friend, no matter how much my feelings might get in the way. What you and Tom have is between you and no one else. That is all I have to say on the matter—in fact, all I should say on the matter.”
Emma nodded, feeling drained by the topic. “Would you like to get something to eat? Perhaps go out to dinner?”
“Of course,” Louisa answered, maintaining her composure. “I do have one question of my own.”
“Yes?”
“Do you love him?”
She had to think for a moment, certain that Louisa would notice her hesitation. Did she love him? She liked Tom, found him pleasant, affable, charming, everything that Kurt was not—but where was the fire in her soul that cried out for him? She remembered the day she and Kurt had met that summer in Vermont; the first time they’d made love in the fall, the room vibrating with the crimson reflection of leaves; and the lonely, bittersweet days of obsessing about him from afar. However, never far away were the tears she’d shed over the child she’d lost and Kurt’s rejection of everything she’d wanted . . . but, the question remained: Did she love Tom?
“Yes,” she found herself saying, although she doubted her own word.
“And he loves you,” Louisa replied. “That’s all I need to know.”
They dressed for dinner and left the house. Tom was absent from their conversation the rest of the night.
* * *
Classes and her new life in Boston occupied Emma for months. She saw her Boston friends Patsy and Jane a few times, but their lives were taking different directions now that Kurt was out of the picture and Charlene was miles away in Vermont.
Tom was equally busy with his medical studies and upcoming graduation. When time permitted, he became a frequent visitor at Louisa’s, and the three of them shared conversation and nights out on the town. Mrs. Livingston entertained them as well, calling them the “three musketeers,” with a touch of irony in her voice.
During the weekends they spent together, Emma still wondered whether Louisa harbored more than a passing affection for Tom, but her friend did nothing to challenge the relationship, preferring to act as the amiable hostess for the couple. For her part, Emma grew more attached to Tom as the days passed, the reality of making a living as an artist sinking in as she immersed herself in her studies with Bela Pratt and the other teachers. Through her letters and occasional visits to Boston, Helen continued to prod her daughter to secure a husband. The pressure from all sides of life was beginning to weigh on Emma.
Finally, in the spring of 1913, Tom proposed while they were walking on the Boston Embankment.
“Why should this marriage work?” she asked him a few minutes after she’d given him her answer.
“What a ridiculous question,” Tom said, oblivious to the crowd gathering on the banks of the Charles. He pointed to a seagull gliding over the silky water. The sun had brought out throngs of Bostonians to celebrate winter’s demise.
Em
ma tugged on his hand and stopped their walk. The pedestrians split around them as they stood like pillars in the middle of the path.
“It is not a ridiculous question. We’ve known each other for two years, we’re still very much unsettled—me in school and you just beginning your practice. If it hadn’t been for Louisa, we would be going our separate ways and not talking about this nonsense.”
“Nonsense? Emma, this is the most unorthodox marriage acceptance I could have ever imagined. One expects your betrothed to weep in gratitude, or at least to gratefully accept the blessings of it—not to question the concept from the very beginning.”
“I’m being honest, Tom. Honesty is an essential quality for women because we aren’t allowed to be much else.”
Tom took her hand and guided her along the path. “Let’s enjoy the moment. You’ve accepted and made me a very happy man.”
“Why did Louisa introduce us?”
Tom sighed. “Because she’s a matchmaker, and she thought we would make a handsome couple.”
“No, the real reason. That’s something that just popped into your head.”
“I can think of no other reason.”
Emma hooked her arm through his. “There’s another possibility. Louisa wanted to force the issue because she’s been in love with you from the beginning.”
Tom veered off the walk and pulled Emma toward a dock that thrust into the river. Looking west toward Cambridge, they sat on wooden planks warmed by the sun. Emma could have dipped her toes in the brown river if she’d wanted to. He sat next to her, pulled her close, and kissed her. She primly returned the affection. After several kisses he said, “Really, Emma, you are the strangest creature, but that’s one of the many reasons I love you.”
“Strange is hardly a foundation for a relationship.” She grew a bit cold at his reasoning. Sometimes she captured him with her eyes, the sun glinting off his wispy blond hair in a certain light, and she saw him for what he was: a moderately handsome doctor who promised much sensibility, but delivered few sparks to her heart. He was stable, though, a characteristic her mother had wanted her to seek in a man.
The Sculptress Page 7
