I have seen such horrors, I can’t describe them. You can help these men. I was told of a man in England who made masks for the facially disfigured—yes, masks! Can you imagine? I want to find out how he does this miraculous work. You could do the same in France—perhaps set up a studio in Paris with the Red Cross, far enough away from the Front to be safe, yet close enough for the soldiers to take advantage of your services. There is such need. As surgeons, we can only do so much, but you could return these men to the world of the living. And, best of all, we could see each other again.
Your husband,
Tom
She folded the letter and placed it on her studio desk.
See each other again? Could there be more than sight?
Emma chided herself for being so blasé. How could Tom know what she was thinking? Had she really made her feelings known? Both had slipped into comfort without passion and accepted the consequences without objection. She had no doubt that she loved him and he her, but how could love be measured? Was its quality spent in days spent together, the hours of longing while apart, or nights entwined in the bedroom? Perhaps they loved each other equally as absence diminished their relationship, the war ripping them apart as surely as Europe was split by the Front. Perhaps she had loved Tom more than he loved her, or vice versa; she couldn’t really tell. It seemed that fate, as a trickster, had drawn them together. The thought had crossed her mind that she was being punished by God for ending a life, but she considered her situation. There had been no other choice.
She closed the book and drifted near sleep as Narcissus, followed by the faces of men without eyes, noses, and cheeks like the begging soldier on the street, visages horribly broken and torn, floated in the void.
Lazarus scratched at the door.
“Anne?” she called out while sitting in the dark room, but the house was silent. The fire lay black and cold. “Anne, did you let Lazarus out?”
A door creaked open from the attic bedroom above and steps flowed down the stairs, followed by a knock at Emma’s studio. Her maid opened the door in her nightgown. “Are you all right, ma’am?” Lazarus padded in past the housekeeper.
“Yes, just tired. Have you taken the dog out?”
“Hours ago, ma’am. Do you know what time it is?”
Emma shook her head as Lazarus nuzzled against her legs.
“It’s after midnight, ma’am.”
“My God, is it? I dropped off.” She brushed her fingers through the dog’s silky fur.
“Were you dreaming?”
“I was—of a man in a Greek temple.”
“A strange dream indeed, ma’am. Was the man your husband?”
The question pierced Emma. She pushed Lazarus gently away, rose from the chair, and replaced the book of engravings on the shelf.
“We should both be in bed. I’m sorry I awakened you.” Emma thought for a moment. “It must be near dawn in France.”
She turned to the window, catching her reflection, as Anne called Lazarus. For a moment, in the darkness, she saw her husband dressed in his white surgeon’s apron. In her vision, a young man, silent, purple in death, lay on a gurney as Tom lifted a bloodstained sheet, the wounds of the flesh raw and crimson before him.
Emma gasped and forced the image from her head.
CHAPTER 3
BOSTON
June 1917
Emma paced herself as she walked to the Fountain, flushed with the thrill of starting a new project, yet wary of the prospect. She also found it hard to keep her model out of her mind. But despite the tamping down of thoughts some might consider indecent, she determined to enjoy the late spring in all its resplendent glory. Heady June days, when Boston emerged from its winter depths after an often dull and bleak spring, were to be savored. She noted this truth as she strode down Arlington Street admiring the purple irises, white-flowering hostas, and yellow pansies that dotted the small gardens and window boxes of the residences.
Her step quickened as she approached the gallery. Newbury Street’s bustle charged her with energy, the shop doors open for business despite wartime rationing, men and women strolling down the street and taking in the sun, the smells of fresh-baked bread and grilled meats emanating from bakeries and cafés. In moments like these, in the majesty of a glorious day, the war seemed far away, almost romantic and magical, as if some distant Crusade was in progress. In many ways, the war was a crusade. Millions of men were caught up in the fervor—Tom being one of them—volunteering to make the world safe for Democracy. She passed a recruiting poster of a Yank, rifle in hand, pasted on a tobacco shop window and remembered the evening Tom had told her of his plans to serve. Her immediate reaction had been shock. His decision was a surprise, made without her consultation, but not unexpected, given his propensity to elevate his career over all else. That night, Emma asked herself the questions any woman would have, but only to herself—questions about his love and commitment to their relationship that she had revisited in her mind so often since his departure.
Only recently, months after Tom’s absence, had loneliness and a sometimes sad desperation filled her mind like a slow-acting toxin. She had thrown herself into her work, attempting a few pieces, including the faun, but nothing came out as it should. And as the days dragged by, there were times when she wondered if her husband missed her at all, or whether she might be able to live without him. Those extraordinary feelings had taken on sharper focus since meeting Linton.
But today, she thrust those troubles aside and told herself she was more fortunate than thousands of poor wives, who had little means of support and sustenance, now that their husbands had been ripped from the house. No, she would remain strong, not because she was putting on a brave face, but because Tom’s absence was of his making, and his decision had led to her current circumstances—a comforting notion when called upon. She could muster her own reserves of courage and creativity if she had to.
Perhaps The Narcissus could be her best project. Today, Linton would serve as her model. A thrill washed over her. She felt like working again, imbued with energy, and dared believe that she might achieve her place among the great sculptors of America.
Through the gallery windows, she saw him sitting in a chair near her Diana. Alex stood behind him, his hands draped over the artist’s shoulders. Her heart dropped, however, when she saw the other occupant of the gallery—Vreland. The critic brandished his arms as he talked, his mouth twisted in exaggeration, the signs of someone who felt his own importance.
She opened the door and stepped inside. Linton instinctively looked her way. Alex smiled, and Vreland gave a brief nod, the first to offer a greeting.
Emma returned the salutation.
Linton, smiling broadly, rose from his chair, forcing Alex to remove his hands. “Good afternoon, Emma.”
“Everyone seems in good spirits today,” she replied.
Alex pulled a chair from behind his desk so Emma could sit. “Yes,” he said, with an air of satisfaction. “Monsieur Vreland has agreed to do a column for his paper on none other than Mr. Linton Bower.”
Vreland nodded and said, “At Alex’s insistence, of course.” He laughed and his joviality boomed through the gallery.
“Really,” Emma said, barely masking her sarcasm, “I thought you despised his painting.”
“I’m not fond of it, but money talks. Alex has made Linton’s sales records available to me—quite confidentially, I assure you—and I was impressed with the attention being paid to this young painter. Of course, there is the other aspect of the story, in respect to Mr. Bower’s . . . condition. . . .”
“That’s despicable,” Emma said, irritation rising in her. “Using a man’s sales figures and blindness to hawk—”
“Emma, please,” Linton said, resuming his seat. “The matter is settled and the arrangement is satisfactory to me. Alex and I appreciate that Mr. Vreland has even considered writing a column on behalf of my art and the Fountain—in light of his recent review.”
“I’ve made it
quite clear to the artist, and to Alex, that I must love the work in order to compose a positive critical piece,” the critic responded. “However, attention must be paid to any artist who sells like this young man has sold since the opening.”
“I think the whole affair is insulting,” Emma said. “Linton, how could you agree to such pandering?”
Vreland sniffed. “Pandering? On the contrary, Mrs. Swan, this is business. Your attitude is exactly the reason why you will never achieve greatness as a sculptor. You, like most women, have no acumen for the business world.”
Emma pushed forward in her chair. “Sculptress. I’ve had quite enough of the insults. You can label my talent small and my opportunities limited, Vreland, but you cannot disparage the whole of womankind. Men like you have harnessed the yoke for too long.”
“Another suffrage argument I’m bored with,” Vreland responded. “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me, I have other business to attend to—let’s reconvene for our interview at the appointed time tomorrow.” The critic shook Alex’s and Linton’s hands and bowed slightly to Emma. “Good day, Mrs. Swan.” He stopped near Diana and ran a finger across its face. “Still unsold, I see.”
“Insufferable old fool,” Emma said as Vreland closed the door. “His head is as big as his girth, and he throws it around in any way he can.”
Alex bunched his fists in disgust. “My God, Emma, you are trying to ruin me, and doing a damn good job of it. Must you always antagonize him? You know he despises the work in my gallery. This is an opportunity to build good will for all my artists.”
“Don’t be an apologist for reprehensible behavior,” Emma said.
Linton lowered his head and sighed. “I understand your concern, but the man has power. He sways public opinion. If he writes a favorable story it will help us all.”
“I realize that, but we, as artists, are no longer controlled by our patrons. This is not the Renaissance. We have power, too . . . oh, what’s the use. I feel as if I’m talking to myself and always butting heads with men. And men have created most of the messes in the world, including this damnable war. We women should take the lessons of Lysistrata to heart.”
“I can vouch for your sentiments about men,” Alex said, “but the world will go on despite our protests.”
“I’m not going to let Vreland ruin the day,” Emma said. “Are you ready, Linton? I’m prepared to work.”
“What do you have planned?” Alex asked.
Emma rose from her chair and placed her hand on Linton’s arm. “Sketching and preliminary modeling for a new project.”
“I’m sorry I won’t be able to drop by, but I have work to do here in the gallery,” Alex said.
“Indeed.” Emma leaned toward Linton, who shifted in his chair. “Did my supplies arrive? I paid one of the local boys dearly to haul twenty pounds of clay, my sketch pads, and tools.”
“They’re safe and sound on my new table,” Linton said. “Well, new for me. The junk man told me Whistler had mixed his paints on its very boards. For provenance, he wanted an extra dollar.”
Alex kissed Emma on the cheek, and said with true affection, “Take good care of my young man.”
The sentiment unnerved Emma, considering what Louisa had revealed about the artist, but she shrugged off the gallery owner’s words as a gentle admonition, preferring to believe that what she felt for Linton was matched by the painter’s own ardor.
They emerged from the relative quiet of the gallery to the rush of Newbury Street. Men and women strolled on the crowded sidewalk, their sinuous movements creating intricate patterns of color and form. Surrounded by the blare of horns and the rolling thunder of carts, Emma led Linton across Berkeley Street and headed east into the South End.
As they walked in the shadow of the brownstones, Linton hooked his arm around her waist. The gesture felt comforting and familiar, his grasp automatic and without pretense. Strangers passing them on the street would have raised no eyebrows unless they’d read unlikely embarrassment upon Emma’s face. Of course, Tom had walked with her many times in a similar fashion on the Embankment. But this was different. Linton was a stranger who felt, suddenly, as close to her in body and spirit—if not more so—than her husband. It had been years since she had enjoyed such thrilling companionship, and if she had to put a date upon it, possibly since her first meetings with Kurt. The electric charge of sexual attraction threatened to overtake her.
Linton turned his head toward her as they walked, and a few of his wavy locks shivered in the wind against his forehead.
“How is Tom?” he asked.
His question startled her, as if he had read her thoughts. “Fine,” she replied, somewhat perplexed. She studied the handsome face, the pale fires that smoldered beneath the clouded irises.
“I wondered,” he said. “You never talk about your husband. I know he exists. Alex told me he’s serving as a doctor with the Red Cross in France.”
“I wondered why you asked.”
He scrunched up his nose. “Naturally curious. Are you getting along?”
“Rather personal questions, Linton. There are answers, but . . . answers I would share only with the closest of friends.” A warm breeze wafted over her.
Linton unhooked his arm and stopped in the dappled shade of an elm. “I would hope I’m your friend—especially if I’m going to model for you.”
“We know so little about each other.” Emma took his hand and pulled him gently toward her. His coal-dark hair, the fullness of his lips, the pearly luster of his skin, nearly made her swoon. A shiver arced through her back.
“Then, it’s time to learn,” he said and grasped her hand firmly in his and guided her down the street. As they walked farther east, the fashionable buildings of Back Bay became more ragtag and industrial.
Emma drew in a breath. “You are persistent and you require much of your friends. Let’s cross here.” They strode across the Columbus triangle where a cluster of brownstones rose around them. As they neared Linton’s studio, her body tightened. “I won’t bore you with details, but it’s fair to say my husband and I are in love.”
Linton shook his head as if to admonish her. “Just in love? Nothing more?”
“What’s wrong with being in love?”
“You’re too coy, Emma Lewis Swan.” Linton lifted a finger to his throat. “I can hear it in your voice and feel it in your soul. You may love, but your heart has taken refuge. It’s buried deep inside you, like a treasure chest waiting for the lock to be opened. Who has the key?”
Emma looked away, hiding the blush crossing her cheeks. Linton had gotten far too close too quickly. She regrouped for a moment, and then tugged on his arm, while changing the subject. “Are you certain you want to model for me?”
“Yes, of course. I have nothing to be ashamed of, and I’m not afraid of what you might ask of me.” The burgeoning smile, the strength and warmth of his face, aroused her. She resisted brushing her hand through his hair.
“All right then, let’s proceed,” Emma said. “But I don’t want to take you away from your work because of a selfish interest in my project.”
“Strangely enough, since I’ve moved into my new studio my output has been less than prolific. One could say I’m blocked. It’s as if my cramped little apartment fired my imagination.”
“I’m sure it’s only because you’re getting used to your new surroundings. Soon, your studio will be just like home.”
When they arrived, Linton guided Emma up the dimly lit stairs. At the landing, he withdrew the key and inserted it into the lock. “See how well I do, even when it’s gloomy?” He opened the studio door and gestured for Emma to enter.
She stepped inside, dazzled by the change from her first visit. Linton’s easel stood in front of the broad windows, facing the western light, the easel’s triangular form holding a broad canvas nailed to wooden stretchers. Two stone columns, on the north side of the studio, framed a pair of weather-beaten klismos chairs and a Grecian couch upholstered i
n faded blue silk. An array of patterned scarves in lacy Moorish design draped the couch and hung from the columns. A worn Oriental rug covered half the studio’s floor. A massive bookcase, mostly empty, concealed most of the south wall. Whistler’s table was centered in front of the case. Despite all its furnishings, the studio felt airy and immense, the cobwebs swept away, the sultry air of late spring pouring in through the open windows. The clay, the sketch pads, and Emma’s bag containing her sculpting tools and drawing instruments lay on the table.
“Linton, I’m amazed,” she said and grasped his hands in congratulations. “You must have worked for hours.”
“I owe it all to Alex,” he said. “He arranged for everything to be purchased and delivered, except the Whistler table. I acquired it on my own.”
“Well, it’s all quite lovely and I’m sure you’ll find the studio—”
“You’re wearing white, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Emma replied, puzzled by his question.
“I wasn’t sure whether it was ivory or white, but in this light I’m certain your dress is white. What else are you wearing?”
“Hardly a question you ask a lady,” she said, somewhat flattered by his interest.
“I’m sorry. I’m so rarely honored by the confidences of the opposite sex. I’d like to get a better sense of what fashionable women are wearing these days.”
Emma laughed and immediately thought better of it because Linton frowned. “Now, it’s I who must apologize. I didn’t mean to make fun. It’s just such an odd question. My husband would never ask such a thing, but then he can see. . . .”
“I can see and feel.”
Suddenly, the painter seemed younger and much more vulnerable than Emma had imagined. She cleared her throat. “Well, I don’t dress like Louisa—I’m certainly not that fashionable. I’m wearing a white summer dress that comes up to about mid-calf, white stockings, and black shoes, with a heel that’s taller than I usually choose for walking. Which begs the question, may I sit?”
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