She remembered their walk in the Luxembourg Gardens and how brave the officer had been at the Christmas party when Monsieur Thibault committed suicide. That night, he had offered to stay with her and she had refused. It would have been easy, even mystical, to have slept with him that Christmas Eve, as she watched the moon and the stars slip by her window, but she was too sad, and he too much of a gentleman to take advantage of her vulnerability.
I can stay with you. She remembered his words and then she sobbed—not for herself, but for all the faceless men and women and defenseless creatures of the world who died alone.
“I do this for you.” She reached into her coat pocket and withdrew the portrait. “You wanted an Emma Lewis Swan and you shall have it for eternity.” She tore the drawing into tiny pieces, dropping them like snowflakes upon the grave, looking back after she walked away. The pieces were already turning black on the moist earth.
Richard lit another cigarette when she arrived at the ambulance.
“Take me to the hospital,” she told him. “I have a few words to say to my husband.”
He turned the vehicle toward Toul. As they departed, the graves swept past Emma and, in the far corner, she saw the slender tree and imagined Lieutenant Stoneman next to it, waving to her, as alive as he had been on the Atlantic crossing.
As the graves receded, Emma knew this was the last time she would ever visit the officer. And in that instant, a thrill washed over her body and she turned in her seat to see a doughboy standing by the tree, his right hand covering his mouth as if to blow a kiss.
* * *
“I have the feeling you don’t believe me,” Emma said. “I only drew the portrait as a favor for him.” She struggled to control the emotions surging through her, and sat stiffly in the chair across from Tom, her fists clenched in her lap.
Tom brushed his hand through his unkempt hair. Lately, he always looked as if he had just gotten up. If she was an emotional wreck, Tom was her equivalent on the physical spectrum.
His hospital office was dingy and crowded, and pity filled her briefly for all he had been through. However, what she really wanted was to be on her way back to Paris with Richard. Lieutenant Stoneman’s death angered her, and her husband’s implied accusation of a betrayal disturbed her—because of its inaccuracy, and because of its possibility.
Tom was about to answer Emma when Claude stuck his head round the edge of the door.
“Bonjour, Madame Swan,” he said with genuine joy. He lifted Emma’s hand and kissed it. “Ça va?”
“Comme si, comme ça,” Emma replied. Although she liked the French doctor, she wished he had come at another time for she had more important issues to discuss than social pleasantries.
“It’s been so long,” Claude said. “Too long a time.” He cocked his head toward Tom.
Tom returned the look with a scowl.
“A patient with an urgent request . . . needs to see you,” Claude continued.
“Is it an emergency?” Tom asked, leaning forward in his chair, his annoyance diminishing with Claude’s request.
“ No. ”
“Well then, please do me a favor and take over.”
“The patient is not a man,” Claude said.
Emma caught the sparkle in the French doctor’s eyes.
“I see,” Tom said stiffly. “Tell her I’ll be with her shortly.”
“Pardon, Madame Swan, women can be demanding,” Claude said.
“I’ve been told,” Emma said, the hairs on the nape of her neck rising.
“Please, Claude, Emma and I really need this time together.”
“Of course.” He ducked out of sight as quickly as he had come in.
Tom looked resigned, creases etching his face. “I do believe you drew the portrait out of kindness . . .” His words trailed off, as if the certainty of his argument eluded him.
“I’ve been faithful,” Emma said.
“How many times must I repeat . . .” A deep sadness welled in his eyes. “Oh, I’ve been such a fool. I was overtaken by the urge to be the good doctor, and in my obsession I’ve ruined our lives. I was so happy you were coming to France—to make a difference. Then Louisa’s letters began, along with relentless death.”
She reached for him. He drew back a little, not out of refusal, she considered, but from contrition. Perhaps there was hope after all. “What’s been taken can be replaced; what’s been broken can be repaired. I haven’t been a saint, Tom—I’ve been as standoffish as you. Of course, if Louisa hadn’t written those letters—her friendship, after you left, was relentlessly Lucrezia Borgia. She was a beast to Anne. I should never have underestimated her capacity for duplicity.”
“Such a fool . . . such a fool. . . .” He rubbed his forehead and then placed his hands on the desk. “It was so odd, after the letters arrived, how my life changed . . . you became this gray, faceless thing . . . it was as if you didn’t exist, as if our marriage was part of a different universe in a lost time. I got carried away with my work here. France was all that mattered. I belonged here and you weren’t part of that arrangement. I couldn’t answer Louisa. I never wrote back. . . .”
“You never responded?” Emma asked with astonishment.
“Never. I was too concerned she would take my inquiries the wrong way. I didn’t want to exacerbate the situation, and, frankly, I didn’t have the time. After a few months, the letters stopped. I assumed my feelings toward her had been made quite clear. Louisa was always my friend and I will be forever grateful for our introduction, but never beyond that. I was unaware of the depth of her feeling, or her jealousy. By the time her letters ended, the damage had been done.”
Emma got up and walked behind him. She looked through the grimy window into the deep shadows that lined the street. The sun would be setting soon. She was in Toul for another night.
She placed her hands on Tom’s shoulders and gently rubbed his neck, and, for a moment, she rested her chin on the top of his head. His warmth, his scent, drifted up to her and the smell reminded her of the intimate moments they had spent together. “Do you think we can put all this behind us?” she asked and draped her arms around his neck.
He clasped her hands in his and squeezed.
Emma warmed to his touch, but the feeling was like that of an old friend rather than a lover. Despite that, the loneliness that had been so much a part of her life lifted slightly.
“I’m afraid it’s too late,” Tom answered.
She withdrew from his grasp and returned to her chair. “Why?” Her voice quivered as she struggled to maintain her composure. “Why is it too late?”
“The trust between us . . . it’s gone.”
She stared at him, the melancholy sadness she had seen so often of late reappearing in his eyes.
“Doctor,” Claude’s voice called from down the hall, “your patient is hysterical.”
“I must go,” Tom said. “I’ll be on duty tonight and, most likely, getting home late. Richard will take you to the cottage.”
“I must return to Paris tomorrow.”
“I know. I promise I’ll be there for a visit soon. Too much work gets on one’s nerves.” He rose, leaned across the table, and kissed her cheek.
“I’ll walk to the cottage,” Emma said. “I don’t want to bother Richard.”
Tom sank into his chair and picked up a folder on his desk.
Emma’s heels clicked on the tile as she walked down the stark, white hall, once again amplifying the loneliness that settled inside her. As she descended the steps to the lobby, she spotted Claude hunched over a chair where soldiers normally sat. However, instead of a man, a darkly beautiful woman in a cream-colored overcoat sat weeping into her cupped hands. As Emma approached, the woman looked up and the color drained from her face. She lowered her hands and stared at Emma with tear-stained eyes.
Claude bowed slightly and said, “Bonsoir, Madame.”
The woman said nothing, but her eyes followed Emma.
She walked pa
st the nurse’s station, opened the door, and nearly stumbled over Richard, who sat on the steps smoking a cigarette. He said hello and smiled rather sardonically.
Emma swept past him into the street, where the dark had already invaded the shop doors and alleyways in the faltering light. She veered to the right, looking ahead, searching for the lane that led to Tom’s cottage, blocking from her mind the face of the woman who so urgently needed him.
* * *
The memory of their conversation about trust and marriage burst as Emma searched the cleft in the bookcase where Tom had concealed the drawing of Lieutenant Stoneman. She pulled a few volumes from the case and several letters dropped to the floor. The light from the fireplace rose and fell with the burning logs; however, Emma could make out the handwriting. They were indeed from Louisa Markham. These, unlike the letter she found tucked under the mattress, were in envelopes. Oddly, there was no return address on them, only a flowing LM in script in the upper left-hand corner. The first letter was dated August of 1917. They continued, broken by the passing of months, until they ended in the following spring.
She lit an oil lamp and settled on the bed, reading the letters carefully, dissecting each word for hidden meaning. Most of them were pleasantly pedestrian and made little reference to Linton or Emma directly, but the underlying meaning was apparent—I, Louisa Markham, am good and noble, while your wife, Emma Lewis Swan, is persona non grata to the whole of Boston society because of her affair of the heart.
The fire had waned when Emma heard the cottage door open. She squirmed under the covers, knowing she had fallen asleep with the letters draped across the bed. One of them fluttered to the floor.
“I see you’ve found them,” Tom said.
Emma nodded, unsure what to say.
Tom shook his head. “Now you understand what I mean about trust?”
She gathered the letters and placed them on the nightstand. She thought of lifting her arms toward him, using affection as reconciliation, but then dismissed the idea. Now was not the time. Tom was right—she had taken advantage of his trust.
He made no movement toward her and instead undressed slowly in the pale light. He removed his shirt and walked to the fireplace where he stirred the embers and added another log to the fire. Soon, the room was filled with flickering warmth.
He stood by the bed, so Emma could see him fully. He unbuttoned his trousers and pushed them to the floor. He swayed a bit and then dropped his underwear as well.
Emma gasped.
The shrapnel wound had left a red gash across his left leg and stomach. All that remained below the brown thatch of pubic hair was the dark stub of a penis. He had been castrated as well.
“Now, you know,” he said wearily and crawled into bed. “I’m no longer a man.”
Emma moaned, then touched his hand. “Claude warned me, but I never knew. Why didn’t you tell me?”
He stared at the ceiling and said, “Timing, my love. When you lose your manhood, it’s a bit of a shock, to say the least. It’s taken months for me to even look at myself in the mirror. Claude’s been a wonderful doctor.”
Emma clutched the sheet and an unexpected wave of anger washed over her. “You should have told me. I had a right to know. I could have helped.”
Tom turned to her, took her hands, and pressed them against his chest. “What could you do? Once the surgery was over, only I could lift myself from the pain, with Claude’s help. I didn’t want anyone else to know about the extent of my injuries. I thought it didn’t matter to you because of the letters. That’s why I wanted you to go back to Paris and your work. I’m back to normal now—as normal as I can be—and when the war is over, as it eventually will be . . .”
Emma, in the flickering light, detected the sorrow building in his eyes. “Yes?”
“We can never have our own children.” A tear rolled down his cheek and onto the pillow.
A chilly sadness swallowed her. She withdrew from his grasp and turned away.
“I understand how you must feel,” he said. “You have every right to be angry.”
“Word got out in Boston that you were injured. I don’t know how they came to find out.”
“In the hospital . . . there was a soldier from Boston. We talked about the shelling, and I suppose he could tell from my wounds what was going on. He must have written home or told others. Who told you?”
“Linton . . . and Anne. They hinted . . . even Vreland knew, of all people, that something deeper was going on with you. Is there?”
He didn’t answer, only sobbed as Emma stared at the dark wall across the room, her body wracked from the emotions that filled her: anger, sadness, confusion. What was to become of their life together? The fact that she could not have a child with Tom made her feel as if no part of her would go forward in time. Only blackness lay ahead.
* * *
An infant floated through the cottage shadows, a faceless thing with no mouth and eyes. It soared like a ghost toward Emma while she balanced on the edge of a scream. She covered her mouth with her hands and the baby disappeared. In its place, the disfigured faces of Private Darser, Monsieur Thibault, and other soldiers hung in the air above her, speaking nightmarish gibberish until they faded as well. As she tried again to lose herself to sleep, the sad injury to her now impotent husband swirled through her mind. Her life had become an endurance test. She was no closer to banishing the memory of the infant than when she arrived in France. What hope do I have? She was uncertain of the answer. One overarching thought came into her head:
I would do anything to bring back the child I conceived.
CHAPTER 9
PARIS
November 1918
“The war is ending,” Virginie said. “I know it in my heart.”
“I hope you have firm evidence for your statement—not a whim based on your weather forecasting abilities,” Emma countered. Their morning camaraderie was pleasant, made all the more so by sharing tea and biscuits at the large casting room table. She was happy to see Virginie, Hassan, and Madame Clement again after her time in Toul. A solid overcast darkened the room, but Emma’s spirits remained cheerful despite the somber day.
“My friends tell me, the Americans are making great strides along the Meuse,” Virginie continued. “The Boche are melting like butter in the summer sun. The war may end in a matter of days.”
“We’ve gone through this before and have always been disappointed,” Emma said.
Hassan and Madame Clement nodded, although Emma wasn’t sure if they were agreeing with her viewpoint or simply being polite.
“Tout va mal.” Madame Clement smiled while she held up the teapot.
“Yes, but things could be worse,” Emma said. “We’re alive and we have our families and friends.”
“Worse . . . ? Yes, that reminds me,” Virginie said. “A telegram arrived from John Harvey. He is visiting Paris again—much too soon as far as I’m concerned.”
“On what business?” Emma asked. “Did he say?”
“No. Only that he will be here. He is of no concern to me.”
“Virginie, you should really bury the hatchet with John. We say that in America. Do you know the expression?”
“Yes, and I would be happy to bury the hatchet—in his head.”
Emma and Virginie laughed. Hassan and Madame Clement looked at each other and then joined in because of the contagious mood.
Emma suppressed a final chuckle and said, “You should be kind to John. He’s a great resource, and could be a wonderful reference for us all, regardless of where we end up.”
“What do you mean?” Madame Clement asked.
Emma thought for a moment and said, “Well, Virginie might aid John with research in England. You and Hassan might join him.”
“Jamais,” Madame Clement and Virginie said in unison. They all laughed again, but the levity was broken by Madame Clement nodding at Virginie.
“Maintenant?” Virginie asked.
“Oui,” Madame
Clement answered.
“There is one thing,” Virginie said. “Since you left . . .”
Emma looked at her assistant, waiting for the news.
“. . . Madame Clement has asked me to tell you—she’s seen Private Darser on rue Monge. He pretends not to see her, but he appears to be watching us.”
Emma remembered the soldier she’d seen briefly as she and Richard were leaving for Toul, whom she’d suspected might be Private Darser.
“Is she certain?” Emma asked.
Virginie nodded and drank her tea.
“Why would he be spying on us?”
“There was bitterness between you,” Virginie said. “I remember—when he arrived for the final fitting.”
Virginie was correct about the tense meeting with the soldier: the accusation Emma levied that he had abandoned her years ago; his blithe denial.
“Perhaps I’ll take a walk at lunch,” Emma said.
Madame Clement shook her head. “Non,” she objected, “dans la nuit.”
“He walks at night,” Virginie said.
Emma put her teacup on the table. “Have you been talking to Richard?”
“Madame?” Virginie looked down, as a blush spread across her half-concealed face.
“Richard used the same words when he drove me to Toul. He was speaking of another business entirely.”
“Richard and I are friends,” Virginie said, “but, no, we have not spoken of Private Darser—”
“Or of anyone else?” Emma asked.
“Non, Madame,” Virginie said emphatically. “I never speak of our patients. Private Darser walks in the dark because he has something to hide.”
A shiver skittered over her. Something to hide? Some injured soldiers work at night because their faces are less noticeable. Perhaps he’s such a soldier—not as brusque or confident as he seems. All swagger, but little else. He’s so full of himself. But then another thought struck her. What about Tom? What other secrets has he hidden from me? Why does he “walk at night”?
The Sculptress Page 31
