Linton’s eyes, gauzy and pale, gazed past her into the ward.
“I’ve spent much of my life running away . . . from my past . . . from you. But I’ve stopped running. I returned to Boston because I had to. I’ve struggled with numerous difficulties over the past two years and I’ve faced them in my own way. The day Alex introduced us and we walked to your studio, I knew I could love you. I’m sorry there couldn’t have been more days, but my marriage, my work . . . you understand. I’ve been a coward many times in my life. You were right when you said, ‘another time, another place,’ at Frances’s party. In such a world our love would have been reserved for each other.”
“But if you and Tom aren’t . . . ? Don’t we have time?”
Emma leaned as close to him as she dared and lowered her voice, “I don’t think so. This is so difficult for me to say . . .”
Tears welling in his eyes, Linton turned away, anticipating the worst, and stared at the ceiling.
“I’m going to have a baby.”
Linton swung his head toward her, his face turning into the sun. He tried to lift his arm to cover his eyes but failed, and dropped it stiffly by his side.
“There’s no time to explain,” Emma pleaded. “Please believe me when I say that my affection and respect for you never faltered.”
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, choking back tears. “Your baby shouldn’t be exposed to sick people.” His voice sputtered and a cough wracked him so violently he shook in bed.
Emma grabbed a clean white cloth from the bedside table and dropped it over his mouth and nose. Soon, crimson streaked the fabric.
“I’m sorry,” Emma said. “You must hate me.”
Linton turned toward her again, the cloth falling from his face, tears streaking his cheeks. “I could never hate you, and I’ll never stop loving you. Your child will be my child as well. . . .” He tried to lift himself up on his elbows, but couldn’t. Groaning, he fell back on the pillow.
He began again after catching his breath. “I’m not afraid of dying, Emma. I’m afraid of never seeing the world again, of leaving behind all this beauty. I’ll never be able to touch your child—our child—or be there when it takes its first step. I’ll never be able to walk with you through a meadow, smell a rose, feel the warmth of the sun, know the turn of the seasons, or watch the bright day fade into night. I’ll never have that again.”
She wept.
“You will see beauty again, wherever you may be,” she said after composing herself. She stood, leaned over the bed, and kissed him lightly on the forehead through her mask, his love melting any fear of danger. For once, she wasn’t afraid to show her affection.
Linton put his arms around her neck and pulled her gently toward him.
She felt his breath in her hair, and stayed in his embrace, enraptured, until a hand tapped her shoulder. She looked back to see the ward nurse.
“That isn’t wise,” the woman said. “Please . . . move away, he’s contagious.”
Emma disengaged herself from Linton’s arms. “You’re right, but I would have held him just the same.”
“You must think of your own health—not just the patient’s,” the nurse said.
“You must go,” Linton said. “I’m tired and they need to take care of me.”
“You can visit again, but you must obey the rules or you’ll be removed,” the nurse told her.
“Tomorrow.” Emma stood in the sun and blew him a kiss.
He pursed his lips in a kiss.
The nurse escorted her to the door. “Please observe our rules, Mrs. Swan,” the woman said in a reproachful tone. “I’m sorry to be so strict, but these patients are seriously ill. We don’t want more deaths.”
Emma nodded, slipped off the mask, gloves, and gown, and handed them to the nurse. She was glad to be out of the ward, away from the sickness and the painful emotions Linton stirred within her, feelings that would require the balm of time to heal. She chided herself for not having the nerve to tell him who had fathered her child, but that story would have to wait until he recovered.
On her way out, Emma spotted Alex at the bottom of the hospital steps. He leaped up them, stopping near her, a frantic grimace on his lips. “A friend told me Linton is here.”
“He has pneumonia,” Emma said. “You might not be able to see him.”
“Oh, God.” Alex drew in a sharp breath and closed his eyes, but only a moment passed before he said good-bye and rushed to the hospital doors.
* * *
From her chair near the sitting room fireplace, Emma watched the snow fall in soft, lazy circles. Winter had arrived full blown in her dark world. The courtyard worktable, nearly obscured by the drifting flakes, was covered in a layer of glistening white. Lazarus stretched on his back in front of her, his limbs sprawled akimbo.
Anne brought a steaming pot of tea and placed it on the table next to her. “I’ll be going to bed now. Is there anything else you need?”
Emma shook her head and sniffled.
“Drink your tea. It will make your head feel better.”
“It’s just a cold,” Emma said, hoping her self-diagnosis was correct. She had stayed away from the hospital for three days because of her illness, and called the nurses’ station to relay her get-well messages to Linton.
Emma sipped her tea and opened her diary. The fireplace crackled and a damp log hissed and popped on the hearth. Startled, she shifted in her chair. The reports reminded her of rifle fire at the Front and the fireworks the night Monsieur Thibault committed suicide. She took a deep breath while holding the warm cup in her hands. After a time, she lifted her pen.
Entry: 14th February, 1919
Today is Valentine’s Day and here I sit, like a lump, on the evening of love. If a Gypsy had foretold my fortune for this day, my laughter would have echoed down Charles Street. I’ve rather made a mess of life and prospects don’t seem to be getting better. Who knows, soon I may be a single mother in Boston—not unlike the woman I met in Saint-Nazaire who lost her husband in the war, or Madame Bouchard—if Tom does return to Boston. When my baby is born I will exorcise many memories. Despite my demons, I know my love for this child will extend beyond my own concerns.
Neither Tom nor Madame Bouchard have written, telephoned, or sent telegrams. Madame Bouchard would be looking for money. I haven’t the faintest idea what Tom’s been up to. Sometimes I feel him in the house, looking into the studio, shaving in the bathroom, sitting in the courtyard, and I do miss him. He was always strong in ways I wasn’t. It’s not that I pine for him; however, I see his picture on the mantel and I realize we’re still married despite our trials. Honestly, Tom is an anchor for me—not a man who thrilled me like Kurt with his sense of the forbidden, or like Linton with his unbridled romance. Tom is kind and strong and always present like a faithful friend. But where was the spark, the fire, in that friendship? I ask myself that question too often. Yet, after he left for France, without him for an anchor, I drifted.
I worry so about Linton. When he recovers, we must settle into our roles as friends. I don’t know if that will be possible for either of us. Sometimes separation is the only option when love causes so much pain. It will take time for us to adjust. There’s so much to be done with the baby and Tom I can’t think about it now. The thoughts of a divorce and settlements, relocation, the disapproving looks and the telling “I knew you’d disappoint me” from my mother sends me into spasms of anxiety. Many times, like this evening in front of the fire, I wish my life could have been different. That’s when I yearn for a world with Linton that I know is just a dream.
I’ve received no word from Louisa about Tom’s letters. Perhaps she is concocting the perfect alibi to prove her innocence.
I did get a letter from John Harvey, telling me he might have a staff opening in London for Virginie. I wonder if she will take my advice and follow a lead I’m sure would benefit her career. A note, I’m certain, is already on its way from Paris to me, and knowing Virginie,
she will accept the position, but protest all the way to London.
I have written enough for one evening. There’s a full lover’s moon tonight, but the snow continues to fall and obscure its cold beauty. Tomorrow promises to be windy and cold. This lump must lift herself from her chair, disturb Lazarus, tend the fire, and crawl into bed—alone, but warm, this Valentine’s night.
The knock on the door, the bustle on the stairs and downstairs hall was followed by a deathly silence. Her bedroom clock ticked forlornly as she strained to see its face, the dial partially obscured in shadow. It was a few minutes after two in the morning. She sat up in bed, uncertain, in the haze of sleep, of the sounds below. Soon, hurried steps pattered up toward her bedroom.
Anne called from the hall. “Ma’am . . . Emma . . . ?”
Heart pounding, she jumped from her bed, and opened the door.
Anne stood trembling, a single candle illuminating her wan face. “A man from the hospital is downstairs. . . .”
“Yes?” Emma asked, fearing the worst.
“Mr. Bower died just before midnight.”
Emma reached for the door but instead stumbled backward.
Anne captured her in her arms and silently guided her to bed.
“I am so sorry, ma’am,” Anne whispered as they sat, holding hands.
Emma could only look at the young woman beside her and think about a future swallowed by death, before she burst into sobs that clawed at her throat.
Entry: 18th February, 1919
I’m not much in the mood to write. We buried Linton this morning. When I say we—I mean, Alex, Anne, myself, and the funeral staff. We were the only people who bothered to attend his burial in Mt. Auburn. I arranged and paid for it, although Alex offered to help. Linton had no living relatives as far as Alex and I could tell. So, we buried him in a lovely plot, under large trees on a snowy hilltop. Alex said a few words and I attempted to, but I couldn’t keep my composure. I wanted the whole affair to be over as quickly as possible, and I think Alex did as well. Poor man, I believe he loved Linton as much as I did, if not more.
From there, Alex drove Anne and me to Linton’s apartment in the West End. Fortunately, the second-floor landlord was a bit more obliging than last time, considering the money I had paid him previously. He hadn’t touched the apartment, but was glad to be rid of Linton’s belongings. The three of us, dressed in masks and gloves, disposed of Linton’s clothes and gathered the rest of what he owned, which was insignificant except for three small paintings, which were buried under the soiled garments. As Anne and Alex got into the car, I searched the apartment one final time, looking for any correspondence or personal items that might have escaped our eyes. I found nothing. We brought the paintings back to the house. Alex told me to keep the artwork—which I had hoped to keep anyway—as a remembrance of Linton’s life.
Anne prepared tea for us and Alex left early that afternoon. Once again, I was left with Anne, and my thoughts, and the reminder of Linton as I looked at the paintings stacked against my studio wall. This evening, after dinner, I will collapse into bed. My body feels empty, as if a light has been extinguished in my soul.
CHAPTER 13
BOSTON
May 1919
The driver offered the stability of his extended arm to Emma as she arrived at Frances Livingston’s home. Disembarking from the carriage, she leaned on him just as she had when the cab arrived to collect her. She was obviously pregnant to any observer now, her belly distended underneath her dress.
She walked up the steps, conscious of the extra weight she carried. Under the warm play of sunlight, Frances’s stately home looked as resplendent as Emma had ever seen it. The spring flowers were in bloom, the trees in fresh green leaf. She never tired of Boston’s May tulips, their radiant beauty, and today was no exception. The east garden, extending to the high stone fence bordering the property, burst with vibrant hues of maroon, yellow, purple, and white, those wide rows interspersed with trimmed evergreens and leafy bushes. The sky was like blue silk and the warm air touched her body in a soft and thrilling way. Emma shed her light jacket and reveled in the sunshine. The regenerated earth and the pleasant sun filled her with a sense of wonder and life she hadn’t felt in months. Her memory of the war and Linton hadn’t faded, but the beauty of the day did much to lessen the sting.
“I’m so glad you and Louisa are friends again,” Frances said as she directed Emma to the garden table, which was set for three. “The whole business between you seemed so nasty. I was very concerned.”
Emma nodded as she sat. “Thank you. The affair was disagreeable, and it all came down to one man who forged Louisa’s handwriting . . . but she can tell you about that.”
“But I’m dying to know who perpetrated such a foul deed,” Frances said. “I can tell you, my dear, there is nothing nearer and dearer to my heart than protecting those in our circle.”
“Frances, really, you embarrass me sometimes. I’m hardly in your ‘circle.’ I have neither the wealth, the social status, nor—”
“Nonsense. Never underestimate yourself. Think what you have done. Most of the women in the world will never achieve what you have. Money is just part of our circle. I shudder to think what life would have been like if Mr. Livingston had not admired your work before he died.” She paused to pick up her wineglass. “Oh, I wish you could partake. You could join me in a toast to your success and your new baby. Tom must be so proud . . . when is he coming home?”
“Yes, we’re both immensely proud,” Emma said, skirting the truth. “The baby is due in four months. I’m not sure Tom will be home by then. He’s still involved with the French hospital.”
“Well, he needs to come home to Boston and be a proper father. Let the hospital rot.”
She was about to reply when Louisa appeared at the garden doors. She was attired in a white unbuttoned cape-coat, a pale blue dress with matching brimmed hat, her lean figure accented by a single strand of ivory pearls that fell to her waist. As always, she looked the epitome of fashion.
“Good afternoon,” Louisa said and then kissed them both on the cheek. “I’m sorry I’m late but I was detained at the dressmaker’s.” She took her seat next to Frances.
“Another fortune spent on clothes, my dear?” Frances asked.
Emma laughed. “But for a good cause.”
“Certainly,” Louisa said. “There’s no better cause than a single woman who needs a husband.”
“I’m sure a proposal will come along any day now,” Frances said.
“You’re always so positive about my matrimonial chances, Frances. I wish I could be so certain.” Louisa doffed her cape and asked Emma, “How is the baby?”
“I’m long over morning sickness and the doctor says it’s coming along fine. I think it must be a boy—the way he kicks.”
“Are you hoping for a boy or a girl?” Frances asked.
“A boy,” Emma said without hesitation.
“Tom must be happy,” Louisa said.
Emma nodded, implicating her husband again in the fabrication.
“Yes, I’m sure he is, but I do want to hear the story about the letters,” Frances said to Louisa. “You’ve withheld it from me for so long, I’m nearly ready to burst.”
“The whole episode is so dreary,” Louisa said. “I’m sure Emma would like us to talk about more uplifting subjects.”
“No, it’s fine,” Emma said. “One more time in the telling, then I’m sure we can leave the subject behind, never to be mentioned again.”
“All right, once more for you, Frances,” Louisa said. The sun glanced off the brim of her hat as she turned. “Do you remember a man—I believe his name is Everett as near as I can recall—a very disagreeable fellow who attended your parties and attempted to ensconce himself in your circle?”
“Oh, yes,” Frances replied. “Mr. Everett, a confidant of Vreland. He went off to war, I believe . . . I haven’t seen or heard of him since.”
“I don’t believe he w
ent off to anything as noble as war,” Louisa said. “I’m certain he’s in prison.”
Frances gasped. “Prison?”
“He’s a forger,” Louisa said, “the primary reason he remained a protégé of Vreland’s. What better way to access art than through a critic? He copied the artists’ techniques, created fakes, and then sold them as if he’d acquired them as originals.”
“An incendiary man,” Emma said. “I had my run-ins with him. At my opening at the Fountain, he termed Linton Bower’s work ‘rubbish’ and then declared I had ‘no place in the male world of sculpture.’” She preferred not to mention that the man had later congratulated her at Frances’s party on the sale of Diana—the sole reason for the purchase, he theorized, being the scandalous rumors surrounding her and Linton.
“Cretin,” Frances huffed. “A certified brute with no morals or breeding.”
“I’m certain Mr. Everett obtained a thank-you note or a letter I’d sent to Alex, studied my handwriting, and forged a series of letters to Tom.” Louisa paused and sipped her wine. “I needn’t go into details—it was a private matter between Emma, Tom, and . . . another party.”
“We all understand your meaning, my dear,” Frances said. “Mr. Everett’s actions were despicable on all counts.”
“When Tom got the first letter, he assumed I’d written it, and so did Emma when she saw it. Thus, the trap was set.”
“But why would Mr. Everett do such a thing—for what purpose?” Frances asked.
“To ruin my reputation and marriage by scandal, and destroy my chance of making a living as a sculptress,” Emma replied. “Perhaps he fixated on me because I’m not primarily a painter; it’s difficult to forge a sculpture. He’s a childish, misogynistic crook who caused more trouble than he’ll ever know. By all accounts he’s an intelligent but destructively evil man who can’t stand to see women succeed.”
“And, of course,” Louisa said, “the whole conceit would have collapsed if Tom had written back to me. But Tom, being the gentleman he is, banished such crass thoughts from his mind and never gave them a second thought. Of course, even if Tom had responded to me, the damage would already have been done. The seed of doubt would have been planted. Nefarious. . . isn’t that right, Emma?”
The Sculptress Page 37
