“Positively diabolical,” Frances said before Emma could answer.
Emma looked toward the garden and the brilliant tulips, placed her hands on her rounded belly, and waited for the maid to serve. After a luncheon plate was placed in front of her, Emma, knowing that Tom had indeed given the letters more than a second thought, said, “Damage occurs in layers. A shell explodes and a man is disfigured. My work in France masked the painful physical injuries of the war, but could do little to soothe emotions, and, as I’ve come to find out, in life other dangers exist besides shells and bullets. A simple letter can injure with the same explosive force, the physical and emotional wounds lingering much longer than the words.”
Louisa lowered her head so the brim of her hat covered her eyes.
“You mustn’t fuss, my dear, not in your condition,” Frances said. “You need to throw yourself back into your work—something less challenging than sculpting, of course—drawing, or painting, perhaps. A diversion—good, solid work—that’s what you need.”
Emma smiled and took a bite of her fish. She stared at the garden’s brilliant colors, thinking how wonderful it would be to capture its hues in sculpture, just as Linton did in his painting. “As always, Frances, you have the best interests of your friends at heart. Work may be just what I need.”
* * *
A few days later the sun retreated, leaving the city cool and humid under a thick layer of clouds. Emma drew in her studio—she had started several new sketches of Narcissus Rising, her planned new work, but the drawings left her as cold and dissatisfied as the weather. She crumpled the papers and threw them on the floor by her desk. Lazarus noted her displeasure and sniffed the detritus that collected around his front paws.
She would hardly have given the knock downstairs a second thought had it not been for Lazarus’s reaction. His ears pointed straight up and a sudden fire, a dog’s expression of joy, coursed through his eyes. Then, he sprang up on all fours, pranced in a circle, and barked wildly at her closed studio door.
“What’s gotten into you?” Emma asked. He responded by nipping playfully at her hand. She opened the door and Lazarus, his tail wagging furiously, raced down the stairs.
“Anne?” Emma called out.
An audible gasp rose from the hall below.
“Anne!”
When her housekeeper didn’t respond, Emma walked downstairs as quickly as she could, clutching the railing along the way. At the bottom she turned and saw Tom. Her housekeeper was plastered against the door as if confronted by a ghost. A woman stood behind him.
Lazarus jumped on his master and barked with joy.
Tom kneeled to pet the wriggling dog and smiled at Emma, a gesture that faded as soon as he recognized the change that had occurred in her body since they’d last met.
“Lazarus, come into the kitchen,” Anne said. She grabbed the dog by the collar and tugged.
Tom rose and kissed Anne on the cheek. “Thank you for taking care of him, the house, and . . . my wife.”
“It’s so good to see you again, sir,” Anne said. “It’s been so long.”
“Yes, it has. Anne, I’d like you to meet Madame Bouchard and her son, Charles.”
The woman stepped from behind Tom and Emma immediately recognized the brooding features of the French woman, who stood with a young boy cradled against her shoulder. Madame Bouchard looked at Emma in much the same manner as Tom and then surveyed the surroundings.
“May we come in?” Tom asked as he lifted the boy from Madame Bouchard.
“Come now, Lazarus, let’s go for a treat,” Anne said and closed the door while holding onto the dog. She tugged him toward the kitchen as Lazarus dug his claws into the floor.
Emma pointed to the sitting room, acutely aware of the trappings of their home. Tom’s picture still looked out from its place on the fireplace mantel. Emma sat in her favorite chair opposite the hearth while Tom and Madame Bouchard took seats on either side. Emma turned on a lamp to chase away the afternoon gloom.
Tom jostled the child when he sat and the boy uttered a short cry.
“You must be gentle with your son,” Madame Bouchard said. She smoothed the wrinkles on her dress with her strong fingers. “He, like the rest of us, is tired from the trip.”
“I’m not used to handling little ones anymore,” Tom said. “I participated in very few deliveries in Toul. Wounded men and the dying—those were the players on my stage.”
Emma stared at them, uncertain what to say. Madame Bouchard wore a navy dress that drained the color from her face. The woman was agitated, unsure what to do with her hands, her gaze flitting around the room. Tom looked as if he had gained a little weight—he was always too thin—and had shaved off his mustache, giving him a younger appearance. The new look unsettled Emma because now he reminded her again of Kurt when they had met in Vermont.
“You have something to tell us,” Madame Bouchard said through an ironic smile.
“I’ll explain my pregnancy to Tom—if that’s what you mean.”
Madame Bouchard huffed and turned her attention to the objects in the room.
“We won’t keep you long,” Tom said, “but I felt we needed to talk.”
Madame Bouchard nodded reluctantly.
“We’ve come to a decision,” Tom continued. “Charles and I are staying in Boston. Madame Bouchard has decided to remain in France with her other son.”
The woman smiled somewhat haughtily, and said, “You must have known this would come to pass. Your husband would not desert you . . . I told you so in Paris. It is hard to raise children without a father. But Thomas is kind and I know he will help with our provisions. My other son is French through and through—and I have become so. He needs to know the ways of our country. I only came to provide milk and make sure that Charles would find a good home.”
“She is returning to France in a few days. She has no desire to stay, or to bring her other son to live here.”
“Where will you live?” Emma asked Tom.
“I haven’t figured that out yet. We’re staying at a hotel at the moment. I hoped I could talk to you about an arrangement.” His blue eyes deepened in intensity. “I see circumstances have changed on both our parts.”
“She has gotten even with you,” Madame Bouchard said.
The hackles rose on Emma’s neck. “My baby was not a question of getting even. My pregnancy was necessary—I need not explain it to you. Not even Tom knows my reason.”
“I must say it’s a bit of a shock,” he said and patted the boy in his arms. “But then, who am I to talk about shocks?”
“Could we talk in the courtyard?” Emma asked him.
He rose with the boy and Emma opened the French doors.
“Don’t be long, Thomas,” Madame Bouchard said. “Charles needs to be fed soon.”
Tom gave an approving look and stepped past the doors.
Emma looked at the bricks, as the space, damp and mossy, closed around her. The tender, green fir shoots were outlined against the walls. While she was gone, an ivy had taken root in one corner; now, its feelers, cross-hatched by variegated leaves, streamed up the stones and reminded her of the courtyard in Paris.
“She’s a most disagreeable woman,” Emma said after closing the doors.
“Beautiful, but disagreeable.”
“She is that. . . .”
“I was very needy at the time, Emma, and I hope that’s something you can understand. Solace for one evening was all I sought and our relationship grew from there. To be honest with you, I’m happy I have a son since I won’t be able to have a child again.” He looked down at Charles, whose head and dark locks were partially covered by a blanket.
Emma pulled back the cover and looked at the smooth, young face. The boy was dozing, and quite handsome in his slumber. “He’s beautiful as well. He has your features, but her hair and eyes,” she said stroking the abundant black hair covering the boy’s head. The child’s eyes fluttered, revealing his dusky gaze for a momen
t, before he drifted back to sleep.
Tom laughed. “I don’t think he’ll go bald at an early age, like his father.”
“She told me in Paris you would come back to me. I didn’t know what to believe at the time. Is this really what you and she want?”
Tom sat on the edge of the table and rested the boy in his lap. “She would never admit it, but she wants Charles to grow up here. I think she’s afraid of another war to come.”
“Then why not come to America and live with you and her other son?”
“She’s a proud woman, fiercely nationalistic, who loves her country. She loved her first husband, a Frenchman, deeply, but he wasn’t kind to her. He and their son are the touchstones of another life—one she’s intent on preserving. She doesn’t want to leave her home.” Tom looked down at his child. “Charles and I were afterthoughts in her plan of life. Not that she’s cruel . . . she isn’t. I would call her ‘pragmatic,’ somewhat like Louisa. Constance and I were both looking for comfort.”
“And she for money,” Emma offered. “She’s a businesswoman and as independent as can be.”
“Perhaps. Like another woman I know . . . and love.”
A blush rose in Emma and the feeling shocked her. Why should it be so hard to accept such a confession from a man she knew so intimately? “I don’t know about that,” she said.
“After much consideration, she decided to give up Charles,” Tom continued. “It took months, but I’ve been granted formal adoption. We Americans are quite the heroes now. I think the French bureaucracy looked more favorably upon my application because of my role in the war. I have all the necessary papers—so Charles can stay.”
“So,” Emma said, pondering the question. “You’ve come home?”
“I thought coming home might be a possibility until I saw you. Is it Linton’s child?”
“No.” Emma struggled with the words. “Linton’s dead.”
Tom’s eyes narrowed, dazed by her revelation.
“Influenza . . . with complications. When I returned I didn’t see him for weeks, and when I found him it was too late.”
“I’m sorry. I know you cared for him.”
Emma nodded, unwilling to reveal more of her feelings.
Tom looked at her expectantly.
“You don’t know the father,” Emma said. “Someday, I’ll tell you.”
“You didn’t know Charles’s mother, either. The world is full of surprises.” The boy squirmed in Tom’s lap and began to cry. “Remember when I told you at the hospital that the trust between us was gone? I meant for both of us—not just me.” He stroked the boy’s head. “I think he’s hungry and soon to be cranky. We should be going.”
“How can I reach you?”
“At the Copley Plaza. Room 405. I hope you’ll telephone me.”
“I need time to think.”
Emma opened the French doors and Tom stepped inside, the boy clutching at his shirt.
Madame Bouchard sat in her chair, a newspaper across her lap. “I heard him fuss. He’s hungry.”
Emma imagined Charles suckling against her breast, feeding on her own milk.
“Did you reach an agreement?” Madame Bouchard asked.
“Of sorts,” Tom said.
Madame Bouchard took the child from Tom. “I am entrusting my son to you, Mrs. Swan. You must be certain he receives the finest care and attention. You are a strong woman. I know my son can depend on you.” She stopped and kissed the boy’s forehead. “I will miss him, but I know he will be happy here with his father.” She extended her hand to Emma. “Thank you for your hospitality. I doubt we will ever meet again—unless you allow me a future visit.”
Emma shook her hand and said nothing.
“Good-bye, Emma,” Tom said.
“Good-bye,” she said and led them to the door.
After it closed, Anne, breathless, raced out of the kitchen. Lazarus, equally fast, followed, snuffling at the door and wagging his tail in quick, jerky strokes.
“Who was that woman?” Anne asked, trying to control her excitement.
“One I doubt you will see anytime soon.”
“And the child?”
Emma trudged down the hall, her feet plodding as if weighted with lead.
Anne overtook her, brushing against Emma’s back.
Emma sat in her chair and stared into the courtyard. Only minutes before, Tom had been sitting on that table with his child.
Anne stood by the chair, awaiting an answer.
A thousand memories flashed through her mind before she said, “The story will have to wait for another time. I need to think . . . because I honestly don’t know what I’m going to do, and, right now, I don’t have the strength to struggle.”
* * *
When the telephone jangled two days later, Emma believed Tom was calling. She had spent a restless and miserable two nights thinking about him and his adopted son. A decision would not be easy. On one hand, she wanted Tom, and his son, to be happy. On the other, she was uncertain whether she loved him enough to ask him back into her life. On balance, she considered, perhaps the most important question to answer about their relationship was one of happiness and not of love. In that case, her decision would be easier.
Anne answered the phone, then handed the receiver to Emma. “It’s Mr. Hippel.”
Alex greeted her, his voice sounding the cheeriest of any person she had spoken to in weeks with the possible exception of her housekeeper.
“Finally . . . I’m leaving for New York today,” Alex said. “Everything is packed and already on its way. My friend and I are traveling by train this afternoon.”
“Congratulations,” Emma said. “I hope everything turns out well for you.”
There was silence on the other end, as if Alex was measuring his words. “I’m sorry about this whole affair with Linton,” he finally said. “I’m sorry he couldn’t love me. In the beginning, I really believed it was possible.”
“I know, Alex. We all loved Linton.”
“Yes, I’ll never forget him. It was never really any of my business—what happened between you—but you must believe me when I say that I’m sorry you and Linton couldn’t have shared more in life. You’re right—we all loved Linton.”
Silence captured the line again, until Alex’s voice returned to its chipper form. “I do have something for you.”
“A surprise?”
“One from Linton and me. It should arrive within the hour. Good-bye, Emma, and do call upon us if you’re in New York. If you begin sculpting again, let me know. Who knows, if I don’t have a gallery myself, I’m sure one of my friends will. I can’t stay too far removed from the art world.”
Emma said good-bye to Alex and for the next hour paced about the house, annoying Anne and Lazarus with her nervous anticipation. She opened the French doors to let in the fresh May air. The sun shone around puffy clouds and the warm spring breeze tickled her skin. After treading the same floor for too long, she walked about the house, moving pictures and bric-a-brac to suit her mood.
A large crate, loaded on a horse cart, arrived just before noon. The driver held the animal in check as a strapping young man struggled with the heavy load at the door.
“I wonder what it could be?” Emma asked the youth.
“I don’t know, ma’am, but it’s heavy,” he said. “Is there a man who can lift it for you?”
“No,” Emma said. “Anne, have him put it on the outside table.”
“Let me help you,” Anne said. “My mistress is with child.”
While the young man grunted, Anne grabbed one side of the crate and guided it through the hall and sitting room to the courtyard. With the housekeeper’s help, he slid the crate onto the table and then sighed with relief. “That’s going nowhere for a long time,” he said, doffing his cap to Anne. “Thank you for your aid.”
“Please give him some money,” Emma said. She studied the crate as Anne and the worker left. Alex had marked it with stamps from the Fo
untain Gallery. Its top was secured with two-penny nails, but was loose enough that Emma could pry off the lid with her hands. She pushed back the cloth that covered the object inside.
It dropped away to reveal her Diana.
Two envelopes lay next to the bronze, which glinted in the sunlight. One was marked from Alex; the other was unsigned.
Emma opened the letter from Alex.
24th May, 1919
My Dear Emma:
Near the end, I paid the rent on Linton’s studio because his money was beginning to run out. Some months after I ended the relationship, the studio’s landlord (whom I know) asked me to remove Linton’s belongings. I had stopped footing the bill and the landlord hadn’t seen his tenant in a long time. I found Diana concealed by a cloth at the bottom of the bookcase. The shelves had been taken out to make room for it. Linton was in such a state after the Fountain closed, I think he went quite mad. He never wanted me to tell you he had purchased your statue with funds from the sale of his paintings and made me swear that I would uphold his secret. Initially, I advised against the purchase, telling him he needed to save his money for living expenses, and let wealthy art patrons like Fran Livingston buy the work. He wouldn’t hear of it. He said so many of his fingerprints were upon it, it was practically his anyway. So, I reluctantly agreed to sell it to him. He kept it hidden from you . . . well, you know the rest. I’ve had time to grieve since Linton’s death and I think it only fair that the statue returns to you along with a letter I found underneath it. I won’t lie to you and say I didn’t read it, but it belongs to you. It’s from his heart.
Yours truly,
Alex
Emma, her heart beating furiously, opened the undated letter. She immediately recognized it as Linton’s scrawling hand.
My Dearest Emma,
The Sculptress Page 38
