The Sculptress V.S. Alexander (ebooks that read to you .txt) 📖

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