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

hall. She followed the music as Anne trailed behind like a stray puppy. About midway down, Emma turned left into the ballroom. About two dozen of Boston’s most well-heeled men and women milled about the room. Some ladies wore their finest gowns, encrusted with jewels real and faux, egret-feathered hats resting upon their heads; others were attired in brown dresses, white blouses, and brown jackets imitating the current fashionable style of the American Expeditionary Force uniform. The most dramatic dresses had been purchased before the war because colored fabrics were in short supply now. The current muted tones reflected the war’s deprivations. The gentlemen in attendance wore dark suits or tuxes.

The chatter in the room was hushed compared with the lively banter Emma had heard at previous parties. A few heads turned as she and her housekeeper entered.

Mrs. Livingston, attired in an emerald green dress dripping with silver spangles, rushed toward her.

“Emma, so good of you to come,” the socialite gushed. Her gray hair was piled upon her head, the strands held up in back by a long Japanese pin, her cheeks flushed with a hearty helping of rouge, her dancing eyes delicately lined in black. She heartily took Emma’s hands in her own, and cast a sly look toward Anne. “Who is this attractive young lady accompanying you?”

“Frances, this is my housekeeper, Anne,” Emma said. “I rarely entertain at my home, so you’ve not met her. I asked her to come tonight because she’s never been to a party such as yours, and I think all of us can use some cheering up during this difficult time.”

Frances smiled at the housekeeper.

“Anne, please say hello to Mrs. Livingston,” Emma said with some embarrassment because her guest stared openmouthed at the hostess as if she was meeting royalty.

“It’s an honor, ma’am,” Anne finally said, while attempting an awkward curtsy.

Frances offered her hand. “You’re more than welcome, my dear.”

“I also wanted Anne to be here because . . . I may be leaving Boston for a time. I wanted you to meet the young woman who’ll be taking care of our home and managing our affairs.”

Frances frowned. “Leaving? Whatever for?”

Emma saw her hostess’s eyes shift toward the door as a man and woman entered the room.

“Excuse me, my dear . . . I do want to know about wherever it is you’re going, but I must greet Mr. and Mrs. Radcliffe.” And she flitted away like a butterfly in the breeze.

Anne took a deep breath and rubbed her hands together.

“She’s a grand old dame, really,” Emma assured her. “This is a simple party for her. Not a bad bone in her body . . . I can’t say that for everyone here.” The soft notes of a string trio rose from its position near a long table encrusted with silver platters holding meats and vegetables, as well as steaming chafing dishes. Emma glanced toward the opposite end of the ballroom where wide French doors opened to a garden.

“Isn’t that Miss Markham by the door?” Anne asked.

Emma nodded. It was Louisa, holding court with several other women and a man.

A server walked by and offered them a choice of wine. Anne declined, but Emma encouraged her to take a glass, asking, “How often do we experience a night like this?” She walked toward the garden as Anne, after accepting the wine, followed.

Louisa cast a cold glance toward her as she approached.

She recognized the man in Louisa’s circle as Everett, the disagreeable gallery patron who had termed Linton’s painting “rubbish” and also concluded that women had no business sculpting.

Louisa, her eyes icy and unforgiving, nodded as she arrived. The other women glanced at her as well, and then turned and continued their conversation with the lone gentleman, tittering and carrying on like sparrows about a topic Emma could not discern.

“Good evening, Mrs. Swan,” Louisa said. An arch smile crossed her face after the words left her red lips.

“So formal, my zephyr? Has our relationship deteriorated so much since our last meeting?”

“I could hardly call our last encounter a meeting—more an outrage.”

Several in the group snickered as if they were secretly listening to their conversation.

“There was no outrage committed, unless you consider intrusion into one’s privacy an equivalent violation.” She turned to Anne and said mildly, “Take a walk in the garden and enjoy Mrs. Livingston’s roses.”

Louisa laughed. “Are you concerned word of your indiscretion will get out through your servant? I’m afraid you’re too late.”

A red flash burst in front of Emma’s eyes, blinding her with fury. “Anne is not my servant, and you would do well to remember that fact! She’s a woman employed by my family.”

“I’ll take that walk now, ma’am,” her housekeeper said, her eyes wide and the wineglass grasped in her hands as if it were a fragile, precious jewel.

As Anne left for the garden, Louisa blurted out, “Fine company you keep, Emma—bringing your housekeeper to a party like this. How many other domestics do you see here besides those who belong to this house?”

“I’m not responsible for Boston’s prejudices. It’s amusing that you dare question my motives. Who anointed you as the arbiter of my life and relationships?”

“You’re the one who will ultimately suffer,” Louisa replied firmly. “If Tom knew what was happening. . . .”

Emma retreated based on her friend’s threat and motioned for Louisa to step away from the group toward the garden. They stopped a short distance from the French doors, the music and the guests’ chatter calming her for a moment. After a time, she said, “Truce. Can’t we put this behind us? I think about the fun and laughter we’ve shared, and how it’s come to this.”

Her friend turned and inched toward the garden door. Emma wondered if she was considering her peace proposal or was attempting to flee. Overall, she seemed unmoved.

“I am willing to forgive and forget, but I’m afraid the damage has been done. I was in such a state after the incident—after what I had seen,” Louisa said, her lips