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

“I’m flattered, Mr. Sargent—a great painter like you interested in my work.”

“Your statue was very good—in fact, the best work in the gallery, I believe.” He inhaled deeply, arched his neck, and puffed smoke toward the ceiling. A server drifted by and the painter took wine, drank from the glass, and set it on the mantel. “I’m not keen on what’s being sold these days. Monet and Renoir I can live with—but Linton Bower? Much too modern for me. Do you know who bought your statue?”

“Actually, I don’t. Alex and I haven’t spoken recently.”

Sargent chuckled. “That’s unlike him. Perhaps he wants to keep your money in his clutches. He’s constantly gabbing my ear off—‘John, you should paint this, and John you should paint that’—as if I needed to sell through him. He doesn’t seem to understand that I paint what I want now. I’m well past those abominable society portraits.” He laughed at his own good fortune. “What are you working on? Something I might be interested in?”

“I’m not sculpting at the moment. I’m going to France to aid the war effort.”

Sargent arched a brow. “Have you been there? Do you know what it’s like?”

“No, my mother wanted to take me there when I was a child—”

Sargent cut her off with a wave of his hand. “Mrs. Swan, may I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

His forehead furrowed, as if a morbid intensity had seized him and a series of horrifying pictures had formed in his mind. “This war is unlike anything ever conceived by man and can only be the devil’s work. If Satan exists, his claws have gouged holes in the earth and left them filled with blood. I’ve seen it. I’ve painted it—the death, the destruction, the overwhelming sadness of it all.

“Certainly, it’s the good fight, but so many soldiers and innocents have died. And for what? A mile of turf at the Front, only to be pushed back two kilometers, only to repeat the process the next month. The cost has been enormous—hundreds of thousands of lives. If you go, Mrs. Swan, be prepared for horrors you never dreamed possible. The France of your dreams is not the France you will see today . . . nearly every country in Europe has suffered the same fate.”

Emma was about to reply when laughter erupted near the ballroom door.

Sargent stared, fascinated by the commotion.

Emma turned to see Alex and Vreland supporting a tipsy Linton Bower.

“So, this is the state of modern art,” the painter said. He coughed and the beginnings of a smirk transformed into a quizzical smile.

“Pardon me,” Emma said, making her excuses. “I believe this may be the moment to collect my commission.”

“An excellent strategy, Mrs. Swan. Good evening. It’s been a pleasure seeing you again, and do take care in France.” Sargent picked up his wineglass and reached for another cigarette.

Emma looked for Anne. She was in the garden, still fascinated by the young man who had inched closer to her on the marble bench. Then she directed her attention to Linton, Vreland, and Alex, who as a trio walked somewhat unsteadily toward the food table. Mrs. Livingston, always the charming hostess, greeted them discreetly and then brushed past as if Linton’s tipsiness was cause for some uneasiness. Emma made her way across the room.

Vreland spotted her first, his slightly drunken smile turning to a sneer.

Emma sensed an uncomfortable condescension flowing from the critic and Alex.

“Mrs. Swan. Care to join us in a drink?” Vreland asked.

“No,” Emma replied, “your head start has put me at a disadvantage.”

“Oh come now, Emma,” Alex said, “we’re celebrating Linton’s success.”

“Success?” she asked.

Vreland lifted the cover of a chafing dish and replaced it quickly after wrinkling his nose. “I don’t care for rare beef,” he said and turned to Emma. “Yes, since my article about Linton and the Fountain Gallery appeared, Linton has sold . . . how many paintings, Alex?”

“Six more,” Alex said proudly. “Eleven in total.”

She looked at Linton, who had avoided looking at her since hearing her voice. “Eleven. That’s a remarkable achievement—particularly in wartime.”

“An excellent point, Mrs. Swan,” Vreland said. “I shall have to point that out in my next article: how the Boston art market is prospering thanks to patrons like Mrs. Gardner and Mrs. Livingston—and in no small part, if I do say so myself, to my own efforts to bear the art standard.”

“The Pershing of the art world,” Emma said.

Linton’s filmy eyes fluttered at her sarcasm, and in them she detected a deep sadness.

“Please don’t spoil the evening for us . . . for me,” he said. “These celebrations are so rare in the life of an artist. Surely you understand that.”

Emma moved toward him. “May I speak to you privately?”

Vreland shrugged and Alex reluctantly let go of Linton’s arm.

“Don’t be long, Linton,” the gallerist said. “We have a big night ahead of us.”

Linton nodded as Emma took his arm and led him toward the garden.

The sun had set behind the high walls and the crepuscular birds had begun their mournful calls. The shafts of green, the red and yellow early roses, the purple blooms of the rhododendrons glowed in the twilight. The dark beauty of the moment sent chills coursing through Emma’s body. Had she the power, she would have frozen time, the evening was so lovely. She guided him past the bench where Anne and the young man talked, onto a white stone path that led deeper into the lilacs and evergreens.

“Why haven’t you called on me?” Linton asked as they stopped near a whitewashed rose trellis.

“I could ask the same question,” Emma answered.

“Congratulations on the sale of Diana.”

Indeed, the whole world knew of her sale. “Thank you.”

Linton rubbed his eyes and then took hold of Emma’s shoulders. He turned her toward the ballroom doors, so he could see into the light that shone from the house into the garden. “You’re wearing a red dress—dark, the color of blood.”

“Maroon sounds much better.”

Linton took her hands and pulled her gently toward him.

“Not