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

from working, stop thinking about this damn war. Believe me, there are times I regret this decision and wish I’d never come here. Perhaps I shouldn’t have encouraged you to leave Boston—maybe it would have been better if you’d stayed.”

“Well, it’s too late now,” she said, subduing her despair at his suggestion. “I’m staying in Paris. John Harvey needs me . . . I thought you needed me, too.” She studied his slumped form and a sudden stab of pity pierced her. “We need to sort this out, but first you need to rest.”

“Yes, you’re right on both counts,” he said, his voice tinged with sadness.

Emma looked down at the lint and muddy droplets covering her coat, trying in vain to brush them off. “I’m afraid, Tom.”

“Of what?”

“A number of things,” she said, looking back at him. She considered the emotional distance between them and thought better of cutting too deep, too fast. “What if I fail on my first day in the studio? What if my masks are a disaster?”

“Men die every day in my hands.”

“It’s not the same,” she said, irritated by the comparison. “Those men would die anyway. You couldn’t save them because no doctor could. They were in God’s hands. My soldiers are alive and come to me for help. What if I can’t give it to them? I can’t even sculpt a face properly.”

Tom clutched the edge of the desk. “That may be true, but don’t wave the white flag until you give it a try. No one will die in your studio.”

“That’s not the point. Are you so certain our choices have been right? What if they’ve been wrong?”

“I’m not certain of anything. There are days when the world seems like hell and nothing I’ve ever done is right.” He leaned toward her. “Our individual choices brought us to this place, and perhaps that’s the problem. We’ve always been on our own, even though we’re together.”

Emma flinched under her coat, knowing the truth of his words.

“You’re staying with me tonight?” he asked after a few moments. “We can talk if you’re not too tired.”

“I assume so, but I’m also at John’s beck and call. He mentioned staying with military friends near Toul.”

“Stay with me. I can arrange other accommodations for John and Virginie. Are you returning to Paris tomorrow?”

“Yes.” Emma studied the gaunt face. Tom’s lower lip quivered as she rose from her seat. Trembling, she leaned against him, shutting out the hospital’s distractions, breathing in his warmth and the familiar scent of his skin that rose faintly above the odor of antiseptic. She lowered her head, wanting to kiss his hands, but he stopped her with a gentle touch to her shoulder.

“Infections,” he reminded her.

* * *

Tom walked Emma to the cottage after a late supper with John and Virginie, and then returned to the hospital. Tom had arranged the evening—she would spend the night at his cottage, John and his nurse would stay at the director’s home in Toul. In the morning, the three would return to Paris to put together the final plans for the new studio and the completion of Emma’s last days of training with her mentor. During supper, John complained about the inconveniences suffered at the hands of a “love-starved husband and wife.” He listed his grievances: a forgotten toothbrush, pajamas that needed mending, troubled sleep in an unfamiliar bed. Virginie assured him that he could find a toothbrush at the hospital and that he could sleep in his underwear, or nude in a barn, as far as she was concerned. She was happy to accept the director’s hospitality for the night, with or without his company.

As the long hours passed, the cottage the Red Cross had requisitioned for Tom seemed as deserted and lonely as the moon. Memories flashed through her head—from childhood days to the evening’s dinner—as her tired brain searched for answers to the questions she and her husband had posed to each other in the afternoon.

She spent much of the night at a small table, drinking from an already opened bottle of wine, musing about Linton, her husband, and the circumstances of war that had brought her to France. Now and then, she rose from her chair and paced the room in the flickering circle of lamplight, taking in, on the surface, the furnishings of Tom’s life—so different from their comfortable Boston home at the base of Beacon Hill. An iron bedstead took up most of the space. A bookcase filled one corner near a stone fireplace. The table and two chairs skirted a tin sink to the right of the front door. The only other room in the cottage was a washroom with a hole in the earth for the toilet, and a rust-stained water basin.

The trappings of Tom’s profession lay scattered about: books, letters, a stethoscope, soiled clothes. From the disarray, Emma judged that Tom had little time for himself—let alone for anyone else, including her. She resolved to make the best of their reunion and, as difficult as it might be, she would broach the subject of their relationship. She undressed, snuggled under the down comforter, and watched as the fire, at first robust, faded as the night dragged her into sleep.

* * *

Wind thumped against the cottage door.

Emma awoke with a start, with no recollection of her whereabouts.

Her husband lay with his back to her, the comforter pulled up to his waist, the upper half of his body covered by an undershirt. Emma moved her arm to touch him, but then reconsidered, and let her hand drop in front of her abdomen. Their talk would have to wait. She muttered a few words of intercession and pushed deeper into her pillow.

Tom quivered in his sleep as rain slashed against the window. The tempest shook the thin panes, keeping her awake and wondering how long the downpour would last. She threw off the comforter, the heat from the fireplace warming her legs. Tom had stoked the fire before going to bed.

He