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

groaned and rolled onto his back. The small clock on the kitchen table struck two, the chimes reverberating in her head.

She rose on her elbow and studied her husband’s expression. His face was pale—the skin wan in the mercurial, flashing light, so unlike the healthy New England complexion forged by summer sun and frigid winter winds. His hair, unkempt since his time away from Boston, had thinned, showing streaks of gray, not evident before, at the temples. The biggest change, however, was in his eyes. Even the sleep-filled lids were purple and waxen, as if life had been drained from them.

Her eyes wandered down his form, finding it hard not to be drawn back to his face. She turned away, trying not to awaken him, placing her feet like cat paws on the floor.

Tom grunted and rolled onto his stomach.

She grabbed a coverlet from the bed, wandered to the table, sipped a bit of leftover wine, and gazed out the small window. Down the lane, the dark oak limbs shook in the rain. In the small garden in front of the cottage, drenched daisies bent their heads toward the earth. She found herself absorbed in thought and wished she could write in her diary.

Sleep comes hard for him. He’s exhausted. Sneaking in and stoking the fire without waking me! The war is killing him. It makes no difference to me if we make love. It’s far more important that we’re alive and well, with a chance to get things settled.... Why can’t I be honest about why I came to France? To save my marriage or escape from passion? To work as a sculptress . . . or to forget the one secret I’ve never been able to tell my husband? I hardly know myself why I came. He’s much nobler than I—so determined when he made the decision. He wanted—no, needed—to aid the war effort and the French doctors. He talked incessantly about the need for qualified surgeons at the Front. I’m not some noble artist come to save the world or the lives of these disfigured men. I thought this work would help me become a better sculptress. Maybe, with time, I’ll improve. It seems so deceitful to practice on men for the sake of my art. It’s despicable, really . . . but I shouldn’t think that. This is how the mind works at two in the morning.

Lightning flashed outside the window and a low growl rumbled within the walled city.

Thunder. The sound is too long and hollow to be an exploding shell.

The rain pushed hard against the window, the water sheeting against the panes. Emma fidgeted in the small wooden chair at the table and poured more wine.

If I smoked, I’d have a cigarette. What a day of disasters—the rain, the drive, even supper with John and Virginie was awkward. I wanted to be alone with Tom and there they were, right beside me, John indulging himself with his stories of shattered faces and the marvels of his reconstructions, and Virginie needling him at every turn. I swear they’ll drive me crazy before he leaves France. John blanched when I displayed a less than intense interest in my new studio—my distractions getting the better of me. “Attention must be paid, Mrs. Swan,” he kept repeating, as if I couldn’t appreciate the magnitude of the work. Supper isn’t the time for a discourse on facial reconstruction and the techniques of metal mask-making. Later, Sir Jonathan, when my head is not so full, the studio will have my full attention.

And the final tragedy—oh, I call it a tragedy when it really isn’t. How can a man make love to you when he’s emotionally and physically exhausted? But you would suppose after five months the body would be eager, ready for the demands of the libido. But sex seems so unimportant here with a war raging and our own emotions overpowering any sexual need. His body is so familiar to me and yet so strange now—as alien and distant as my faces. His chest, his arms, his stomach, all thinner than before, but the whole of him slightly off kilter; and the feeling, the emotion upon our meeting, vacant as night. Any pent-up passion in me escaped like a wisp of air—if it was ever there at all. And, I admit, I was relieved to let it flow away. The pressure is so much less now that he’s asleep. I wonder what would have occurred if Linton had been lying next to me instead of Tom?

Lightning illuminated a stack of mail on the table. She reached for it.

He’s kept my letters.

She flipped through the brown envelopes, realizing there were more in the pile than she had written: letters from Boston doctors, correspondence from French surgeons in the American Expeditionary Force, notes from John.

She replaced the envelopes where she found them, sipped a bit more wine, and stared out the rain-soaked window. As she watched the torrent, a sudden thought chilled her and sent a shiver down her spine. What if someone from Boston has written to him? What if Tom knows about Linton?

CHAPTER 5

PARIS AND THE FRONT

Late October 1917

“I’m happy he’s gone,” Virginie said, her voice rising with each word. “Il est odieux. Imagine, asking me to work in England. Jamais! I hate him. English bully.”

“Don’t work yourself up so,” Emma said. She closed the anatomy book she had been studying. “He’s been gone for weeks. I only meant I wish John was around sometimes—after all, he’s the one who established this technique for the Royal Army Medical Corps. And, despite what you might think, I don’t believe he hated you. In fact, I think he admired you for standing up to him. He could never crack you. Consider it a compliment that he chose you as an assistant.”

“He upset me and wore me out,” Virginie said. “But you are correct—it is no matter now.”

“I know.” The sun passing behind the clouds cast fleeting shadows across the