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

bouquet of white daisies. Emma had no idea where Madame Clement got her flowers in the winter.

“I can always count on you to brighten our day with blossoms,” Emma said, kissing her on the cheek.

“Bonjour.” She pulled a letter from her coat pocket and handed it to Emma.

The handwriting was childlike and scrawling, unlike the carefully defined hand of the letter in Tom’s cottage. It was postmarked from Boston, the fifteenth of November. Emma ripped it open, studied the writing inside, which was identical to that on the envelope, and read it standing by the stairs.

11th November, 1917

My Dear Emma:

I have exercised considerable restraint in writing before this time—one because of effort, and two because of the frailty of my heart. I know you could take this letter immediately to your husband, but I heard through Alex (who heard a rumor from someone—perhaps a solider from Boston) that Tom is injured and not with you at the moment. I’m deeply sorry for what you both must be going through. But to the first point—I am not the best writer and I hope you will forgive my poor penmanship. When I was a child, before blindness set in, I learned how to write. My efforts have not progressed much beyond that early point. But if I sit in the direct sun, I can make out the black lines I put on paper. Others might call them scratches, but for me they constitute writing. Alex usually helps me with my spelling and correspondence, but no one, not even he, knows I’m composing this letter.

To the second point—it has been a miserable three months since you left. I think of you every day and wonder, more usually fret, about your safety and well-being. I know you are doing the work you hoped to do, now that you are settled in Paris. I got your address through the Red Cross—please don’t be angry with me.

My own work has suffered of late because of my emotional condition. I say this not to blame—you are not at fault; the problem, and the solution, lie squarely upon my shoulders. I should never have allowed myself to engage a married woman in the manner that I did. I was wrong and I hope you can forgive me. Let the matter live and die between us. There can be no good in communicating my afflictions and emotional outpourings to others.

In some respects, I feel we are too late on that account. I heard through Alex that Louisa Markham may have been less than discreet with the unfortunate situation she observed at my studio. Of course, even Alex was shocked to hear the gossip that circulated, I’m afraid so broadly, among Boston circles.

But there is more, my dear Emma, and that is the real reason for my letter. Vreland has hinted to me that all is not well with Tom outside of his injuries. He will only say that something is amiss and, try as I might, I cannot get the point out of him. I am sure this rumor grows like a cancer out of some tale told by Louisa. So protect yourself, my dear sculptress. I know angels guide your work, and they will protect you well, as I cannot be there to do it for them. The wretched war and the Atlantic separate us—as friends.

I have taken too much of your time. I leave your protection to God, your husband, and your own excellent resources.

If you wish, burn this letter so you never have to read its words again or be afraid that it will fall into the wrong hands. I wish so dearly that I could share a moment with you.

Your dearest friend,

Linton Bower

“Madame, are you all right?” Virginie stood before her in the hall. “Your face is white.”

“Oh . . . oh, yes, I’m fine.” She folded the letter and returned it to the envelope. “When will our patient be here?”

“In less than a half hour.”

“I’m ready. Do we have enough plaster?”

Virginie looked at her oddly. “Hassan will prepare the plaster when it is time.”

“Good.” Emma watched as Madame Clement picked out wilted flowers from the vase in the hall and replaced them with the fresh daisies. Walking to the sculpting room, where Hassan continued his work on the plaster cast, she stopped at the window and watched the stream of Parisians who traversed rue Monge under the leaden sky.

She placed Linton’s letter on the sill. There it was—for all to see!

No, I won’t burn it!

She picked it up delicately, as if holding a flower, and pressed it against her heart.

* * *

A knock alerted Emma to the French soldier wearing a short waistcoat who huddled in silence against the wind-blown snow. She leaned to the left in her chair, far enough to see the man through the door’s glass panes. Madame Clement called out that the soldier had arrived and complimented the man on the beautiful crimson-and-blue scarf that covered much of his face. The housekeeper’s cheery, repeated “Bonjour” sounded like the chirp of an excited bird.

Emma closed the anatomy and physiology book she had been referring to and waited for the soldier. Hassan prepared the plaster and Virginie readied the bandages. Although the reality of her work had toughened her to facial disfigurements, each soldier presented a new and difficult challenge.

Her stomach twitched a bit as the patient approached. His injuries were devastating: a shock of unruly black hair protruded from a stitched scar at the crown of his head; his left jaw and most of his lower face and nose had been blown away, leaving a gaping wound for a mouth and a blunt mound of downturned flesh for a nose. His face resembled the scarred head of an ancient Greek statue pocked and cratered by time.

The devastation to his jaw and tongue was so severe that he could only utter a few unintelligible grunts. The soldier’s voice croaked “ahhhhh” and “thhaaahhh” in response to Madame Clement’s directions.

Emma smiled and