CHAPTER 3
BOSTON
June 1917
Emma paced herself as she walked to the Fountain, flushed with the thrill of starting a new project, yet wary of the prospect. She also found it hard to keep her model out of her mind. But despite the tamping down of thoughts some might consider indecent, she determined to enjoy the late spring in all its resplendent glory. Heady June days, when Boston emerged from its winter depths after an often dull and bleak spring, were to be savored. She noted this truth as she strode down Arlington Street admiring the purple irises, white-flowering hostas, and yellow pansies that dotted the small gardens and window boxes of the residences.
Her step quickened as she approached the gallery. Newbury Street’s bustle charged her with energy, the shop doors open for business despite wartime rationing, men and women strolling down the street and taking in the sun, the smells of fresh-baked bread and grilled meats emanating from bakeries and cafés. In moments like these, in the majesty of a glorious day, the war seemed far away, almost romantic and magical, as if some distant Crusade was in progress. In many ways, the war was a crusade. Millions of men were caught up in the fervor—Tom being one of them—volunteering to make the world safe for Democracy. She passed a recruiting poster of a Yank, rifle in hand, pasted on a tobacco shop window and remembered the evening Tom had told her of his plans to serve. Her immediate reaction had been shock. His decision was a surprise, made without her consultation, but not unexpected, given his propensity to elevate his career over all else. That night, Emma asked herself the questions any woman would have, but only to herself—questions about his love and commitment to their relationship that she had revisited in her mind so often since his departure.
Only recently, months after Tom’s absence, had loneliness and a sometimes sad desperation filled her mind like a slow-acting toxin. She had thrown herself into her work, attempting a few pieces, including the faun, but nothing came out as it should. And as the days dragged by, there were times when she wondered if her husband missed her at all, or whether she might be able to live without him. Those extraordinary feelings had taken on sharper focus since meeting Linton.
But today, she thrust those troubles aside and told herself she was more fortunate than thousands of poor wives, who had little means of support and sustenance, now that their husbands had been ripped from the house. No, she would remain strong, not because she was putting on a brave face, but because Tom’s absence was of his making, and his decision had led to her current circumstances—a comforting notion when called upon. She could muster her own reserves of courage and creativity if she had to.
Perhaps The Narcissus could be her best project. Today, Linton would serve as her model. A thrill washed over her. She felt like working again, imbued with energy, and dared believe that she might achieve her place among the great sculptors of America.
Through the gallery windows, she saw him sitting in a chair near her Diana. Alex stood behind him, his hands draped over the artist’s shoulders. Her heart dropped, however, when she saw the other occupant of the gallery—Vreland. The critic brandished his arms as he talked, his mouth twisted in exaggeration, the signs of someone who felt his own importance.
She opened the door and stepped inside. Linton instinctively looked her way. Alex smiled, and Vreland gave a brief nod, the first to offer a greeting.
Emma returned the salutation.
Linton, smiling broadly, rose from his chair, forcing Alex to remove his hands. “Good afternoon, Emma.”
“Everyone seems in good spirits today,” she replied.
Alex pulled a chair from behind his desk so Emma could sit. “Yes,” he said, with an air of satisfaction. “Monsieur Vreland has agreed to do a column for his paper on none other than Mr. Linton Bower.”
Vreland nodded and said, “At Alex’s insistence, of course.” He laughed and his joviality boomed through the gallery.
“Really,” Emma said, barely masking her sarcasm, “I thought you despised his painting.”
“I’m not fond of it, but money talks. Alex has made Linton’s sales records available to me—quite confidentially, I assure you—and I was impressed with the attention being paid to this young painter. Of course, there is the other aspect of the story, in respect to Mr. Bower’s . . . condition. . . .”
“That’s despicable,” Emma said, irritation rising in her. “Using a man’s sales figures and blindness to hawk—”
“Emma, please,” Linton said, resuming his seat. “The matter is settled and the arrangement is satisfactory to me. Alex and I appreciate that Mr. Vreland has even considered writing a column on behalf of my art and the Fountain—in light of his recent review.”
“I’ve made it quite clear to the artist, and to Alex, that I must love the work in order to compose a positive critical piece,” the critic responded. “However, attention must be paid to any artist who sells like this young man has sold since the opening.”
“I think the whole affair is insulting,” Emma said. “Linton, how could you agree to such pandering?”
Vreland sniffed. “Pandering? On the contrary, Mrs. Swan, this is business. Your attitude is exactly the reason why you will never achieve greatness as a sculptor. You, like most women, have no acumen for the business world.”
Emma pushed forward in her chair. “Sculptress. I’ve had quite enough of the insults. You can label my talent small and my opportunities limited, Vreland, but you cannot disparage the whole of womankind. Men like you have harnessed the yoke for too long.”
“Another suffrage argument I’m bored with,” Vreland responded. “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me, I have other business to attend to—let’s reconvene for our interview at the appointed time tomorrow.” The critic shook Alex’s and Linton’s hands and bowed slightly to Emma. “Good day, Mrs. Swan.” He stopped near Diana and ran a finger across its face. “Still unsold, I see.”
“Insufferable old fool,” Emma said as Vreland closed the door. “His head is as big as his girth, and he throws it around in any way he can.”
Alex bunched his fists in disgust. “My God, Emma, you are trying to ruin me, and doing a damn good job of it. Must you always antagonize him? You know he despises the work in my gallery. This is an opportunity to build good will for all my artists.”
“Don’t be an apologist for reprehensible behavior,” Emma said.
Linton lowered his head and sighed. “I understand your concern, but the man has power. He sways public opinion. If he writes a favorable story it will help us all.”
“I realize that, but we, as artists, are no longer controlled by our patrons. This is not the Renaissance. We have power, too . . . oh, what’s the use. I feel as if I’m talking to myself and always butting heads with men. And men have created most of the messes in the world, including this damnable war. We women should take the lessons of Lysistrata to heart.”
“I can vouch for your sentiments about men,” Alex said, “but the world will go on despite our protests.”
“I’m not going to let Vreland ruin the day,” Emma said. “Are you ready, Linton? I’m prepared to work.”
“What do you have planned?” Alex asked.
Emma rose from her chair and placed her hand on Linton’s arm. “Sketching and preliminary modeling for a new project.”
“I’m sorry I won’t be able to drop by, but I have work to do here in the gallery,” Alex said.
“Indeed.” Emma leaned toward Linton, who shifted in his chair. “Did my supplies arrive? I paid one of the local boys dearly to haul twenty pounds of clay, my sketch pads, and tools.”
“They’re safe and sound on my new table,” Linton said. “Well, new for me. The junk man told me Whistler had mixed his paints on its very boards. For provenance, he wanted an extra dollar.”
Alex kissed Emma on the cheek, and said with true affection, “Take good care of my young man.”
The sentiment unnerved Emma, considering what Louisa had revealed about the artist, but she shrugged off the gallery owner’s words as a gentle admonition, preferring to believe that what she felt for Linton was matched by the painter’s own ardor.
They emerged from the relative quiet of the gallery to the rush of Newbury Street. Men and women strolled on the crowded sidewalk, their sinuous movements creating intricate patterns of color and form. Surrounded by the blare of horns and the rolling thunder of carts, Emma led Linton across Berkeley Street and headed east into the South End.
As they walked in the shadow of the brownstones, Linton hooked his arm around her waist. The gesture felt comforting and familiar, his grasp automatic and without pretense. Strangers passing them on the street would have raised no eyebrows unless they’d read unlikely embarrassment upon Emma’s face. Of course, Tom had walked with her many times in a similar fashion on the Embankment. But this was different. Linton was a stranger who felt, suddenly, as close to her in body and spirit—if not more so—than her husband. It had been years since she had enjoyed such thrilling companionship, and if she had to put a date upon it, possibly since her first meetings with Kurt. The electric charge of sexual attraction threatened to overtake her.
Linton turned his head toward her as they walked, and a few of his wavy locks shivered in the wind against his forehead.
“How is Tom?” he asked.
His question startled her, as if he had read her thoughts. “Fine,” she replied, somewhat perplexed. She studied the handsome face, the pale fires that smoldered beneath the clouded irises.
“I wondered,” he said. “You never talk about your husband. I know he exists. Alex told me he’s serving as a doctor with the Red Cross in France.”
“I wondered why you asked.”
He scrunched up his nose. “Naturally curious. Are you getting along?”
“Rather personal questions, Linton. There are answers, but . . . answers I would share only with the closest of friends.” A warm breeze wafted over her.
Linton unhooked his arm and stopped in the dappled shade of an elm. “I would hope I’m your friend—especially if I’m going to model for you.”
“We know so little about each other.” Emma took his hand and pulled him gently toward her. His coal-dark hair, the fullness of his lips, the pearly luster of his skin, nearly made her swoon. A shiver arced through her back.
“Then, it’s time to learn,” he said and grasped her hand firmly in his and guided her down the street. As they walked farther east, the fashionable buildings of Back Bay became more ragtag and industrial.
Emma drew in a breath. “You are persistent and you require much of your friends. Let’s cross here.” They strode across the Columbus triangle where a cluster of brownstones rose around them. As they neared Linton’s studio, her body tightened. “I won’t bore you with details, but it’s fair to say my husband and I are in love.”
Linton shook his head as if to admonish her. “Just in love? Nothing more?”
“What’s wrong with being in love?”
“You’re too coy, Emma Lewis Swan.” Linton lifted a finger to his throat. “I can hear it in your voice and feel it in your soul. You may love, but your heart has taken refuge. It’s buried deep inside you, like a treasure chest waiting for the lock to be opened. Who has the key?”
Emma looked away, hiding the blush crossing her cheeks. Linton had gotten far too close too quickly. She regrouped for a moment, and then tugged on his arm, while changing the subject. “Are you certain you want to model for me?”
“Yes, of course. I have nothing to be ashamed of, and I’m not afraid of what you might ask of me.” The burgeoning smile, the strength and warmth of his face, aroused her. She resisted brushing her hand through his hair.
“All right then, let’s proceed,” Emma said. “But I don’t want to take you away from your work because of a selfish interest in my project.”
“Strangely enough, since I’ve moved into my new studio my output has been less than prolific. One could say I’m blocked. It’s as if my cramped little apartment fired my imagination.”
“I’m sure it’s only because you’re getting used to your new surroundings. Soon, your studio will be just like home.”
When they arrived, Linton guided Emma up the dimly lit stairs. At the landing, he withdrew the key and inserted it into the lock. “See how well I do, even when it’s gloomy?” He opened the studio door and gestured for Emma to enter.
She stepped inside, dazzled by the change from her first visit. Linton’s easel stood in front of the broad windows, facing the western light, the easel’s triangular form holding a broad canvas nailed to wooden stretchers. Two stone columns, on the north side of the studio, framed a pair of weather-beaten klismos chairs and a Grecian couch upholstered in faded blue silk. An array of patterned scarves in lacy Moorish design draped the couch and hung from the columns. A worn Oriental rug covered half the studio’s floor. A massive bookcase, mostly empty, concealed most of the south wall. Whistler’s table was centered in front of the case. Despite all its furnishings, the studio felt airy and immense, the cobwebs swept away, the sultry air of late spring pouring in through the open windows. The clay, the sketch pads, and Emma’s bag containing her sculpting tools and drawing instruments lay on the table.
“Linton, I’m amazed,” she said and grasped his hands in congratulations. “You must have worked for hours.”
“I owe it all to Alex,” he said. “He arranged for everything to be purchased and delivered, except the Whistler table. I acquired it on my own.”
“Well, it’s all quite lovely and I’m sure you’ll find the studio—”
“You’re wearing white, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Emma replied, puzzled by his question.
“I wasn’t sure whether it was ivory or white, but in this light I’m certain your dress is white. What else are you wearing?”
“Hardly a question you ask a lady,” she said, somewhat flattered by his interest.
“I’m sorry. I’m so rarely honored by the confidences of the opposite sex. I’d like to get a better sense of what fashionable women are wearing these days.”
Emma laughed and immediately thought better of it because Linton frowned. “Now, it’s I who must apologize. I didn’t mean to make fun. It’s just such an odd question. My husband would never ask such a thing, but then he can see. . . .”
“I can see and feel.”
Suddenly, the painter seemed younger and much more vulnerable than Emma had imagined. She cleared her throat. “Well, I don’t dress like Louisa—I’m certainly not that fashionable. I’m wearing a white summer dress that comes up to about mid-calf, white stockings, and black shoes, with a heel that’s taller than I usually choose for walking. Which begs the question, may I sit?”
“Of course.” Linton led her to the couch and sat beside her. His hand slid to her right calf and then to the front of her leg. “Your stocking has a pattern on it,” he said in amazement.
“Yes, they match. Women buy them that way,” she said and gently pushed his hand aside.
“And undergarments?” he asked without flinching.
Emma shook her head. “That, for modesty’s sake, I will not describe.” She laughed again and clutched his hands. “Linton, are you all right?” She caught sight of the sparkle in the pale blue eyes.
He leaned back against the couch and stared at the windows. “I’m perfect. I’m happy you’re here—in my studio. My cares dissolve when you’re near me.”
His happiness cheered her, but gave her pause. When they were together, time was distended, stretched, as if torn from the clock. His touch lingered, his smile shone, and the emotions they invoked were pleasurable. How could this attraction develop so quickly, she kept asking herself. For his part, Linton seemed perfectly happy, as content as Lazarus before the fire on a chilly night. She had to admit she was scared and wondered if she could distance herself enough from Linton to maintain their artistic relationship. That was the only way. No good could come from any other possibility—even though her heart was teetering on the edge of falling in love.
Emma smiled and touched his hand. “I’m glad you’re happy.” And she knew once the words were spoken she meant them sincerely.
Linton responded with a contented sigh.
“Perhaps we should be serious and get to work,” Emma said. “I don’t want to waste the afternoon.”
“I’m ready. Where would you like me to sit—or stand?”
“Stand, please. Here in front of the couch. I’d like you to face three-quarters toward the windows. I’ll start with a sketch. You’ll need to hold your right arm out at times. It may be tiring.”
Linton rose and took his position as Emma instructed. She made her way to the table, flipped open her sketch pad, and then rummaged through the bag. “I’m sure I put a charcoal pencil in here.”
From across the studio, Linton said, “I haven’t touched anything.”
“I suppose I forgot it, so—” She turned, her words stopping at the sight. Linton stood partially disrobed, his trousers drooping at the waist, shirt dropped like a rag over his shoes. It had been months since she had seen a man—her husband—in any state of undress. Linton’s body captivated her; yet, it stoked a hot flush of embarrassment that washed over her.
“Linton . . . Lin . . .”
“I’m sorry. Have I shamed you? If so. . . .” He placed his hands discreetly over his crotch.
“A bit.” Emma regained her composure. “Why would you assume I want you to take off your clothes?”
“I studied mythological art in drawing classes. I remember our teacher telling us most images of Narcissus are of a naked youth staring into a pool. If you prefer me in Roman garb, we’ll need to get the costuming.”
Emma found the pencil, retrieved her sketch pad, walked past him without a look, and sat on the couch. There, she studied the lean muscles of his back, the curve of his buttocks beneath the low-slung pants, the sinewy line of his legs.
“Actually, the image I had in mind was of a young man partially draped. The silks you have in the studio are perfect. I can see some benefit in having the statue naked, except for a well-placed obstruction in the front, perhaps a partial column. Narcissus—naked to the world, absorbed by his own vanity, oblivious to mankind’s disasters—it’s ideal.”
Linton faced her and removed his hands from his groin. “I suppose this was a forward, perhaps sinful, thing for me to do. But I hope you won’t think of my nakedness that way. I only do it for your art.” He pushed his pants and shorts to the floor and stepped out of them.
For once, his striking face wasn’t the sole object of her attention. Linton’s chest, belly, and legs were lightly coated with black hair. His penis was uncircumcised, resting below a thatch of dark pubic hair, his chest and abdomen as sculpturally defined as Michelangelo’s David. Emma sensed the soft fire smoldering in his body. He was as handsome and as erotic as a dark god, so different from Tom, who had approached their sexual relations as if they were clinical studies.
“Linton, I don’t think . . .” Emma set her drawing materials on the couch, stood, and walked toward the windows. He quivered as she passed. She placed her hands on the casement, thought for a few moments, and then turned to him. “You’re such a beautiful man, but I’m uncertain whether we should go ahead with these sessions.” She detected a stirring in his groin.
“Why not?” Linton asked quickly, his brows furrowed.
“It’s rather obvious, don’t you think? I’m married. You’re not. We’re working intimately together. Surroundings such as these may lead to temptation.” She pointed to him. “I should have asked you to disrobe, rather than you taking it for granted. It’s not proper.”
“I won’t surrender to temptation, Emma. This is our art. Remember, you’re a sculptress.”
Emma returned to the couch. “May I ask you a question?”
Linton nodded.
“Are you a homosexual?” She cringed at her effrontery, but she had to know the truth because of the answer’s impact on their relationship.
Linton froze for a moment and then pulled his shorts back up. “My God, not that rumor again. It’s hard enough for a man in my position to meet women, to carry on any kind of decent relationship, but . . . that lie has dogged me for years, as it does many male artists. Who told you that?”
“I shan’t say. Apparently, it’s widely held gossip.”
His jaw clinched. “It’s Alex’s fault. Our association has tainted me. . . .”
“Don’t blame Alex,” Emma said. “He’s been the best mentor and friend you could wish for. Am I right?”
Linton sighed. “Yes, but sometimes guilt lives by association. I have no quarrel with homosexuals, but I’m not one. The only hand I’ve placed on another man is to shake his.” He crept toward the couch as if ashamed of his reputation and sat timidly next to her. “Please. I live for art—it’s all I have to keep me going. We can create a beautiful statue. I know it. We can inspire each other to work.”
A sense of relief traveled through her, with Linton’s admission. Perhaps there’s hope for passion yet, bliss, a child in our lives, if it would work out. And yet, those thoughts frightened her. She had no right to think of Linton as a lover, no right to break her vows to Tom for an immoral affair that would be the talk of Boston.
She looked at the beautiful man next to her and, buoyed by her sense of right, picked up her pad and pencil. “All right then, there’s no time for sitting, Mr. Bower. Please resume your position—but appropriately draped.”
Linton dutifully obeyed Emma’s request, grabbing the large scarves from the couch, arranging them on his body as she ordered, and turning in a three-quarter profile toward the window.
As the afternoon light flooded the studio, Emma sketched, working and saying little as Linton held his pose perfectly. Only when Narcissus, gazing into the mirror, appeared on the pad fully formed did she stop. As the shadows grew longer, Emma put down her pencil and ended the session, satisfied with her drawing.
She thanked him as he dressed, and looked back at the windows as they left the studio. Steel-blue clouds splotched with crimson covered the city as the sun lowered in the west.
The afternoon had been the most glorious and productive that Emma had known in months. Despite the day’s warmth, a chill swept over her as she and Linton walked toward their homes. She thought of Tom and his long hours in the French hospital, operating on wounded and dying men, while she once again enjoyed the passionate vigor of the work she loved. The session with Linton had freed her in a way she had not known since her beginning days at art school.
She marveled at the two extremes in her life—the chance to work with a man who inflamed her artistic and emotional sensibilities, a conflagration waiting to happen; or an equally fiery end to her marriage. The day was too beautiful to waste on morbidity. For now, she would enjoy the walk with Linton and the joy that nearly swept her off her feet.
* * *
The evening air rushed through her studio window. The clop of hooves, the chug of automobiles sounded in her ears like a distant symphony, a reminder that life existed outside the haven of her work.
She sketched other imaginative possibilities for the sculpture using the afternoon’s drawing as her guide. Linton’s body took form on the page: the triangular cut of the deltoids, the pleasing oval of his calves, drapery added to the figure for effect. Unhappy with the first sketch, she put it aside only to redraw it entirely. Four hours later, she had completed three drawings: those being the front, side, and back of Narcissus. But the muddy face, always shadowed or clouded by impressionistic slashes, never in full profile or face on, dismayed her.
Lazarus’s bark jolted her from her work. She rose from the chair and looked out the window. The street noise had ebbed, almost silent, as lightning flared in the distance. She walked softly downstairs to the sitting room. The clock was about to strike midnight; Anne was surely tucked away, fast asleep. The hackles on Lazarus’s back rose as he centered his attention on something in the courtyard. Anxious and eager to get out, he wagged his tail and circled her.
Emma opened the French doors, the dog raced into the courtyard, and she cautiously followed. The wind whirled in eddies around her legs, the flashes of the far-off lightning illuminated the zenith.
As Lazarus snuffled in a corner, Emma spotted the object of the dog’s concern. A bronze sundial Tom had given her one birthday had toppled in the wind and crashed onto the stone. The sun’s smiling face, bent from the blow, felt rough and scarred in her hands like so many of the faces she had drawn. Emma wiped the moss from the dial and replaced it on top of its marble stand. Moments later, when the rain fell in heavy drops and thunder sounded from the sky, the bronze face looked as if it were crying.
10th June, 1917
My dear Tom:
Last night, the sundial you gave me fell in a storm. It was damaged, and the effect was a bit overwhelming. The accident reminded me of your absence and the distance between us. The rain looked like tears on the sun’s face and it nearly made me cry. I admit every now and then I feel blue, but then I remember your strength—a strength that took you away from me. I wonder sometimes if I have that kind of fortitude. If I do, it must be in reserve.
I hope you won’t think me too much of a woman (a tiresome little thing who can’t make up her mind because you know I’m not!), but I’ve made no decision about coming to France. I’d like to know more about this doctor and his technique. How does he help these men? What is the process? I have such trouble with faces I’m not certain I’m up to the job. On the other hand, a change from Boston might do me good. I admit the prospect of working with facially disfigured men would be challenging, and, in the end, life must be an adventure, I suppose, or why live it?
I’ve begun working on my next project, Narcissus. I found a suitable model for the work—Linton Bower—one of Alex’s artists. He is a blind painter, believe it or not, and paints the most extraordinary canvases of bright geometric shapes and colors. And, yet, they have traditional meaning. Perhaps you’ve met him at some point. Boston is a very small city. Vreland, the Register critic, is doing an article on him.
Well, I’m sorry my letter is short tonight, but I’m tired and must go to bed. Please let me know if you communicate with the Englishman. I shall await your reply.
Anne asks for you constantly, as does Louisa when she is not consumed by some society event. That’s a candid, but accurate, assessment of her character. She is a dear friend, but she tries my patience at times. Still, she lifts me up when I need it. I will pat Lazarus for you. He is fine as well, but seems less active since you departed.
Your wife,
Emma
She placed the pen on her studio desk, folded the letter, and wondered whether she shouldn’t have written, Your loving wife. She hesitated while addressing it to him care of the Red Cross in France because she was aware of her own deception. She had no plans to leave Boston until she could understand the raw, deep emotions stirred by Linton—in the meantime, she had to remain responsible and mature enough to preserve her marriage. However, the painter offered her more than charms and flattery. He was younger than she by four or five years, she surmised, and he was to be admired for so many reasons: his striking features, his talent as an artist, and his attentions paid—Linton’s qualities uncovered a buried vein of romance that ran through her and invited him into her heart. But when she carefully considered the relationship, she discovered something else.
She had never consciously thought of Linton as damaged or wounded, but it was clear he looked to her for help, relying on her for emotional support as a blind man, for artistic inspiration, and, worst of all for her, a source of companionship. Her maternal instincts were blossoming, and Linton, in his current state, was hard to resist. An unpleasant choice would have to be made in one direction or the other. Was she to fulfill her marriage with her husband or begin anew with Linton?
As she placed the letter to Tom on top of a stack of books, she pictured Linton standing naked, the perfect model for Narcissus.
* * *
A few days later, Emma, in a restless mood from sketching all morning, planned to surprise Linton by taking an afternoon walk to his studio. He, instead, surprised her after lunch by arriving at her home in a hansom cab. Anne answered the door as Emma watched from the sitting room. Linton strutted into the hallway like an aristocratic gentleman, as animated in gesture and complexion as Emma had ever seen. He handed Anne his gray woolen jacket and asked her to call for her mistress. Lazarus barked at the surge of activity in the normally placid house.
“She’s right down the hall,” the young housekeeper said.
Emma was well within earshot. “What a surprise, Linton. I’m coming.”
Linton’s already wide smile, deepened. He ruffled his right hand through his black hair like a stallion shaking his mane. “It’s a perfect afternoon for a ride. I wish I could have obtained a couple of horses, but I hired the next best transportation I could.”
Emma peered out the door. A mustachioed driver in top hat, dress pants, and long coat stood next to a silky black horse reined to an equally shiny cab. Linton had spent time and money acquiring the perfect driver and carriage.
“I appreciate the extravagance, Linton, but you . . .”
Linton stopped her with a touch to her arm. “Appreciate the moment, Emma. It’s not often I splurge. And I should—I mean, while I have the money. Don’t you agree?”
She could only smile at his infectious attitude.
“So, grab a jacket and let’s start out. I have the cabman for two hours. The breeze is refreshing, and I’m anxious to see the city.” Linton laughed heartily and she joined in at his self-deprecating joke. He retrieved his jacket from the housekeeper as Emma gathered her light spring coat from the hall tree and then said good-bye to Anne and Lazarus.
“I thought you would be working today,” Emma said, as the driver offered his arm for support as she climbed into the carriage. Linton made his way around the horse to the other side of the cab as the man again offered his assistance. Linton settled next to her, his right leg achingly close to her left.
“No, the day is too beautiful to waste. You have to take advantage of precious days like these. There’s plenty of time for work on a rainy summer day, or through a dreary fall and a cold winter. Besides, we have our project to discuss.” He placed his hand upon hers as the driver climbed into the concealed seat elevated behind them.
Emma was tempted to move her hand to her lap but instead kept it in place.
The cabman flicked his riding whip and the horse stepped off at a leisurely walk.
“How is your work coming along?” Linton asked as they moved down the street. The row houses, the sun reflecting off the windows, glided past them.
The late spring air swirled into the cab; the earthy smell of the animal mixed with Linton’s soapy, fresh scent. “I’m satisfied with several of the drawings. I think after a few more weeks of working on the sketches, I’ll be able to start the maquette. The real modeling sessions will begin then.”
He patted her hand. “I’m ready any time.”
“And how is your work—and Alex?”
Linton turned away for a moment and looked out the carriage window. The flesh on the back of his neck quivered before he turned back to her, his mouth drawn at the corners. “Honestly, I don’t know if the studio was a good idea.” He tapped the fingers of his free hand on his thigh. “Don’t get me wrong, I love it, but when I’m alone I stare out the windows into the light as if there’s something out there I can’t reach and must have.”
She nodded.
Linton smiled weakly, seeing, or sensing, her movement. He grasped her hand tightly. “Can you understand this? It’s as if my success has brought on too much pressure. Now, instead of creating art for my pleasure, my edification, I’m creating to satisfy the public. I feel stifled—in more ways than one.”
The cab turned west toward the Charles River. In front of her, snaking lines of pedestrians strolled the Embankment, the river reflecting glittering diamonds of light along its length as it stretched south and west through Cambridge. She inhaled deeply and thought, This is a chance to be happy! Now, in this time, she had her best possible chance at happiness. But hadn’t she felt the same with Tom before they were married? No! Tom was different—he was security and sensibility. How could she desert her husband and the life they had built—for pleasure—for the vagaries of passion and bliss? In the end, wouldn’t the pleasure and intensity of any relationship fade into sameness and the familiarity of failure? How could two artists, with the fluctuations and whimsies of gallery sales, support themselves, especially Emma, who had yet to achieve any kind of fame or self-sufficiency? Linton felt different to her, the bud of romance coming to bloom; but she hadn’t sorted through the complexity of her feelings.
She withdrew her hand from his and stared at the sparkling water because she didn’t want to look into his eyes. “Tom wants me to come to France.”
He seemed to stop breathing, as if life had drained from him. After that, for what seemed an eternity, the only sounds that drifted to her ears were the gentle urges of the cabman to his horse, the clop of hooves, and the rattle of the carriage.
Finally, Linton asked, “Have you decided?”
“ No. ”
He exhaled and her world again seemed on its rightful course.
“I need time to think about what Tom is asking of me,” she said. “The thought is tempting—I don’t think you know my weaknesses, Linton.”
“You have a weakness?” he asked, somewhat bitterly. “I wouldn’t have thought so.”
“Oh, more than one.” She leaned back in the seat as the cab came to a brief stop to let pedestrians cross an intersection. Emma stared at the couples who passed in front of the carriage; a few smiled and chatted, most were captivated by the ground underneath their feet. To go through life staring at the ground, one might as well be dead. Linton was right, the day, the journey, were too precious to waste. She faced him and found him staring at her with his gauzy eyes, waiting to hear of her tribulations. “Well, for one, I have trouble with faces. The critics have always said so. I’d be working with soldiers—making masks to cover their facial injuries. The work would assist me in my art and . . .”
“And?”
“I don’t want to sound too noble . . . I’d be doing something for someone else for a change—something good—not just thinking about myself, or my art, or scouring Boston society for patrons.”
Linton nodded. “Yes, let Alex, Louisa Markham, and Frances Livingston handle that aspect of the business.”
“I know you understand how exciting, but shallow, the whole business can be.”
He said nothing, but she knew he agreed. “But there is our project. Narcissus might keep me in Boston.”
“Am I one of your weaknesses?” he asked.
She shifted in the seat and was certain Linton saw, at least felt, her discomfort. Was he her weakness? The cab jerked forward past the sleepwalkers staring at their feet and, at that moment, she believed Linton was more than a temptation for all the qualities she admired in him. He was a man with whom she could fall deeply, madly in love if she let herself. The question was how far would she go?
As if unwilling to wait for an answer, Linton placed both of his hands on her face.
Emma recoiled as much from the intimacy of his movement as from the vulnerability she felt from public eyes staring into the cab.
She pushed his hands away. “Linton, please!”
He turned crimson and his pale eyes blinked. “I meant no offense. I only wanted to see your face. All you are to me now is a whitish blur surrounded by a dark halo of hair. But with my hands I can truly see.”
“I understand,” Emma said apologetically, and felt ashamed of her rebuff, but still wary of those who might see her with his hands on her face. She lifted the overhead trap and yelled to the cabman, “Driver, could you please take us to the Fenway? I want to see the lush green of the cattails.”
“Certainly, ma’am,” the driver yelled down.
Emma closed the trap and pressed her back into the soft leather. The cab veered away from the river, heading west, passing several busy streets before taking its place on a road bordered by opulent houses with stately columns and wide verdant lawns. They passed Mrs. Livingston’s home before the road narrowed to a lane shaded by tall oaks and cedars. On this part of the journey, her companion had been silent, unmoving, staring through the carriage glass to his left. She wondered what he was seeing, or thinking.
“Linton?” She tapped him on the shoulder, hoping to shake him from his thoughts.
He turned to her and tears glistened in the shaded wells of his eyes.
“Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“I know you didn’t mean,” he said tersely and swiped a hand across his eyes. “I should be more of a man about it, I suppose. But can you understand how hard it is for me to . . .”
“See?” Emma asked softly, verging on tears herself.
Linton nodded and peered out of the cab.
Emma took his hands, now firmly situated in his lap, and guided them to her face.
He shuddered at her touch and turned.
She placed his right hand on her left cheek. Her facial nerves fluttered at the cool dampness of his fingers against the hot flush of her skin. “See,” she said.
His body relaxed against hers as his fingertips rested against her cheek for a time. Then, subtly, like a sculptor molding clay, his thumb and forefinger explored her features, at first dimpling them against the hollow of her cheek. He worked his hand upward across her cheekbone, and then cupped it over her left eye, pressing his index finger over the line of her brow. Emma thought her breath would stop as his hand traced lightly over her skin. He followed the line of her hair, leaned over, and then allowed his fingers to drift down the right side of her face, gently contouring the length of her nose. His hand descended toward her jaw; at that point, he brought up both hands and cupped them around her face. In a languid motion, he slid them down until his palms cradled her neck in a gentle embrace. Her pulse throbbed against his hands.
“You are so beautiful,” he said after a moment.
Emma placed her hands over his. The cab glided under a dense arch of trees and the shadows deepened.
Linton drew his face toward hers and kissed her.
She swooned under the press of his lips as the city dropped away. How long had it been since she had yielded like this to a man? How long had it been since the sweet sensations of passion had overtaken her? She lost control as the fevered air swept through the cab. Fueled by the humidity of the Fenway’s swampy ground, Emma kissed Linton fiercely and he responded by covering her face and neck with his own fervid kisses.
The cab rocked to a stop. The driver’s knock on the trap brought her to her senses. Linton pulled away and Emma, flushed, ran her hands across her face and through her hair.
“The road ends here,” the driver called out. “Back to town?”
Linton arched his neck, directing his voice through the trap. “Yes, back to the city.” He turned to Emma. “We still have an hour left.”
Emma smoothed her dress and tried to smile. She wondered whether Linton could discern her discomfort—perhaps by instinct rather than sight. “An hour,” she stated in a measured tone. She brushed her hands over her coat. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have acted so rashly.” She expected a quick reply, but none was forthcoming. Linton only stared out of the cab as if focused on some obscure object in the distance.
After the cab had reversed course and begun its journey back, he said, “You didn’t act rashly—you acted from your heart.”
“Perhaps, but where the heart leads can be dangerous.” Emma stared at the distant church steeples that rose above the trees. “We need to step back for a moment—let our intellect rule.”
Linton sat stiffly in the seat. The cab passed the resplendent Fenway homes and ventured back to Boston’s crowded streets. Other than polite conversation about the architecture, Emma spoke only briefly. He did the same until they arrived at her home. There he asked the driver to help Emma out of the cab and when she said good-bye, he did likewise, staring at a distant object that seemed visible only to him.
* * *
Emma fanned the program in front of her face. Beads of perspiration formed near her hairline and slid toward her temples. Why had Louisa decided to inflict an afternoon of such torture upon her?
The pianist at the front of the church lifted his hands to perform the Allegro Maestoso of Mozart’s Piano Sonata in A Minor.
Emma wiped her face with her handkerchief as the performer’s fingers touched the keyboard. “My God, it’s hot in this church,” she whispered to Louisa.
“Hot as hell, you might say,” her friend whispered back, fanning herself with a carved ivory fan bordered in black Japanese lacquer.
Emma wondered how Louisa could stay so cool in such a formal dress of heavy cotton. She looked out over the rows of dark pews, nearly all occupied by stiffly dressed men and women who had come to enjoy a Sunday concert at the church.
The pianist’s hands raced over the keyboard as the afternoon sun burned through a clerestory window. A rectangular pane of blazing yellow light fell on an elderly couple three rows in front. The air grew as suffocating as fingers around her throat as the heat intensified.
“I feel faint,” Emma whispered again. “I love Mozart, but I must get some air.”
“I loathe Mozart,” Louisa replied. “Your need for medical attention is the perfect excuse for an early departure.”
“Absolutely,” Emma said before Louisa rose from the pew, clutched Emma’s hand, and pulled her down the aisle.
Though it was only slightly cooler outside, a moderate breeze cheered Emma and the heat lifted from her cheeks.
“Let’s sit for a moment,” she said as they crossed Park Street, her arm intertwined with Louisa’s. They found an iron bench shaded by an elm’s leafy branches. A flock of pigeons pecked and cooed near her feet; two squirrels circled madly around the base of a nearby tree.
“Are you feeling better?” Louisa asked after a few moments. “In the church, you looked like a cherry ready for the picking.”
Emma wiped her brow with her handkerchief, watching as couples traversed Tremont Street and, farther to the south, a throng of people crossed Boylston Street. Activity filled the Common on Sunday: children played with hoops, men courted sweethearts, old men smoked and read newspapers. Carriages rolled down Tremont, competing with the trolley for space.
Louisa sighed. “Give me a modern composer any day. Have you heard of Mr. Mahler? He died a few years ago, but he was a genius.”
“Vaguely,” Emma replied, not much in the mood for conversation. “This was your idea. I didn’t know you hated Mozart. Why drag us to a recital you disliked?”
“To get you out of the house—you’ve been sequestered so. You might as well be a nun. I had no idea you loved Mozart, but, frankly, it doesn’t make much difference, does it?”
“Well, we’ve learned something new about each other. I like music—I may have heard something of Mr. Mahler’s, although most modern compositions strike me as strange.”
“Like Linton Bower’s paintings?”
“Oh, I see,” Emma said, shaking her head. “That’s what this outing is about.”
“Yes, I wanted a private word with you—away from Anne and Lazarus.”
“Lazarus doesn’t care about our conversations, and he doesn’t tell tales.”
Louisa shook her fan at Emma. “Yes, but Anne is a different story. One can never trust the serving class. The walls talk in houses occupied by servants. Besides, what I have to say is rather private.” Louisa placed her fan in her lap and folded her hands over it. “Stories are circulating.”
“About?”
“You and Linton.”
“I see. There’s not much to tell.”
“It’s been said he modeled nude for you, and there’s more. Rumor has it you are having an affair with him.”
Emma shook her head, drew in a deep breath, and smiled. “And where are these rumors coming from?”
“Let’s say I heard them from our friends.”
“Your friends, Louisa. Which brings me to a point—you will not be one of mine if you continue this gossip mongering.”
Louisa laughed, her mouth almost curled into a sneer. “Really, Emma, our friendship is too long and too glorious to be ruined by a flock of cackling hens. I only tell you this because I want to protect your name. You know the affectations of Boston society.”
“I could do without such society.”
Louisa tapped her fan against the bench. “So Linton is not a homosexual?”
“Really, sometimes you astound me. How could you fall into such a trap?” She stopped for a moment to consider what to say next. After a brief, uncomfortable silence, she continued, “He’s handsome—and, yes, he has modeled for me—and we’ve become friends. He’s a kind man and a gentleman—but not a homosexual.”
Her friend picked at the red cloth tassel hanging from the fan. “You sound quite certain.” An arch smile formed on her face. “I’m positive these stories come from Alex. He is the cause, if you need the source. And it only makes sense, what with his jealousy . . . you know Linton is five years younger than you . . . Alex told me so. However, someone we know did see you taking a cab ride with the painter.”
“I’ve had quite enough of this,” Emma said, her anger rising. “God knows how, but what if this innuendo got to Tom? He would be furious. I wrote him that Linton was modeling for me, but having an affair is an entirely different story.”
A smart young couple passed in front of the bench. The sight of the loving pair dropped a melancholy veil over Emma. Louisa’s assertions were far too uncomfortable. After the carriage ride, she had wondered how far away she was from having an affair. Certainly, it was possible if she wanted it. But Tom’s stable voice and steady eyes rushed into her head if thoughts of Linton lingered too long. And it was Tom, she had to admit, who brought her that momentary serenity—a calmness borne of separation and little emotion.
Far down the Common near the intersection of Tremont and Boylston, voices united into a chant. Emma watched as a motor truck, decked out in red, white, and blue bunting, wobbled around the corner and turned north onto Tremont. A group of men and women, some carrying signs, followed the vehicle.
“Peace! We want peace!” the group chanted. “Wilson has betrayed us!” The group continued its protest as the truck rumbled along.
“Oh, for heaven’s sakes,” Louisa said. “Radicals, probably Socialists.”
Emma stiffened. “I understand their thinking completely.”
“Then we’ve learned something else about each other—we are more widely divergent on our musical and political views than I imagined,” Louisa replied smugly. “And I thought I knew you so well. . . .”
“Perhaps not,” Emma said, rising from the bench. She looked across the Common and found herself flushed with anger. How could Louisa be so callous, her comments so shocking? Could her friend’s attitude indicate how superficial their relationship might have been from the start? Her first connection with Louisa was through Tom; then their friendship had been united by a common bond of society parties and art circles. Louisa was always available for a laugh, and a lift if needed, but with Tom gone, their connection was dissipating more quickly than she could have anticipated.
The chanting voices faded as the truck and the marchers passed by.
Emma, followed by Louisa, walked deeper into the Common. Finally, succumbing to the heat and seeing the chance to traverse a street near her home, Emma offered a terse good-bye and left Louisa to fend for herself.
* * *
As quickly as spring had turned to summer, the heat was banished by a succession of cool, overcast days. Low gray clouds smothered the city, and often the afternoon was peppered by a fine mist that sometimes lingered throughout the night. The weather precipitated a feeling of dread in Emma, the associated anxiety gnawing at her. She was certain her apprehension sprang from her feelings for Linton and the spreading rumors of their relationship, but even more beastly was the uncertainty about how to cope with a life controlled by forces she couldn’t conquer. Her conversations with Louisa had become formal and stilted since they had talked on the Common. Her enthusiasm for The Narcissus had dampened because of the gossip, even as she longed to see Linton.
On a day when the afternoon light was dim and bleak, Emma met Linton in the South End. He had telephoned her and asked for a meeting, his constricted voice conveying irritation and worry. As she climbed the stairs to his studio, she wondered what was wrong, her mind channeling her worries in all kinds of strange and bizarre directions.
The studio door was unlocked. Linton, who was stretched across the couch, looked particularly glum.
“Sit by me,” he said without giving her a look, even as she drew closer.
In his presence, Emma was aware of the faint smell of her lavender eau de toilette, the sounds she made upon arrival: shoes clicking against the floor, her dress ruffling against her stockings. These sensory offerings were the calling cards she presented to the young artist.
“I knew it was you,” Linton said.
“Of course,” Emma replied, “you were expecting me.”
“I recognized your step on the stairs. When you’re near I detect your scent.” He held out his hand.
Emma grasped his outstretched fingers. “Pleasant, I hope.” “Your soap is oatmeal, but sometimes you dab on lavender.” He drew up his knees, so Emma could sit. She settled in, somewhat uncomfortably, avoiding brushing against him.
Linton shook slightly underneath his jacket.
“Are you cold?” Emma faced him, bracing herself against the damp air that filled the studio.
“No. Angry.”
She turned up the lapels of her jacket. “What happened?”
“I had a row with Alex. You know why I’m angry.”
“ No. ”
“These damn rumors going around about me—about us,” Linton said furiously. “He had no right to start them. He denied it, but I know he talks when he shouldn’t . . . he has a few scotches and his mouth flies open. First, I’m a homosexual, and now I’m having an affair with you. It’s not fair to either of us. We’re artists trying to make a living, doing something we love.” He stared at her with eyes as cheerless as the day.
She succumbed to his anguish, tenderness flowing from her, her body arching toward his. “The rumors are troublesome, but . . . oh, Louisa irritates me so because she’s such a gossip . . . it’s what I’ve come to expect of Boston society. It wouldn’t surprise me if she was part of this.”
Linton continued his wan stare.
“Do you hear what I’m saying?” she asked. “It’s as if I have to make a choice, extricating myself from Louisa—as well as the people who are my patrons. Things haven’t been the same since Tom left.”
“It’s Alex’s fault,” Linton said. “If I could break my dependence on him, I’d leave his gallery and go somewhere else.”
“Please, Linton, you need Alex—for your sake and for your career. He’s the only gallery owner in Boston who would take on work like yours. You’ve been successful with him. He’s set you up in this studio. Perhaps he is to blame for these rumors—but I can understand why he started them.”
Linton flinched. Looking somewhat frail in the dull light, he got up from the couch and walked toward the windows, his head bowed, his back hunched. He stopped near the panes and leaned against the casement.
Emma remained on the couch, unsure whether to follow. After a moment, she grabbed a blue silk scarf from the seatback, walked to him, and looked out to the street below where a few umbrellas bobbed in the mist.
“Why can you understand the rumors?” Linton asked. “Why?”
She wrapped the scarf around his shoulders and stepped back. “Because you are Linton Bower. If Alex did, it’s because he cares for you—not because he’s an evil or malicious man. His actions may have been motivated by jealousy, but also . . . love.”
“I lied to you, Emma.” Linton shuddered and brought his hands to his face, perhaps in shame, perhaps in exasperation. “I deceived you—I did sleep with him, but that’s the only lie I’ve ever told you.” Lowering his hands, he removed the scarf slowly from his shoulders and faced her, sadness swimming in the gauzy eyes. “Only a man like me would allow a woman like you to put a silk scarf around his shoulders. Only a man like me would sleep with Alex more than once . . . a few times . . . because I needed representation—because I needed the money. I’m sorry I lied, but it’s not something a man reveals to a woman.”
“Then, you are a . . . ?”
Linton bunched the scarf in his hands and threw it to the floor. “No! I’m not a homosexual. I’m an opportunist. I’ve been dismissed by men and women alike because of my condition—ignored as the blind man.”
He swayed toward her and his advance caught her off guard. He reached for her, his arms closing around her, his muscular strength pressing against her body, finally capturing her in his embrace and pressing his lips against hers. As one hand held the back of her head, the other drifted toward her breasts and she knew she should struggle against him, but her resistance faded as Linton’s passion increased.
“Linton . . .” she managed to whisper between his kisses. “This isn’t right. Not this way.”
“Please, Emma,” Linton said, guiding her hand to his stomach, his abdomen quivering at her touch. “I adore you. . . .”
She was standing on the edge of the precipice. But as Linton’s hands swam over her body, the encroaching intimacy set her on edge rather than fire her passion. The studio’s cavernous shadows suddenly took on ominous overtones, with Tom, Louisa, and even Alex standing in the corner, watching them with disapproving eyes. As exciting as making love to Linton might be, she could not go through with it. She was trapped—caught between desire and the stasis of her marriage and conscience. Emma turned away, unable to bear the kisses Linton showered on her neck and face, sliding from his grasp as he undid the buttons on his shirt.
Apparently, neither of them had heard the footsteps on the stairs. The door swung open, followed by words blurted out as if in shock: “Your Diana has sold . . . I wanted to be the first to . . .”
An eerie silence fell over them before Linton, his back to the door, gasped and hurriedly tucked his shirt back into his pants.
Emma reeled backward toward the windows.
Louisa, deathly pale, holding a dripping umbrella, stood in the doorway. “Alex told me you might be here—I wanted to give you . . . good news. . . .”
A contorted smile crossed Emma’s face before the tears began.
Linton wheeled in a fury. “Get out of my studio! Get out, now!”
Like a phantom, Louisa turned and stepped out the door.
The sound of the closing latch exploded in Emma’s ears. She collapsed against the sill.
Linton took her into his arms as she sobbed.
She hurriedly wiped her eyes and drew herself together. “I’ve got to catch her!” She pushed him away and rushed to the door. Emma called Louisa’s name as she fled down the stairs to the street. Her friend had disappeared in the foggy dampness; the mist had turned to rain. Emma braced herself against the building, uncertain of what to do; but one thought raced through her head as the tears fell: I will never be able to show my face in this city again.
* * *
Emma tore the sheets one by one from her sketch pad as Anne set the tea service on the sitting room table. Lazarus lay on his back, paws up, against the side of her chair. The courtyard darkened under the evening mist and the fir appeared black and foreboding.
“I’ll get wood for the fire,” Anne said.
“The evening’s chilly for June.” Emma wrapped her dressing gown tightly around her and looked at the drawings gathered in her lap. Soon, the fireplace radiated warmth and cheeriness throughout the room.
Emma looked at Tom’s picture. Anne had kept it conspicuously clean since she’d issued her instructions. She rose from her chair, knelt before the fireplace with the sketches of The Narcissus, and methodically ripped each page in half and tossed the pieces into the flames. The paper whooshed and curled in the fire, and in a few minutes the drawings were reduced to feathery gray ash. She admitted to herself that Linton’s revelations had disturbed her. It wasn’t so much that he had slept with Alex, but she now questioned his sincerity. Was he an opportunist with her as well?
The drawings were rubbish anyway. How could she have believed such a project could come to fruition?
She stepped away from the fire. The memory of Louisa standing in the doorway, her soggy umbrella in hand, a look of horrific dismay upon her face, floated through Emma’s mind. Tomorrow, all of Boston would know. She would be a branded woman.
“Can I do anything else for you, ma’am?” Anne asked. “If not, I’m off to bed.”
Emma thought for a moment. “Yes, if it’s not too much trouble, could you bring me a pad and pen from upstairs? I’m going to write a letter to my husband.”
“No trouble at all.”
The seconds ticked away and, briefly, Emma felt warm, comfortable, and safe in the sitting room; but, try as she might, she couldn’t shake the thoughts that troubled her: Louisa, Linton, her indifferent relationship with Tom, the city agog with scandal, the persistent specter of the war. All these nagging misfortunes loomed over her like the spirit of melancholia standing behind her chair.
Anne returned with the requested items and said good night.
Emma curled in the chair, and put pen to paper.
17th June, 1917
My dear Tom:
I’m sorry it’s taken me a while to come to this decision....
Emma stopped writing and studied the sentence. The decision was hers and not one to be taken lightly. Either way, someone would be hurt—either her husband or Linton. And as unsettling as that choice was, she most likely would be hurt as well. She rubbed the pen’s nub against the paper and started again.
I’m sorry it’s taken me a while to come to this decision—I’m coming to France.
It would be for the best. She owed it to Tom to give the marriage another chance. He was a good man and an excellent provider. Linton would be hurt, but he would get over her. A man of his looks, talent, charm, and youth wouldn’t be lonely for long.
My work here isn’t going at all well, despite the news today that my Diana has sold. I haven’t even talked to Alex about who purchased it. I must confess, my world has been topsy-turvy since you left. Work on my new project has stalled due to my inability to focus upon it. Too many things have been on my mind—including you. I’m following your suggestion and am seeking passage to Paris, where maybe I can do some good for the world, as you already are. When I consider it, working with the brave soldiers is so much more important than anything I could do here at my artist’s table. When my itinerary is confirmed, I will write you with the details.
You must believe me, Tom, and know this has not been an easy decision, or one taken lightly. Giving up my work here tests all my strength, but there are such good reasons to travel to France. I trust Anne completely to care for the house. We can arrange for appropriate compensation. Lazarus considers her one of the family and, at this point, the dog is probably closer to her than to me. I’m certain the whole arrangement will work out for the best.
Wish me safe passage. I will post my next letter in all haste. In the meantime, I send you my love.
Your wife,
Emma
Thomas Evan Swan.
She studied the black-and-white photograph but imagined him as if he were standing in front of her. Thinning hair lay in wisps across the head, eyes of cornflower blue, fair white skin that reddened easily in the New England summer sun. She tried to smile. In a short time, they would meet again, and she would embrace and kiss him because she wanted his love—or was it needed—his body so close to hers, needed so desperately in this moment of loneliness, this hour of abandonment of a city and a man she might love. Yet, love was so different from passion—a lesson to relearn with each new romance. Would the flames blaze again in France?
The fire sputtered and settled beneath the grate. Emma kept her eyes on the photograph as if charmed by a talisman. Magically, Tom’s face shifted to the darker features of Linton Bower. And then, yet again, to the man she had opened herself to before she met Thomas Evan Swan.
Drugged by the elixir of memory, she fell into an uneasy sleep in her chair.
During the night Lazarus paced between the fireplace and Emma, his keen canine senses aware of the anxiety plaguing her dreams.
Entry: 20th June, 1917
I placed Tom’s letter on my studio desk where it sat two days before I mailed it. I was a mass of nerves when I relinquished it to Anne to be posted. My stomach has not settled since. The world seems to have shifted and fate is about to plunge me headlong into a journey I could never have imagined. When I think about the good times of my life—sculpting, the lush green mountains of my girlhood home, the few serene years with Tom—I feel they’ve passed never to be recaptured.
Half of me is thrilled to make the journey, the other a whimpering child. If I’m honest, I suppose I’m leaving because of Linton. I can’t believe what has happened. I never thought another burst of romance would come into my life yet again, and then be dashed. Our last meeting made me keenly aware of the danger that exists between us. My feelings are not skin deep. Linton opens an aching avenue for love and also great trepidation about what might be. He resurrects memories of a passion gone by that were securely buried. Love is a malleable emotion forged by all manner of feelings. One person sees it as strength, courage, and devotion, while another sees it as slavish need and subjugation. Who can say what love truly is?
After Anne returned from mailing the letter, I sat with her in the kitchen. She was baking a pie and the heat was quite overpowering. A sudden compassion for the young woman overcame me—for this waif who left Ireland to make America her home. Her swirling dark hair, her alabaster face highlighted by ruddy cheeks, gave her the appearance of a figure drawn by a master watercolorist. I marveled at the conditions under which she works: the oppressive heat of the basement kitchen, comforting in winter, but hellish in the summer; the labor required to carry wood and coal for fuel, to tote bundles from the deliveryman; and then, after a long day, to climb three stories to her small bedroom, chilled by winter winds and roasted by summer sun. I wish conditions were easier for us all—particularly for Anne.
She settled upon the uneasiness arising from my letter to Tom. “Did something happen, ma’am? Something terrible?” She stopped and wiped her hands on her apron. “I have no right to ask, but if you need someone to talk to . . . I tire of conversing with the dog. You must be waiting for a caller. The house has been strangely quiet. Not a word from Mr. Hippel, or that handsome Mr. Bower, let alone from your friend, Louisa.”
I, of course, could say nothing of Linton and my situation. At that moment, I realized Anne would bear a great responsibility when I was gone. She would be the master and mistress of the house. She had already taken it upon herself to gauge my feelings. An unorthodox and radical thought occurred to me. My patroness, Frances Livingston, is having a party. What if I took Anne to the gathering? Frances, an early champion of my work, is pure Boston Brahmin, and a good soul at heart, and it’s time Anne meets others outside of her station. I know Louisa will protest, but I cannot be swayed by her objections. Anne is a trusted employee—not a slave. Besides, a night out will do us both good.
When I mentioned the party, Anne, of course, demurred saying she had nothing to wear and she would not fit in. I told her to smile; her face would be her good fortune. If only the faces on my sculptures could be as pleasing as Anne’s.
As they rode in the hansom cab, Emma reconsidered her invitation to take Anne to the party. Perhaps her enthusiasm had clouded her judgment. She knew criticism was inevitable, not just for bringing her housekeeper, but of her pending journey abroad as well. The party would be interesting at the very least—Louisa certainly would be there, possibly Alex and Linton, and others of the artistic and social circle who happened to be in Boston and not summering in Lenox or Bar Harbor. Emma would be pleased if Vreland never showed his face, but she suspected the critic was on Mrs. Livingston’s guest list.
The horse plodded along in the pleasant June evening. Anne sat looking out the window, as if she were a fairy-tale princess. The fading sunlight sparkled on the Charles like glittering stars patched upon the water, and a rosy hue infused the sky. The cab turned away from the river, the driver directing it toward Mrs. Livingston’s Fenway home.
“Oh, ma’am, this is so exciting,” Anne said as she peered out. Emma imagined what her housekeeper must be feeling and marveled at the young woman from Ireland who had come to the United States shortly before the war broke out with no job and only a few dollars in her pocket. She had been referred by an acquaintance of Tom’s who swore the Irish were to be the saviors of Boston, especially when it came to the serving class. Anne had worked a number of odd jobs and been a bit rough around the edges at first, but Emma and Tom had liked her immediately upon introduction and she had more than shown her worth in the time she had been with them. Emma thought of Anne’s solitary journey across the Atlantic, and how the war’s disastrous upheaval of the past three years had changed so many lives.
“Yes, it is, and the evening’s only begun.” Emma patted Anne’s hand. The day of the party, Emma had completed what she set out to do. She’d helped with the cooking, walked Lazarus, tucked in Anne’s borrowed dress—the black one Emma had worn to the opening at the Fountain—and chose her own attire, a maroon dress purchased several years earlier. It was decidedly out of fashion, ankle length, but she had chosen it with one intention in mind. The color seemed appropriate for all that had transpired the past few weeks. Anne was coming along for the ride—another point to be made. Guilt swept over her briefly. Perhaps it was selfish to use a party as a personal forum, but, upon consideration, no one would misunderstand her implication when she walked into the house dressed as she was.
The evening shadows stretched across the lawn as they arrived at the porte cochere. The driver opened the cab door and Emma withdrew coins from her purse. One electric light blazed above the porch, a beacon against the rations of war. The façade was subdued compared with previous functions Emma had attended: the gas lamps held in the stone lions’ paws were cold and dark, no torches lined the walkway, no festive colored lights peppered the shrubs. The house seemed blanched and mute, as if recovering from a long sleep.
Anne sighed as they walked up the steps.
“What’s wrong?” Emma asked.
“I can hardly believe people have so much money,” Anne said.
“More than any of us can imagine.” A doorman awaited them after their climb. “You should have seen it before the war. It’s positively dreary as it is now.”
A servant greeted them with a nod and directed them past a door studded with leaded crystal and gold gilt. “In the ballroom, Mrs. Swan,” the man said stiffly.
A grand marble staircase, carpeted in red, swept up to the right. Violins played down the long 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 curling. “Can you blame me?”
“Nothing happened between Linton and me,” Emma countered, knowing she had broken away from Linton’s embrace when Louisa entered the studio. She felt compelled to add, “Linton was going to model for me.”
“That hardly appeared the case. You can deny your attachment to Linton, but it’s clearly obvious to everyone else— including me.” Louisa lowered her head. “But, I suppose, I, too, must be forgiven.” She pursed her lips. “Society is not to be trifled with, particularly in Boston. It’s a lesson my mother taught me in childhood and I have never forgotten. Society cannot be denied, nor can those who uphold it.” A steely resolve filled her friend’s eyes. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have, but I returned to the Fountain. I felt I had nowhere else to go—to the only person who might understand what I had seen. Alex had begged me to tell him your reaction to the sale of Diana. You must believe me, I tried to lie, but he saw through me from the beginning. I sat, overcome with emotion, and shed a few tears. Alex was understandably upset—he had no idea where my grief was coming from—and after much pleading from him, I disclosed what I had witnessed. You must remember that your husband is my friend. I swear I told no one else, but the rumor has gotten out. I’m afraid even Tom may know before long.”
“I see,” Emma said and clasped her hands together. “My intuition about this maroon dress was correct.”
Louisa sighed, the corners of her mouth turning down in sadness.
The disagreeable man from the group stepped toward them as a chilly silence took hold. “I’m indeed sorry to interrupt, but I wanted to congratulate you, Mrs. Swan, on your recent sale.” Everett offered his hand.
Emma stood stone-faced, not willing to reciprocate to the one who had maligned her.
He withdrew his hand. “I must say, after seeing your statue and reading Monsieur Vreland’s review of the opening, I was quite amazed it sold. However, scandal has a way of making objects more valuable. Shall we say curiosity overcomes taste?” He laughed, then scowled at her and returned to the group.
Louisa smirked. “See, the rumor has spread. He’s a buffoon with no manners and very little breeding. He’s attached himself to Vreland like a leech.”
“It’s worse than I thought,” Emma said. “If I don’t leave Boston, I’ll be run out on a rail.”
Frances, arms aflutter, breezed toward them. “Mrs. Gardner and Singer Sargent have arrived,” the hostess said. “Please do say hello to them.” And then she darted on to her next destination as quickly as she had come.
“I’ll be leaving soon for France,” Emma said.
“France?” Louisa’s brown eyes glittered with skepticism. “So, you’ve decided?”
“Yes. I’m following Tom’s suggestion.” Emma looked into the garden. The scene was tranquil, aided by the string trio’s soothing music. Anne sat on a white marble bench under a wisteria arbor. Bent with interest and attentive eyes focused on the young lady next to him, a handsome young man in a black tuxedo sat next to her housekeeper.
“Anne seems to be having a good time,” Emma said. “I must remember what it was like to sense the first blush of love.” She thought better of her words as soon as she said them. “I’m glad she’s here.” She gripped Louisa’s hands and looked into her eyes. “You must promise me that you will stop behaving like a duchess and treat Anne like a human being.”
Louisa’s eyes narrowed. “She’s a domestic—an Irish immigrant.”
“You mustn’t let her status influence your behavior. If something happened to me and Tom, Anne would be in charge of the household, until the legal arrangements could be straightened out. I’m not so concerned about Tom’s parents, but my mother . . . she might put Anne out on the street.”
Louisa nodded reluctantly.
Emma looked toward the fireplace where a regal, bearded, middle-aged man in a dark suit stood smoking a cigarette. “Would you like to accompany me? I’d like to reintroduce myself to Mr. Sargent.”
“No,” Louisa said. She pointed toward the ballroom door where Mrs. Gardner had attracted a flurry of activity. “Mrs. Jack has arrived. I’ll see what stories she has to tell. You have more common ground to cover with Sargent than I do—as one artist to another.”
“Well,” Emma said, “Good-bye for now. This may be our last meeting before I leave.”
“Good-bye, then. Bon voyage.” Louisa turned quickly and headed toward the crowd gathered around Mrs. Gardner.
For a moment, Emma was left alone at the end of the ballroom. She looked at the ornate crystal chandelier hanging in the middle of the room, the sedate groupings of fashionable women and cigar-smoking men, the domestics who stood like formally attired pawns behind the serving table. All of it seemed like a gauzy dream as she contemplated her move to France and how she would break the news to Linton.
Overcome by apprehension, she walked toward Sargent and the gilt fireplace. A frown crossed his face as Emma headed his way, indicating he’d rather not be bothered. She continued to walk, with reserve, toward the artist, who apparently valued his time with his cigarette. He looked somewhat like a stately grandfather with his high hairline, gray-flecked beard, and thick eyebrows. She greeted him with a firm, “Good evening.”
The painter flicked a bit of cigarette paper from his mustache and returned a slight smile.
“I don’t know whether you remember me from a brief meeting at the Fountain Gallery long ago,” she said. “I’m Emma Lewis Swan, the sculptress.”
Sargent tilted his head and his shaded eyes took on an interested glow. “Of course, I remember you, Mrs. Swan. You created the lovely Diana, which recently sold.”
Emma wondered how he knew of the sale.
“Oh, don’t look so puzzled. I make it my business to know what’s selling and what’s not. You know how easily art falls in and out of fashion. In fact, I had some interest in your sculpture, but Alex Hippel had already promised it to another buyer.”
“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 here,” Emma protested. “We’ve done enough damage.”
“To hell with them,” he said. “They don’t know anything about me . . . about us . . . they’re just a bunch of society busybodies—good-for-nothing sycophants who’ve never had to earn a real dollar in their lives. I’d be done with the lot of them if I could.”
“Linton, you’re drunk.” Emma pulled away from his grip and walked under the trellis.
“Perhaps, but when I’m near you. . . .” He stumbled toward her.
She caught him in her arms.
“You can’t deny it,” he said.
Emma pushed him away. “There can be no us, Linton. There’s an attraction—a schoolboy and schoolgirl crush. We’ve got to recognize what’s going on.” Emma attempted to keep her voice down, out of Anne’s hearing, but with every attempt to quiet herself she felt herself breaking apart, on the verge of tears. “You are a wonderful man, you are handsome and creative; but I’m a married woman with a husband. Do you realize what we would have to sacrifice to make this relationship work—if it would work at all? I can’t take that risk. Can you understand?”
The finality of her question crushed her and her voice verged on a moan as the dark fell around her. She had advanced the same arguments that Kurt had used years earlier and she hated herself for it. Any romance with Linton was dead; only the sanctity of her vows and the plodding security of her marriage remained. Her reputation and the only real security she’d ever had in the world would be gone if she pursued Linton. Disgraced, they would have to slink from Boston to another city, living in poverty if their art failed to sell. The shame of her final days with Kurt returned to haunt her again. She was in no position to love another man.
Linton wrapped his hands around the trellis and lowered his head. “I do understand and that’s the tragedy of it. We should be . . . that’s the only way I can say it, Emma . . . we should be together, and because we’re not, it’s tearing me apart. Another time, another place, and we could be together.”
“I’m leaving for France as soon as I can.”
His head jerked upright and a look of terror swamped his face.
“To the war?”
“I can do meaningful work in France. Facially disfigured soldiers need me. A doctor in England makes masks for seriously wounded men and I plan to use his techniques in Paris. I’m going to give injured men back their faces and, I hope, their lives.”
Linton leaned against the trellis and chuckled through the sadness that filled his voice. “And you, a sculptress, who’s afraid of faces. . . .”
“Perhaps I will get better. . . .”
“Giving men back their lives, while taking mine. . . .”
“I’m sorry. I’ve made my choice.” The soft light from the ballroom, the music from the string trio filtered into the garden.
He swayed unsteadily as a tear slid down his cheek. “I’ll miss you more than you’ll know.” With that, he turned, lurching with outstretched arms toward the doors, brushing past Anne and the young man on the bench, stumbling as he reached the steps, falling to his knees on the brick.
Emma, seeing his fall, rushed toward him.
Anne and the young man rose to help.
However, Alex, at the threshold with a ready hand, reached down, grabbed the painter’s forearm, and lifted him from the steps.
Emma came upon Linton, but in her shame and sorrow, could offer him no consolation.
“I’ll take care of him,” Alex said and cradled the distraught man in his arms.
Emma called for Anne, who, after a hasty good-bye to the young admirer, followed her through the chatter and laughter of the ballroom and out the door of Mrs. Livingston’s home. They had passed the hostess, Mrs. Gardner, and Sargent without saying a word. They rode home in silence for Emma had nothing in her heart but a bitter sadness.
2nd July, 1917
My Dearest Emma (from somewhere in France):
I’m sorry it’s been so long, but correspondence between us has played second fiddle to my work. I do have good news, however. I received your letter and was thrilled to know you are coming to France. As yours crossed the Atlantic, my letter traveled to England to uncover more details about Mr. Harvey, who responded almost immediately. He was a bit skeptical at first, but overall, I believe he’s a kind and generous man. With prodding, he shared, as much as he could by letter, the particulars of his amazing therapies. It begins this way....