The Sculptress

task, but he won’t take no for an answer. There are more things to life than putting one’s nose in a textbook. I couldn’t wait to come here to get away from home . . . and books.”
Emma turned her head toward the fire and looked at the red embers that glowed so evenly across the stone hearth. “So, you haven’t had the time to write? I thought I might at least get a letter.”
“Well, my studies got in the way.” He paused and with a casual motion grasped the wingchair’s arms. “Also, my father beat it into my head that you should never be too attentive to a woman. They lose interest if you are. ‘I’ve got a tip,’ he’s told me more than once. ‘Never get married. You’ll be much happier.’”
Instinctively, she objected to that reasoning, but the thought of her parents’ arguments caused by their clash of wills flashed into her mind. “Your father sounds like he’s unhappy.”
Kurt thought for a moment. “I wouldn’t say he’s unhappy. He makes his own way.”
Emma wanted no further explanation of what that happiness might entail. “You pay attention to your father, don’t you?”
“Yes. Do you pay attention to yours?”
Emma looked toward the Christmas tree in the corner, silver beading glinting, the starched crocheted snowflakes and fragile glass ornaments shimmering in the fading firelight, the fragrant aroma of pine needles filling the room. Her parents had gone to great trouble to get her to the Vermont farmhouse, even going so far as to rent a carriage for the round-trip. She wondered if they were resting comfortably at home, or whether another argument had broken out. Were they happy beside each other on this cold night?
“I pay more attention to my father than my mother,” Emma replied, looking back at Kurt. “No one makes me happier than my father. He has encouraged my art while my mother, at first, was less supportive.”
“Art?”
“I’m studying with Daniel Chester French?”
“You don’t say,” Kurt said with enthusiasm.
Emma nodded.
“Who’s he?” A sly grin broke out on his face.
She would have thrown a book at him had one been available. Instead, she plucked the magazine off his lap, whacked him across the shoulder with its rounded form, and tossed it back. “He’s the most important sculptor in America.”
Kurt’s grin faded. “Really. . . .” He scooted closer toward her as if his interest had been piqued. “He must be a very rich man.”
“Is that all that matters to you?” she asked. “Money?”
“Money’s important—probably more important than anything else. How can you be happy without it? Who wants to be poor? I’ll have to support a family, make a good living, but I’m not sure law is the way to go. I’m eighteen now and able to make my own decisions.” He cocked his head. “You must be over sixteen.”
“Yes, and able to make my own decisions.”
He guffawed and then covered his mouth with his hand. “Don’t make me laugh—I’ll wake up Charlene’s parents. You’re lying. Your mother rules the roost.”
Kurt was right—her mother did make most of the family decisions. In the past year, Emma had begun to realize that having a mind of one’s own was a useful characteristic for a woman. She only hoped that when the time came to fully utilize this trait she would use it in a more positive manner than her mother. If nothing else, she had learned from her mother and Daniel Chester French that a woman was not to be trifled with.
“I’ve been studying anatomy as part of my instruction,” Emma said casually.
Kurt’s eyes flickered. “Another surprise.”
“I’d like to sketch you before we return home.”
He smiled and extended his feet until the tips of his toes touched her legs.
She didn’t back away.
He moved his hands to his waist as if he was about to remove his sweater.
“Not tonight . . . when I’m ready.”
He stopped. “Sure. I’m game.”
“On my terms.” She rose from her chair and returned it to its place. “When the time is right.”
His eyes flashed and the grin returned, as she left him sitting in front of the fire.
I have him exactly where I want him. The thought occurred to her, as she trod up the creaky wooden stairs, that perhaps she was more like her mother than she realized. That idea didn’t encourage sleep. Even as she was buried under the covers to fight off the frosty air, she found herself thinking of her parents and her art, looking past the open curtains, through the glass to the brilliant winter stars and slivered moon that cast a soft, pale light on the snow gathered in the eaves.
* * *
The sketching session that Emma envisioned never occurred in the way she’d hoped—privately, with Kurt acting as her model in some form of undress. The days and evenings were taken up with Charlene and her parents. Finally, the last night of the stay, as they all sat around the fireplace, Emma was able to draw them in an informal pose and setting. She was somewhat reluctant to show them the finished charcoal sketches for fear that her inability to completely capture their faces might lead to disparaging remarks, but Daniel Chester French had told her that she would never be an artist unless she opened herself to critical barbs no matter how hard they stung.
She passed the first of her drawings to Kurt. He was somewhat amused, but from his careful scrutiny there must have been something on paper that pleased him.
Charlene was the most effusive of the group. “Oh, it’s wonderful,” she said, holding her portrait in her outstretched arms.
Charlene’s father said he would find “three nice frames” and mount the drawings “prominently” on the staircase wall. After a brief initial look, the subject was dropped for other topics until everyone grew tired and said good night.
* * *
Emma departed the Vermont farmhouse before New Year’s Day, 1907, with Kurt still on her mind. One of her Christmas presents was a small diary given to her by