* * *
“Have you heard from Mr. Bower?” Emma asked her housekeeper.
Anne, who was slicing potatoes and dropping them into a pot of boiling water, stopped her hands in mid-cut. “No, ma’am, not a word in months. It’s very strange. He seems to have disappeared—like the goblins took him overnight.”
“Yes, it is strange.” Emma sat at the kitchen table and watched as Anne continued her work. “In his last letter to me, he told me he would like to . . . oh, I shouldn’t bother you with such details.”
Anne smiled, clearly eager to hear more. “Ma’am, do continue.”
“Please, stop. Ever since my return you’ve insisted on addressing me as ‘ma’am.’ We came to a decision about that salutation weeks ago.” Emma returned Anne’s smile. “You’re part of the family now—at least part of my family. You’ve been wonderful to me—guarding my heart so closely. There are good people in the world, Anne. You’re one. Virginie, Hassan, and Madame Clement are good, too. Virginie reminds me of you in so many ways—I think you would be quite good friends.”
“And your husband?”
Emma paused. “Would you be good friends with my husband?”
Anne laughed. “No—I love Dr. Swan, but he wasn’t on your list. Is your husband a good person?”
Emma lowered her gaze, taken aback by her housekeeper’s perceptive question. After a time, she said, “Yes, he is . . . I think we both lost our way.” Emma rubbed her hands together. “But let’s not talk of that. I’ll have an attack of melancholy and that won’t do for this evening. I have other plans.”
“I see.”
“No, you don’t see,” Emma said in jest. “Although you’re part of the family, I still have my secrets. By the way, how is that young man of yours? Mr. Merriweather?”
A blush flowered on Anne’s cheeks. “He’s a fine gentleman and talented, too. He doesn’t like Mr. Bower’s art, but he certainly appreciates the skill and dedication it takes to be an artist.”
“Yes, we all do.”
“And even a starving artist at that.”
Emma nodded, all too familiar with the vagaries of making a living as a sculptress. “I’ll confess point-blank to remove that devil from your eye. After dinner, I’m taking a walk. I’m hoping to inquire about Mr. Bower before I visit him. One man, above all others, can tell me what I want to know, and I’ve avoided him.”
“The man who introduced you to Mr. Bower,” Anne said matter-of-factly.
Emma smiled, knowing her housekeeper was no simpleton.
* * *
Emma confirmed Alex Hippel’s address from a previous letter and, after eating, set out to find his apartment. In all her dealings with him, she had never been to his home. All their business had been conducted in Emma’s studio or at the Fountain Gallery. Unless he had moved recently, Alex would still reside on Fairfield Street between Boylston and Newbury.
The night was cold, but not bitter by Boston standards. Emma enjoyed the walk down Boylston, past the imposing façade of the Public Library, and the towering Romanesque steeple of Old South Church. The wind brushed against her face and she breathed deeply, drawing the fresh air into her lungs. In her estimation, the city lights seemed brighter now that the war was over, and she was certain more people were on the streets, gaiety blossoming on the faces she passed. The number of motorcars had increased, and the overall mood was lighter, the air charged with mechanical energy. And strangely, she walked with a quicker and lighter step—a consequence of her confrontation with Louisa at Frances’s. Now that her feud was out in the open, she no longer feared venturing from her home. The gauntlet had been thrown.
Emma arrived at the address to find the name Alex Hippel floating in flowing script on the brass nameplate. She rang the adjacent buzzer and soon heard footsteps on the stairs. The door swung open, and, Alex, clad only in loose trousers, stood in front of her, his eyes forming wide circles of surprise.
“My Lord . . . Emma . . . Emma . . .”
She grinned at his sputtering and held out her hand.
He closed the door halfway and positioned his body behind it. “I’m sorry, I was expecting someone else.”
“Clearly,” Emma said, suppressing a laugh. “May I come in? Boston is a bit chilly this time of year.”
“Of course. Pardon my manners and my nakedness.”
Emma stepped into the hall and Alex closed the door. As soon as it latched, he sprinted up the stairs. Emma followed, taking each step in slow measure, giving him time to dress. When she reached the second-floor landing, Alex stood in the doorway, pulling on a white shirt. He reached for her hand—cordially, she thought—and motioned for her to come inside.
“It’s such a surprise to see you. I heard a rumor you might be in town, but I never expected to see you. Well, I don’t suppose you know—or do you?”
Alex’s apartment was in disarray. Paintings, many only on stretchers, were slanted like dominoes against the walls, packing crates stood like monoliths in the center of the room, and mountains of paper rose in front of crammed bookcases.
Emma spotted a lone chair between a desk and the crates and sat down despite not having an invitation.
Alex’s brows lifted, anticipating a question. “Would you like something to drink? I only have scotch.”
“No thank you. Do I know what?”
Alex fiddled with the buttons on his shirt. “I made the decision to close the gallery. Last August.”
“Oh, I’m so—”
“Don’t bother to feel sorry for me,” he said abruptly. “I knew it was coming, despite my optimism. Boston was never a city for the avant-garde; it’s like a small town, really. I reduced the hours, conducted a few private sales, but I’ve spent most of the last five months disengaging from the business. I attempted to keep the closing a guarded secret, at least from Frances and Louisa—you understand how one can feel like a failure, especially from their viewpoints—but it was useless really. Word
