A Lasting Impression

by Tamera Alexander

“I want to help you, Miss Laurent.” He reached for her hand. “I believe that we’ll—”

  “Let go of me!”

  But he didn’t. And the previous warmth she’d seen in his eyes graduated to a heat. Even inexperienced as she was, Claire knew that wasn’t good. Feeling sick, she purposefully went limp for a second, felt him relax beside her, then jumped up and ran.

  She flung open the door and was to the stairs before she heard his footsteps behind her. Fighting the instinct to look back, she gripped the handrail and took the stairs in twos. At the bottom of the staircase, she grabbed her satchel. But she’d forgotten about the bolt on the door!

  Bracing for the pain, she slammed at it with her fist. The lock slid open.

  “Miss Laurent, come back! I think you misunderstood my inten—”

  Claire ran out the door and down the street, hearing him behind her. The memory of his hands on her pushed her forward, down the next street and the next, and the next, until she lost count and lost her way. Until her lungs burned and her side ached. Her satchel felt as if it held the weight of the world, the straps digging deep into her shoulder.

  She ducked into an alley, dropped the satchel, and doubled over, hands on her knees. She leaned against the side of a building for support, holding her head, listening, but unable to hear anything but the rush of her own breathing. Her stomach spasmed, but the involuntary action proved futile. She hadn’t eaten in hours. Yet she wasn’t hungry. Not anymore.

  Papa was gone . . . dead. She choked down a sob. It didn’t seem real. The doctor had told her he would be fine. The fire in her lungs lessened by a degree, but the throb in her chest didn’t. A noise at the far end of the alley drew her head up.

  A man rounded the corner, his gait swaying and irregular, a bottle of some sort in his hand. She didn’t think he’d seen her, and she wasn’t about to give him the chance. She picked up the satchel and looked both ways down the street, not knowing where she was going.

  She only knew she couldn’t stay here.

  5

  Claire reached the next intersection and took in her surroundings, trying to gain her bearings in the unfamiliar town. It didn’t feel that late, but the streets were empty. The streetlamps illuminating the darkness no longer held the charm they had earlier, and her feet ached from running so far in heeled boots.

  Her gaze snagged on the rise of a steeple a couple of blocks over, and she headed toward it, remembering another night much like this one, when she and her mother had gone on ahead on one of their “surprise adventures.” Oh Maman, I wish you were still here.

  After trying the front doors, Claire made her way around to the back of the church. The first door was locked, as was a window. But the second door . . .

  The latch lifted.

  She ducked inside and closed the door noiselessly behind her, eyes wide in the darkness. Barely breathing, she stood statue-still, listening for the slightest indication that she might not be alone.

  All she heard was the thunder of her own heartbeat.

  Pale moonlight framed a curtained window on the opposite wall, and gradually her eyes adjusted. She was in a storage room of some sort. She felt her way across the cramped space to a closed door. The knob turned easily in her hand, and she peered through the slight opening, a draft of air hitting her face. She caught a faint whiff of something and sniffed again, thinking her mind was playing a trick on her. But there was no mistaking the lingering smell of antiseptic, however slight, veiling the sanctuary.

  She stepped inside and found her gaze drawn upward.

  High-reaching windows, naked of covering, dominated the two-story room, sending variegated shadows across the rows of wooden pews. Intending to walk to the back, where it was darker, she came to a bench in the middle and stopped.

  This pew was cushioned. The others weren’t.

  Her decision made, she unlaced her boots and slipped them off, and sighed as she rubbed her aching feet. She withdrew her coat from the satchel to use as a blanket and lay down and curled up on her side, then bunched the satchel beneath her head.

  Exhaustion washed over her, and her eyes slipped closed. She could see Papa’s face so clearly, but it was her mother’s she sought to remember. She hugged the satchel tighter against her cheek.

  Tired beyond anything she could remember, she wasn’t certain whether God was listening at the moment or not. She believed Him capable of hearing every thought. And though, sometimes, that belief was more irritating than comforting, right now she clung to it. And she prayed He would hear her heart.

  Because she needed His help now, more than ever before.

  Claire awakened, blinking, sunlight bright on her face. Shielding her eyes, she rose up slightly. A sharp gnawing clawed at her belly as the knowledge of where she was and how she’d gotten here returned in splintered pieces.

  Papa . . .

  She lay back down and stared at the carved beams far above, mourning him and the decisions he’d made, and the relationship they should have had. Yet she couldn’t ignore two undeniable truths. As much as losing him hurt, the loss didn’t begin to compare with the emptiness she’d felt at her mother’s passing. Which, for some reason, only added to her present grief.

  And the second truth—even thinking it felt wrong—was that his passing, however much she wished he were still alive, confirmed within her that her decision to make a new life for herself was the right one. The opportunity hadn’t come in the guise she’d expected, but she was taking it.

  Uncle Antoine had told Samuel Broderick—repulsive man—not to tell her about Papa’s passing. No doubt he wanted to tell her himself after he arrived so he could coerce her, try to convince her to stay and continue the “family business.” How could she have ever thought Antoine DePaul genuinely cared about her? And how could she have thought so fondly of him? She’d been so naive, so gullible.

  “Be careful who you love . . .”

  With her mother’s words replaying in her mind, she turned on the narrow bench, her back aching from having slept too long in the same position. She moved to stretch—and whacked her elbow on the back of the pew. Pain exploded up and down her arm, white hot and prickling, and she groaned—

  Until the overloud creak of a door silenced her.

  “Are you sure we’re supposed to be in here?” a female voice whispered. “It’s awfully early.”

  “It’s fine!” a second woman answered. “The doors open at seven o’clock for prayer, but no one else is here, so come on!”

  Judging by the swift tread of footsteps, Claire guessed the women were in a hurry. And they were coming straight down the aisle, right toward her.

  Hoping their footsteps would mask any noise she made, she grabbed her satchel and coat, rolled off the pew, and scooted back beneath it. She yanked her skirt and belongings close, praying she wouldn’t be seen. Seconds later, two young women swept past her toward the front.

  “I didn’t know you went to church here.”

  “I don’t.” Impatience abbreviated the second woman’s tone. “But this is where she goes. And I want that position! That should count for something. Besides, everybody knows it’s better if you pray in a church.”

  “Why is it better?”

  Interested in hearing the answer to that question, Claire rose up on one elbow, careful not to hit her head on the bottom of the pew.

  “Because, silly”—a bothered huff—“it shows God that you care enough to actually get up and do something, which puts you ahead of the other people who don’t. It also increases your chances of Him giving you what you’re asking for.”

  Claire found the woman’s explanation lacking. There’d been plenty of times in her own life when she’d done everything she could to please God, when she’d acted on what she thought He wanted her to do, instead of what she knew she wanted to do.

  Yet, in the end, He’d still said no.

  From her vantage point, Claire could see one of the women kneeling. Only then, be it right or wrong, did s
he start to feel self-conscious about overhearing their conversation.

  “What makes you think you’re going to get the position anyway? Half of the girls we know have interviewed for it and were turned away.”

  “Because I’m the most qualified, Susanna. I know what it’s like to move in her circle. Father says Mrs. Acklen thanked him by name the last time she was in the bank.”

  “Yes . . . but the advertisement calls for applicants skilled in filing and able to manage details. You have trouble keeping the perfume bottles on your bureau straight. And you don’t speak French either.”

  Claire bumped her head on the bottom of the pew—then froze.

  “What was that?” came a harsh whisper. The skirt of the woman standing swished as she turned this way and that.

  Claire held her breath.

  “It was just a wagon or something else outside. And excusez-moi! I do so speak French. À quelle heure arrive le train?”

  Claire let out her breath and then inhaled again. The woman interviewing for the position did have a passable French accent. But passable didn’t mean she truly knew the language.

  “Susanna, are you going to pray with me or not? The interviews end today, so this is my only chance!”

  Claire watched Susanna go to her knees beside her bossy friend and wondered how long they were going to be. She hoped not too long because she would hate to be caught hiding beneath—

  Only seconds had passed before the overly forward woman stood. Claire smiled to herself. Apparently, when attempting to sway the Almighty’s opinion, the length of the prayer was of little importance.

  “I need to go get ready for my interview.”

  Susanna rose. “I thought you said it wasn’t until noon.”

  “It isn’t! But I need for everything to be perfect. You’ve seen her in town. You know what she dresses like, how she always looks so perfect. I have to look that way too. And I need for you to help me. Please . . .”

  A tired sigh. “All right, I will. But you have to promise you’ll put in a good word for my younger brother, if you get the job.”

  The woman gave a tiny squeal. “I will. I promise. But I can’t guarantee anything.”

  Hasty steps portended their approach, and Claire lay perfectly still.

  “Your brother is going to have to work very hard in order to get that job, and then to keep it. I won’t put my reputation on the line for just anyone. . . .”

  The front doors to the church creaked open and closed again, and Claire breathed a sigh of relief.

  She waited a moment longer to make certain she was alone, then scooted out from beneath the pew, dragging her belongings with her. When she reached down to retrieve her boots, she noticed her dress. She was covered in dust! Every inch of her, from bodice to hem, including her stocking feet.

  Huffing, she brushed herself off as best she could, her plans for the day entirely altered by what she’d just learned. She hadn’t the slightest idea how she would accomplish it, but she needed to obtain an interview with . . . Mrs. Acklen, whoever that was—today! Because she needed a job, and money to pay for food and a place to live. After all, she could file and manage details and she spoke fluent French!

  She frowned. Her underskirts were so twisted, and no wonder.

  She reached beneath her dress and gave them a good rustle, then—alternately balancing each foot on the edge of the pew—she took the opportunity to straighten and secure her stockings. Feeling her corset and chemise off kilter too, she remedied that with some quick tugs and coercive boosts, then tried to make some sense of her hair. Grit and dust layered her scalp, so she knew excessive efforts there would be wasted.

  What she needed was a long hot bath, a change of clothes, and an interview with Mrs. Acklen—all before this afternoon. Which meant, she needed a miracle. Or several.

  Her gaze traveled toward the front of the sanctuary, where the two women had knelt just moments earlier. She stared, contemplating going up there and formally asking God for His help. But a niggling discomfort rose to the surface. It felt awkward, and unfair to think of asking Him for so large a favor when she hadn’t done anything even remotely worthy of such generosity.

  Feeling daunted and ill-equipped, yet already framing the petition in her mind, she turned to retrieve her boots from the floor, when she saw a man—and not just any man—leaning on the pillar at the end of the pew. Watching her!

  And judging by the wry smile tipping one side of his mouth, he’d been doing just that for quite some time.

  6

  In the space of a blink, Claire silently recounted every womanly alteration she’d just made—and her face went hot. Wishing she could turn and run, she saw the amusement in Mr. Monroe’s expression and grew warmer still. Why, of all men, did this one have to walk in on her just now? Michelangelo’s David, in the flesh, albeit fully clothed. He was taller than he’d seemed at the train station yesterday, and far more observant.

  He advanced a step. “My apologies, ma’am, if I startled you.” In the custom of Southern gentlemen, he bowed at the waist, his gaze never leaving hers. “Typically the sanctuary is unoccupied at this early hour.” The same heritage that instructed his gentility also velveted the deep timbre of his voice.

  Humor shadowed his expression, which only deepened Claire’s discomfort. Yet it wasn’t the same discomfort she’d experienced under Samuel Broderick’s leer. She wouldn’t mind this man’s attention in the least, just not when she was . . . arranging herself.

  Needing to say something—anything, in her defense—she grasped what shreds of decorum remained. “A proper gentleman would have made his presence known, sir. At the very outset.” The reprimand didn’t come out nearly as convincingly as she would have liked.

  “Indeed, he would have.” His smile remained undeterred. “As I did. Twice.”

  She narrowed her eyes.

  He held up a hand as though requesting her patience, then proceeded to clear his throat. Loudly—not once, but twice. Until he choked in the process. Or at least pretended he did. Rather convincingly too, going so far as to clutch his chest and reach for the back of the pew for support.

  Despite her embarrassment, Claire fought back a giggle—the response he’d hoped to elicit, she felt sure, considering the watchful glint in his eyes. He’d caught her in a most embarrassing moment, but just how embarrassing, she wasn’t sure. Had he actually seen her crawl out from beneath the pew where she’d hidden? Certainly she would have noticed him standing there, if so.

  Regardless, she recognized what he was offering her now—the opportunity to make light of the situation and save face. And she grabbed it with both hands, hoping she would be halfway convincing, and that he wouldn’t notice her stocking feet.

  “While that was a fairly convincing demonstration, sir”—her unease lessening, she still held her smile in check—“I fail to see how I could have possibly turned a deaf ear to so flagrant a display.”

  His dark brows inched higher. And the swift manner in which he masked his reaction told her he knew how to play this game, probably better than she. “Which accounts for my surprise, dear lady. And frankly, my keen disappointment when you failed to come to my aid. I could have choked to death. Right here, on this very floor.”

  “And what a loss that would have been for us all.”

  He frowned, feigning hurt and disbelief. Feigned, she knew, by the barely perceptible upturn of his mouth.

  Under normal circumstances, she would never have entered into such casual repartee with a stranger, but this man didn’t feel like a stranger to her. At least not completely. Having observed him with the workers at the train station, she’d glimpsed his lack of pretense, his sincerity of character, and she found herself wanting to trust that first impression.

  Very much.

  To her surprise, he walked toward her, the entire length of the pew, and stopped a respectable distance away. At least two feet separated them, but the distance felt much closer. He felt much closer.
<
br />   He offered another bow. “I’ve been remiss in my manners. Mr. Sutton Monroe at your service, ma’am.”

  She offered her hand, and he took it in his. His breath was warm against her skin, his lips soft, and his release all too swift. Claire had a difficult time not staring. Sutton Monroe. The name suited him.

  Acting on a whim, she gave a sweeping curtsy worthy of Emperor Napoleon’s court, careful to keep her stocking feet covered. “Miss Claire Elise Laurent . . .” She lifted her head as she rose. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Monroe. And my deepest apologies for endangering your life as I so obviously did with my earlier negligence.”

  His smile turned dangerously disarming.

  It occurred to her that perhaps her casual banter was giving him the wrong impression about what sort of woman she was. She looked into his sea-blue eyes and detected an inviting sparkle—and knew without a doubt that she was in trouble. Not because of any flaw in his moral fiber, but because she couldn’t stop looking at him. . . . At the quiet confidence residing in his features, the resilient strength in his manner. The smooth-shaven jawline and the fullness of his mouth. The way his dark hair fell in carefree fashion across one side of his forehead and curled at his temple.

  Her gaze lifted. And there again were those eyes. . . .

  Warmth spread through her, similar to moments before, only . . . different this time. But a good different. A very good different.

  His playful behavior fully convinced her that the fine lady mentioned in conversation yesterday by one of the workers must have referred to either his mother or a rich elderly aunt. And not a wife. Because she couldn’t imagine that this man—once having made a vow of faithfulness and oneness of heart—would ever do anything to tarnish it. Even a little.

  “Permit me an inquiry, Miss Laurent?”

  She lifted a brow. “One, Mr. Monroe.”

  “Do I detect a trace of France in your voice?”

  “Oui, monsieur. I was born in Paris.” She tilted her chin. “Parlez-vous français, Monsieur Monroe?”