He gave a hesitant shrug. “Un peu. And not very well. But—” Pleasure crept into his expression. “I very much enjoyed your country.”
All playfulness fell away. “You’ve been to France?”
“Oui, Mademoiselle Laurent.” His graveled tone and French accent touched places inside her that Claire hadn’t known words could reach. “I was in Paris this past March, in fact.”
She mentally counted back. Only six months ago. “What was it like? What did you visit while there?”
His look turned puzzled.
She rushed to explain. “My family left Paris when I was but nine years old. I haven’t had occasion to return.” Vivid scenes rose in her mind, accompanied as always by the familiar scents. “What I remember best are the smells. The gardens of Les Tuileries, passing the open doors of pâtisseries on nearly every corner.”
“Mmmm . . .” He briefly closed his as eyes as though he too were remembering. “Fresh croissants, steaming café au lait . . .”
“Pain au chocolat,” she whispered, her mouth watering.
“And another pastry”—he squinted—“made in layers with vanilla cream and—”
“Napoléons,” Claire supplied, feeling a pang of hunger. She pressed a hand against her stomach to quell the gurgle. “And did you happen to visit the Palace of Versailles?”
The delight in his eyes answered before he did. “Oui, mademoiselle. We enjoyed the privilege of breaking our journey there for a night.”
“You stayed at Versailles? In the palace itself?” Who was this man . . . “Your family must be most influential, Mr. Monroe.” The thought—intended to be kept to herself—slipped past unrestrained.
Staring at her, he blinked, and an abrupt awareness moved over him. He looked away, and an almost boylike shyness—or was it sadness—overtook his expression.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Monroe. I didn’t mean to speak out of turn or—”
“No.” He shook his head, his smile slowly returning, still genuine, though more guarded than before. “It’s all right, Miss Laurent. No offense taken. I assure you.” His posture, already arrow straight, became more so. “Would you permit me one more question, Miss Laurent?” His gaze grew contemplative. “One . . . far more to the point.”
The moment between them had passed, and the change in the tone of their conversation was not one Claire welcomed. Yet she had no choice but to nod. “Of course, Mr. Monroe.”
“Do you make it a habit, ma’am, of . . . hiding beneath church pews?”
So he had seen her crawl out.
She looked away, then quickly realized that was what Papa had always done when he lied to her. Thinking of her father brought the threat of tears, but she restrained them—more easily than she would have thought—by remembering how his lying had made her feel.
She looked back and met Mr. Monroe’s discerning gaze. She didn’t want to lie. But how much of the truth to tell this man was another matter entirely.
“No, Mr. Monroe, I don’t. As it happened, I saw this church and decided to come inside.” She tried to add a smile, thinking it would help lessen the tension of the moment, but she found herself unable to sustain it. “Two women came into the church sometime after me.” She motioned to the front doors, but his focus remained steady on her. Very steady. “They didn’t see me when they first walked in, and I hated to interrupt their conversation, which quickly took a more private turn, so I . . .”
She licked her lips, realizing she was rambling, and that she was absolutely no good at this. At telling a more condensed version of the truth while still not telling a lie. But one thing she did know. . . .
Saying the least she could would serve her best.
“So I hid beneath the pew. Not with the intention of eavesdropping, I give you my solemn oath. But only to prevent them from—” Hearing, inside her head, what she was about to say, she winced, realizing there was no excuse for her actions, however innocent they’d been. She’d known it then, and she knew it now. “I did it to prevent them from seeing me, and from feeling uncomfortable . . . once they discovered that I was privy to their conversation.”
The blue of his eyes took on a steely cast. He looked around the sanctuary. Searching for what, she didn’t know. Then his gaze snagged on her unlaced boots lying on the floor.
Telling doubt registered in his face, followed by swift question, and Claire raced to think of something to say that would explain it away. Then he looked at her again, more thoroughly, as though seeing her for the first time, and every possible explanation that flew to her tongue suddenly fell flat.
His gaze, patient in its perusal, traveled the length of her body. Not in a lewd manner, but in one more akin to a detective working to solve a mystery. Or worse, a crime. Comprehension replaced the question in his eyes. And Claire’s embarrassment returned in a flood.
Seeing herself through his eyes, she became painfully aware of her rumpled dress, and her sagging, matted-down curls. What hurt the most was the realization that, of all the men she’d met since coming of age, this man was one she would have liked to have known better.
Even more, she would have liked him to think well of her, maybe even desire to know her better too.
She lowered her eyes. “I can explain, Mr. Monroe. I arrived in Nashville yesterday, and the place where I had been instructed to stay last night was . . . regrettably unsuitable.”
He looked down at the pew, then back at her. “So you slept here? All night?” He asked the question as though such a thing was unbelievable. But of course, to a man of his wealth and position, his social rank and connections, it would seem impossible to believe.
“I give you my word, sir, I didn’t disturb anything in the church. I simply came in”—she nodded past him—“through that door there. The outside door had been left unlocked. And I went to sleep. I was readying to take my leave when I looked up and saw you standing there. Watching me.”
She’d almost held back the last two words. But she’d detected a slight culpability in his expression as she spoke, and was glad now that she’d said it. Perhaps prodding his guilt would help her case.
For a long moment, he didn’t answer. And she imagined he was trying to decide what to do with her. Whether to report her to the authorities for trespassing perhaps, or take her before the bishop or minister or whoever was in charge of this church. Either way, it didn’t bode well for her, or for the fresh start she wanted to make.
She thought about leaving, just grabbing her belongings and striking out the front door, but she’d never outrun him. Even if she had her boots on.
But she would never attain an interview this afternoon with Mrs. Acklen by standing here, explaining herself to him.
He finally shook his head, more to himself, she thought, than to her. “Do you have a safe place to stay tonight, Miss Laurent?”
Claire eyed him, relaxing a little. So he wasn’t going to put her through an interrogation. Her first impression of this man’s kindness had been accurate after all. “Thank you for your concern, Mr. Monroe. And yes, I have plans to find such a place.”
He opened his mouth as though to say something else, then closed it, sighing. “I hope you can understand my position, ma’am. I don’t wish to overstep my boundaries. That’s not my intention, I assure you. But . . .”
In his brief hesitation, Claire got the niggling feeling that the interrogation she thought she’d escaped might still be forthcoming.
“Neither can I in good conscience simply let you—”
The front door to the sanctuary opened, drawing their attention.
A man entered, carrying a box. He turned to his left, then stopped and pivoted back in their direction, peering over the load in his arms. “Monroe? You’re still here?”
Looking between the two men, Claire prayed this was the opportunity she’d been waiting for, and she wondered how quickly she could run in stocking feet.
Beyond the walls of the church, the distant clang of a bell began to sound
. Mr. Monroe withdrew his pocket watch from his vest and flipped open the gold lid.
Just as quickly, he closed it again. “Good morning, Father Bunting. You’re just in time. This young woman would like to meet with you.”
Claire didn’t miss the knowing look—deftly given, she’d grant him that much—that Mr. Monroe sent Father Bunting.
Bunting set the box down on a pew. “Is that so . . . Mr. Monroe?”
Monroe indicated for Claire to precede him down the aisle, which she did, begrudgingly, satchel, coat, and boots in hand. She wished the floor would open up and swallow her whole. And take Sutton Monroe right along with her.
“Father, may I present Miss Claire Elise Laurent of . . .” Monroe turned to her. “I apologize, Miss Laurent. I fail to remember from where you said you hailed.”
Because she hadn’t mentioned it, which he knew full well. She could tell by the way he was watching her. “From Louisiana, Mr. Monroe. I arrived in Nashville yesterday, as I do recall telling you earlier.” Two could play at this game.
“Louisiana . . .” He repeated, as though this new piece of information held special interest to him. “Father Bunting, may I present Miss Claire Elise Laurent of Louisiana. She has a matter of . . . personal importance that I believe she’d appreciate discussing with you. If you have a moment available, sir?”
It was Bunting’s turn to look between them. “Yes, of course I do. Miss Laurent . . .” The priest gestured for her to sit on a nearby pew, and Claire did as he indicated, setting aside her belongings.
She stared up at Sutton Monroe, who wasn’t the least shy in meeting her gaze. On the contrary, he seemed bent on capturing it. If he only knew how much she really needed to confess, he wouldn’t have let her off so easily. She wished now that she’d confided in him more fully about the events of recent days. Perhaps then he would have been more understanding.
But that opportunity was past.
“Miss Laurent . . .” A crooked smile tipped one side of his mouth. “It was a pleasure to meet you, ma’am. And also . . . insightful. Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I have obligations across town. Should you require my assistance”—his attention settled on the priest—“you know where to reach me.” He strode from the church, never once looking back.
Claire watched the door close behind him.
As enjoyable as meeting Sutton Monroe had been, a part of her wished she’d never laid eyes on the man. As she relived their conversation, she wondered whether the tiniest seed of something that might have been special—in another time, another place—had just walked out of her life.
And in a strange way, she mourned the loss.
7
You’re in need of confession, my dear?”
Claire finished lacing her boots and turned her attention back to the priest. How did he know she needed to—
Wait. He was a priest. Of course he knew. She felt herself shaking on the inside.
“Yes, sir. Yes, Father, sir . . .” Though her parents had practiced Catholicism—at least back in France, they’d told her—they’d never taken her to church. So she’d never made confession to a priest before.
She took a deep breath and attempted to make the sign of the cross, but was fairly certain it came out looking more like a star. “Be with me, Father, for I . . .” She squeezed her eyes tight. What are the words? “I have committed a grievous wrong.”
She waited, then peered up.
The priest was smiling. “If I’m not mistaken, Miss Laurent, I believe it’s ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’ ”
She let out a held breath. “Of course.” She gave a tiny laugh. “That makes more sense.”
“And it’s shorter,” he added, his eyes gracious, without a trace of condemnation.
Claire nodded, grateful she’d gotten a patient priest. Tempted to glare again in the direction of the door, she resisted. “You’ll have to forgive me, Father. I’m a little nervous.”
“That’s understandable, Miss Laurent. Take your time.”
The man before her, absent his white collar, looked remarkably less like a priest and more like a normal man, which helped to set her at ease. She leaned forward. “I have a confession to make. Before the main one,” she added, to clarify. And then whispered, “I’m not usually Catholic.”
At that, he laughed, then leaned forward just as she had done. “I figured as much. And I’ll let you in on a little secret.” He glanced around as though making certain they were alone. “I’m not usually Catholic either.”
She stared, uncertain, as a trace of mischief colored his expression. “I don’t understand. I thought that you—”
“I’m not a priest, Miss Laurent. I’m a reverend.” He waved his hand in indication of their surroundings. “I’m the minister of this church. First Presbyterian of Nashville.” He eyed her. “I went along with Mr. Monroe just now because, without saying it outright, he made it quite clear that you have something you wish to tell me. Or, more likely, that you need to tell me.” He paused. “Mr. Monroe is a trusted member of this church and of this community. I count him as a personal friend, and am grateful that he considers me as such. So . . .” Relaxing, he rested an arm along the back of the pew. “If you’d like to tell me whatever it is that’s troubling you”—he shrugged in a noncommittal way—“or whatever might be on your mind, I’d like to hear it. While I cannot accept your confession as would a priest, I’m ready to listen to you as a man who tries his best to follow Christ, and who will help in whatever way I can. If you’re inclined to share.”
Claire took all this in, imagining what mirth Sutton Monroe must have felt when he’d exited the church minutes earlier. Leaving her there to confess what she’d done to a “priest.” If not for wanting to wring his muscular neck, she might have seen some humor in it. “So, if I understand what you’re saying, Reverend Bunting . . .”
He waited, ever patient.
“If I were to decide that I didn’t want to . . . confess anything, I don’t have to.”
He nodded.
“And if I wanted to get up from here right now and leave, you wouldn’t try to stop me.”
“That is exactly right.”
An enormous weight lifted from her shoulders. She could breathe again. Tempted to go ahead and tell the reverend what she’d done, she decided that really—when taken as a whole—her actions hadn’t been horrendous. She hadn’t broken anything or taken something that wasn’t hers. And the door had been unlocked, after all.
“Well . . .” She rose. “That’s wonderful to know because . . . I really don’t have anything to confess. Not a horribly grievous sin, anyway.”
The table at the front of the sanctuary, where the women had bowed earlier, caught her eye, and silently, she thanked God for answering her prayer of deliverance. She was now free to go and pursue that interview—she glanced down at her dress—looking like a travel-worn vagabond. And with not a single coin left in her—
My reticule!
She glanced about but saw only her satchel.
She raced down the aisle to check the pew where she’d slept. Nothing. Then a picture formed in her mind, and knowledge hardened like a pit in the bottom of her stomach. She’d left her reticule at the shipping office, on the dresser in the bedroom. Oh, how could she have been so—
Feeling sick, she frantically searched the pockets of her skirt, reaching deep inside, praying she’d feel the familiar touch of metal. But her pockets were empty. She closed her eyes as regret knifed deeper. She’d left her mother’s locket watch in her reticule.
Tears rose, and she could do nothing to stop them.
“Is there a problem, Miss Laurent?”
Hearing Reverend Bunting behind her, Claire kept her face turned away, unable to speak. Assuming that Samuel Broderick the second was the kind of man she thought him to be, he would already have plans for what to do with the contents of her reticule. And surely he’d have found it by now. And he could have it all. She didn’t care—except for th
at locket watch. She wanted her mother’s most treasured possession back.
She sniffed, and a handkerchief appeared over her shoulder.
“Miss Laurent, I’d be most honored to offer assistance, ma’am, if you’ll only tell me how I might do that.”
Gingerly, she took the handkerchief, wiped her tears, and dabbed her nose. Finally, her voice returned. “I have nothing. No money. No family. No place to stay. No place to go.” She turned back to him. “And . . .” Oh, she hated to admit it. “I slept in your church last night. Right there.” She pointed to the only cushioned pew, tears renewing.
“And when two women came in this morning for prayer, I hid beneath the pew so they wouldn’t see me. So I wouldn’t get in trouble. And then I overheard their conversation, which was wrong, I know.” She hiccupped a sob. “And then I got up and”—she made motions with her hands—“I was . . . fixing myself, only to look up and find Mr. Monroe watching me. He saw me crawl out from beneath the pew, and . . .”
Expression attentive, Reverend Bunting nodded.
“Mr. Monroe, he was kind, and then . . . he left me with you. And”—she took a breath, the weight of recent days bearing down hard—“I learned last night that my father died.”
Reverend Bunting patted her arm, and she cried, telling him everything. She left out the details about the robbery in the art gallery—and about what she and her parents used to do. Sharing that bit of information would surely hinder her fresh start.
Besides, all that was behind her now. Or soon would be.
“I’m sorry,” she finally whispered after a long moment. “I’ve gone on too long and have taken up too much of your time.”
“Shhhhh . . . Don’t you worry about a thing. You’re exactly where you need to be, Miss Laurent. Of that, I’m certain.”
She sniffed, reminded of something she’d noticed last night. “Your church smells like a hospital.”
He took a breath, his brow wrinkling. “I don’t smell it anymore myself. I guess I’ve grown used to it. The church was used as a hospital during the war. All the pews were moved out and over a thousand cots were crammed in from corner to corner.” He scuffed the floor with the tip of his boot. “The wooden planks seem reluctant to give up the stains. And the smell too, I guess.”
A Lasting Impression Page 6
