A Lasting Impression

by Tamera Alexander

  Claire dried her eyes, hearing the somber note in his voice. She looked around, viewing the sanctuary in an even more reverent light, and slowly, oddly, began to calm.

  “Better?” he said softly.

  She shrugged, then nodded. She did feel surprisingly better having confessed everything. Well, almost everything. “There is one thing I can think of that I need help with, Reverend Bunting. But it’s a lot to ask.”

  “It may not be as much as you think, my dear.”

  She briefly looked away. “The women I told you about . . . the ones I overheard . . . ?”

  He nodded.

  “One of them spoke about interviewing for a position with a lady in town. A lady who attends this church.”

  Comprehension moved across his face. “I believe Mrs. Adelicia Acklen would be that lady’s name.” He studied Claire for a moment. “Do you have any idea who Mrs. Acklen is?”

  Feeling as though she should, Claire shook her head.

  Reverend Bunting glanced back at the door. “And do you know anyone in her employ? Say, someone who could give you a personal recommendation, by chance?”

  Again, Claire shook her head, feeling her chances lessening by the second. “But I think I might be qualified for the position.” She lifted one shoulder and let it fall. “From what I overheard,” she added more softly.

  “And you’d like to interview for it.”

  She nodded. “But the interviews end today. And I need a fresh dress and a place to clean up, and—”

  “Say no more, Miss Laurent. I can tell you right now that this task is far beyond my skills and abilities.”

  Claire’s heart fell. “I underst—”

  “But! I know of a saint whose guidance we can seek. Saint Chrissinda is her name.”

  Claire looked up. “But I’m not Catholic.” She arched a brow. “And neither are you, Reverend Bunting.”

  Grinning, he picked up her satchel and motioned her toward the door that led to the storeroom. “Let’s head out the back way. Chrissinda is my wife, Miss Laurent. But she’s a saint if I’ve ever known one.”

  Claire gathered her things and preceded him into the storeroom, noticing how much smaller the space appeared in the daylight. “Will she object to your bringing a stranger home unannounced?”

  “If my wife knew the situation and that I failed to bring you home, Saint Chrissinda would tan my backside, as we say here in Tennessee.”

  Claire laughed, imagining the scene and tickled that he’d said such a thing. She paused at the back door through which she’d entered last night, feeling the need to complete her confession. “This is how I got in, Reverend. I guess someone forgot to lock it.”

  Reverend Bunting touched the latch. “I didn’t forget, Miss Laurent,” he said softly. “I left it open last night—just as God urged me to.”

  “Be careful how you proceed, Monroe. If you push these men too far, they may push back—like they did with your father.”

  Sutton Monroe studied the blackened soil in his palm and would’ve sworn he could still smell the smoke. Charred remains of his family home—blackened chimneys and a wood-burning stove leaning crippled to one side—emerged from the rubble as though begging not to be forgotten. As if he could ever forget. He fisted the dirt tight, then let it sift through his fingers. “You’re saying I shouldn’t pursue this, sir?”

  “I’m saying to be careful as you do.”

  Hearing both warning and cautious consent in the older man’s tone, Sutton glanced back.

  Sitting astride his mare, wearing his trademark tall black hat, Bartholomew Holbrook eyed him, much as his own father might have, if he were still alive. “I know better than to try to dissuade you once you’ve set your mind to something, son.” Holbrook’s sigh held reservation. “Justice may be on your side, but justice always comes with a price. And you’re all your mother has now. Remember that. Whatever price you pay, she’ll be forced to pay as well. And mark my words—it will hurt her more.” He leveled his stare. “As it will a certain young woman who shall remain unnamed.”

  Sutton let his mentor’s counsel settle inside him, aware of what the venerable attorney was asking—in that indirect manner of his. Bartholomew Holbrook was renowned not only for four decades of practicing law in Nashville but also for his ability to ferret out information.

  Yet Sutton had learned a thing or two from the older gentleman in their years together—like how to evade such an attempt. He wasn’t ready to discuss this particular topic with anyone. Because he hadn’t fully decided the issue within himself.

  He’d hoped the few days spent with Cara Netta LeVert and her family in New York last month would have helped make his decision clearer. Easier. But it hadn’t.

  Cara Netta was a fine young woman. Intelligent, thoughtful, pretty. They’d known each other for years and got along well. She possessed a dowry that had every unmarried Southern male vying for her hand. Everyone said he and Cara Netta would make a perfect pair. Frankly, he had a hard time seeing how anyone could say he would make a good match with any woman these days. He had precious little to offer a wife in terms of financial security. The war had seen to that.

  And he’d be hanged before he allowed a woman to provide for him.

  Cara Netta knew about his circumstances—as though it were a secret—which spoke even more highly of her character. Over recent months, they’d developed an understanding between them, one of a more romantic nature, and she’d told him, more than once, that his financial standing didn’t matter to her. But it did to him. Though he had yet to formally propose, he knew she was waiting, expecting it, as were her mother and sister.

  Yet the timing hadn’t been right. And still wasn’t. Not until he knew for certain that this new government wasn’t going to take his land and rob him of his birthright. Once that was all set to rights, he would be ready to move forward with the marriage. At least that’s what he told himself.

  And for the most part, he believed it.

  He stared at the land that had been in his family for three generations. Laurel Bend, as his grandparents had named it. Land that would be stripped of his family name if the Federal Army had their way. In his mind’s eye, he saw where the barn and stables had once stood, and the smokehouse behind which his grandfather had taught him how to shoot.

  His gaze traveled purposefully back toward the charred remains of his childhood home, and another image returned—of his father lying facedown in the dirt only yards away from where he stood now. His blood ran hot. Resolve hardened within him like steel. “Have you learned the name of the man chairing the Federal Army’s review board, sir?”

  “Not yet. But he’s a high-ranking Federal officer. All the evidence has been turned over to him.” A moment passed before Holbrook continued. “One of the men on the board informed me privately—which is, of course, how I’m informing you right now. . . .”

  Seeing the question in the older man’s eyes, Sutton nodded his agreement.

  “He told me they were most impressed with the written defense you made on your father’s behalf. He said it was the most thorough and well-authored account they’d received to date. Which is saying a great deal.”

  “I still wish they would allow me to testify in person.”

  Holbrook sat straighter in the saddle, the leather creaking as he moved. “There are too many of these cases, and that would take far more time than they’re willing to allow. Besides, testifying personally makes far too much sense, which means the government would naturally oppose the idea.”

  Sutton responded with a semblance of a smile, but inside his gut churned. His father had been a peaceable man. The most gentle, loving man he’d ever known. His life shouldn’t have ended the way it had. And while Sutton knew, on one level, that it wasn’t his own fault, on another, he was certain it was.

  It was his fault his father hadn’t signed the Oath of Allegiance to the Union that day. Remembering his last conversation with his father in that regard, Sutton felt some
thing inside him give way. He would have given anything to go back and have that conversation again.

  “One last thing, son. Decisions by the review board are final. No appeals will be heard. No matter who brings it. No matter how well written.”

  Sutton gripped the reins to his stallion and swung up into the saddle. Truxton snorted and pranced beneath him, eager to outrun the wind and be free. Desires Sutton understood. Only . . . what he yearned to be freed from was something he feared he might never be able to outrun.

  Bitterness curdled inside him. The injustice of it all. The North stood determined to rob him of everything. They’d already killed his father and burned the family home. Now they wanted to take his land, his heritage, and his future. He thought of his mother. In a way, they’d taken her from him too. She would never be the same. Not after what she’d witnessed.

  If only he’d been there the afternoon it happened . . .

  He briefly closed his eyes. His mother had recounted every excruciating detail. The Federal officer riding up to the house, escorted by full military detail. His father meeting the officer at the top of the porch steps, hand outstretched in greeting. His mother said accusations ensued, followed by threats—and a final ultimatum. Then the captain drew his gun and fired point-blank.

  Almost two years had passed, yet still it seemed surreal.

  And now the government was alleging that his father had been the first to draw a firearm. His father—a pacifist, a physician committed to saving lives. His father who had never owned a gun in his life, at least that Sutton could remember. As a boy, he’d learned to shoot from his grandfather because his father refused to teach him, something Sutton had never understood, and guessed he never would.

  If only he could speak with one of those board members. Make a personal appeal. Closing arguments were his greatest strength as an attorney, or so Mr. Holbrook had told him, time and time again.

  Forcing the last lingering image of his father from his thoughts, Sutton urged the stallion forward and fell into step beside Holbrook’s mare. Side by side, he and Holbrook rode in silence down the cedar-canopied drive to the main road, then on toward town.

  Church bells tolled some distance away, traveling over the rooftops and drawing Sutton’s attention to a much closer steeple, two streets over. Mademoiselle Claire Elise Laurent. A name, and woman, not easily forgotten. He welcomed the pleasant intrusion in his thoughts, especially one so captivating, but knew he probably shouldn’t in light of his relationship with Cara Netta.

  Still, he wished he’d had the time to spare earlier that morning. He’d wanted to help Miss Laurent more than he had. Then again, Reverend Bunting was the person the young woman had truly needed to see. For many reasons.

  He felt the tug of a smile. The look on her face as he’d turned to leave . . .

  Like she’d wanted to skin him alive.

  She was feisty, for sure. But he’d detected a shyness about her too. An almost frightened quality. Which was understandable if she’d arrived in town only to find herself with nowhere to go. No place to stay. But what lady traveled unescorted and with no confirmed destination?

  “Mildred received a letter from your mother yesterday.”

  Pulled from his reverie, Sutton glanced beside him, and tried to read Mr. Holbrook’s expression. His mother had written him too, three months earlier. He’d answered her letter promptly but hadn’t received a response. A wider gap than usual in their correspondence, but no cause for worry. At least he hadn’t thought so.

  His mother had always had spells, when she found it difficult to be at rest within herself and when she wrestled to get her thoughts onto the page, but those spells had worsened after his father’s death.

  “Mildred permitted me to read the letter, feeling certain it wouldn’t break a confidence. And it didn’t.” Holbrook seemed to choose his next words more carefully. “Your mother sounds . . . some better.”

  Sutton returned his attention to the road. “Which, when interpreted, means she still doesn’t appear to be well. At least not well enough to return.”

  Holbrook’s silence was answer enough. “She mentioned returning, someday, perhaps. But coming back to Nashville is going to be difficult for her, no matter how much time passes. I believe—and Mildred agrees—that encouraging a few more months of rest would be prudent. Judging from what your mother wrote, staying with your aunt is pleasant and like a good tonic.”

  Sutton started to comment, then nodded instead. If his mother wanted to present her relationship with Aunt Lorena as pleasant and like a good tonic—he could hear her using those exact words—so be it. But he knew better. Still, he missed her.

  But her return to Nashville would be far more difficult now. For them both.

  When he and Holbrook reached the crossroad where they were to part ways, Sutton started on ahead, then reined in when Holbrook spoke his name.

  The elder attorney fingered the rim of his black hat, his expression growing sober. “Don’t attempt to contact the review board directly, Sutton. You’ll not only be going up against some very powerful men, you’ll be challenging an edict from the United States government.”

  Sutton nudged his thoroughbred closer. “A government that murdered my father, robbed him of his honor, and burned his home to the ground. And that now aims to destroy his name and everything he spent his life working for. That’s not the government of a more perfect union, sir.”

  “No,” Holbrook said. “But it is de lege lata.”

  Sutton sighed, familiar with the Latin phrase. What the law is. “And what about de lege ferenda.” What the law ought to be.

  Holbrook’s gaze was unyielding. “It takes time to heal a nation. Especially when the hearts of its people are still wounded and bleeding. On both sides.” He leaned forward. “As I remind myself every morning . . . ‘Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.’ That same Lord ordains that we obey the laws of the land and submit to our rulers. And the—”

  “But when our rulers are bent on—”

  Holbrook held up a hand. “May I please finish, Mr. Monroe?”

  Stung by the gentle rebuke and mindful of what Bartholomew Holbrook meant to him, Sutton nodded. “Yes, sir. My apologies.”

  A telling gleam lit Holbrook’s eyes. The old man enjoyed arguing a case as much as he did.

  “As I was saying, the Lord calls His people to be just, flawed beings though we are.” A bushy eyebrow rose. “But government, in and of itself, can no more be fair and just than any one of these businesses here.” He indicated the storefronts lining the street. “Justice does not reside in institutions, Mr. Monroe. But in the hearts of men. If those men seek Him with all their hearts.” His eyes narrowed. “And that, my promising young friend, is what I am petitioning the Lord for on your behalf. That the review board will seek God’s face, and that they’ll rule on this issue justly. But I’m also praying that you would seek justice within your own heart as well, and make peace with the past, whether justice comes in the guise you expect, or not.”

  As always, Bartholomew Holbrook spoke eloquently, but Sutton still found himself wanting to argue. Yet from years of experience—and having heard the church bell toll three times, meaning he was going to be late for his next appointment if he didn’t hurry—he knew it would be pointless.

  Today, anyway.

  He dipped his head forward. “I’ll take your counsel under strictest consideration, sir.”

  A sad smile crept over Holbrook’s face. “You’re like a son to me, Sutton. You’re bright and talented, more capable than I ever dreamed of being at twenty-seven. And no matter what it feels like now, you will recover from this loss. Don’t allow yourself to be consumed with the same hatred that prompted those men to kill your father. If that happens, they will have won for a second time.”

  Hearing the faint and cherished voice of his father in the man’s counsel, Sutton had to look away. He tugged at the edge of his collar.

  Holbrook reached over and gripped Sutton’s
forearm. “I know your legal plate is rather full right now with work for your esteemed employer, but I have a proposition for you. One I believe you’ll find most intriguing. And likewise, at least I hope, most difficult to turn down.”

  Sutton waited, his interest mildly piqued.

  “It’s a case that, if I were younger, I wouldn’t dare share. Not even with you, dear boy.”

  Sutton smiled, his interest holding steady. He was familiar with Holbrook’s persuasive powers.

  “It will involve a great deal of work and long hours. That’s why I’m offering to bring you in. I need your youth and stamina, your tenacity.”

  “What’s the case about, sir?”

  Holbrook held up a hand. “If we were to win this case, Mr. Monroe, your name would be on the front page of every newspaper in the country and at the top of every law firm’s hire list. Your financial future would be set.”

  “What is the case about . . . counselor?” Sutton repeated again, his interest having edged up several notches due to that last comment alone.

  Holbrook chuckled. “The usual—theft, greed, and deceit. Qualities that make humanity such a fascinating—and tragic—study.” Holbrook leaned closer. “A long-standing client of the firm purchased an original Raphael from a gallery in New York, only to discover upon having the painting insured . . . that while it was indeed an original, the painting’s certificate of authenticity had been forged, for some reason. Which then led our client to question the validity of another original he’d purchased from the same gallery two years earlier. That painting, as it turns out, was a forgery. The gallery denies having known that, though evidence indicates otherwise. But in preparing to go to trial, we’ve uncovered yet another layer to this sordid affair.”

  “And what layer would that be, sir?”

  Zeal punctuated Holbrook’s expression. “Our client has what you might call a rather sizeable investment in art, as do his peers. He’s hired investigators, and their reports indicate that these dealings could be more widespread than originally thought. Our client wants to sue this gallery for financial damages, of course. But he also wants whoever is at the top to answer for this as well. And he’s willing to pay us, quite handsomely, to work with the investigators to ensure that happens.”