Mrs. Acklen gestured toward a silver service on a side table. “Would you care for a cup of tea? It’s a special blend that Cordina, Belmont’s head cook, makes for us every fall.” A knowing smile hinted at indulgence. “I requested it early this year. I don’t know what she puts in it, but it’s delicious.”
Claire opened her mouth to accept when three jarring images flashed through her mind—of breaking the delicate china of her possible future employer, of spilling spiced tea all over Mrs. Bunting’s best ensemble, and of not getting the job. Her mouth went dry at the thought of declining, but she shook her head. “No thank you, ma’am. But thank you for your generosity.”
Inclining her head, Mrs. Acklen sipped from her china cup. “Reverend Bunting obviously thinks most highly of you, Miss Laurent. And since I think most highly of Reverend Bunting . . .” She smiled, her gaze observant. “That is why you now find yourself seated in my sitting room this late-afternoon hour on the final day of interviewing for the position of my personal liaison.”
Appreciating Mrs. Acklen’s French pronunciation of the word, Claire quickly gathered from whom Mrs. Routh had honed her penchant for being so direct. She also wondered whether the mistress of Belmont might not have an affection for all things French.
If so, that could work to her advantage.
Already, her back was beginning to hurt from sitting so erect, so she squared her shoulders and tried to appear at ease, and as if the future direction of her life didn’t hinge on the outcome of these next few moments. “I’m grateful for the opportunity to interview with you, Mrs. Acklen. Reverend Bunting and his wife have been most kind to me. I think the world of them both.”
She dearly hoped Mrs. Acklen wouldn’t inquire about how long she’d known the Buntings. For the Buntings’ sake, as well as her own.
With a queenly nod, Mrs. Acklen returned her cup to its saucer with a soft tink and set it aside. She arranged her hands demurely in her lap, as though preparing to sit for a portrait, then reached up and touched the pendant on the front of her dress.
Only then did Claire realize she was staring at it. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Acklen.” She gave a nervous smile. “It’s just so beautiful. And distinctive.”
“It’s a hunting horn and a hound’s head.” She fingered it delicately. “A gift from Emperor Napoleon and Empress Eugenie at Les Tuileries, following our fox hunt.”
Claire blinked. France was her birthplace, and yet this woman went fox hunting with the emperor and empress? She felt more insignificant by the second. “It’s lovely.”
“Merci beaucoup, mademoiselle.” Mrs. Acklen smiled, eyeing her with deeper interest. “Perchance, have you been to that lovely country?”
“Oui, madame,” Claire said softly, not nearly so eager to reveal her heritage now that she knew the extent of Mrs. Acklen’s social connections. “I am originally from Paris. But I grew up here in America.”
Mrs. Acklen nodded. “You’re not the first French girl to interview for this position.” She smoothed the sides of her upswept hair. “There have been several, as you might imagine.”
“Oh yes. I’m sure.” Claire felt a sinking inside as a much-needed advantage slipped away.
Mrs. Acklen resumed her poised position. “Now, let us turn to the business at hand, shall we? May I see your résumé, Miss Laurent?”
Claire summoned her readied response. “Actually, I didn’t bring a résumé, ma’am. I learned about the position only this morning, so I didn’t have time to prepare one. However, with your permission, I’m prepared to tell you about myself and why I believe I would perform quite well in this very important position.”
Claire smiled, hoping it would bridge the gap between expectation and reality. But her smile went unreciprocated.
Mrs. Acklen raised a forefinger, not even a whole hand. But that tiniest of gestures carried a weight of displeasure. “Allow me to clarify my understanding of your situation, Miss Laurent.”
Claire waited, finding the stiff cordiality of the woman’s tone less than reassuring.
“Between the moment you learned of the position this morning and”—Mrs. Acklen briefly looked past her—“a quarter before five o’clock in the evening, you could neither find the time, nor pen and paper, I presume, to list your experiences and talents. To briefly define your individual, God-given characteristics that would aid in convincing me that you are indeed the right young woman to serve in this very important position. Is that the understanding I am to form from what you have relayed to me thus far?”
Claire’s cheeks burned as though she’d been slapped. Every intelligible thought vanished.
She broke out in a cold sweat, which only deepened her concern about the borrowed ensemble. She had to focus. She had to think of something to say. “I could have listed all of that on a piece of paper, yes, ma’am. But it wouldn’t have been a formal résumé, which I knew someone in your position would expect.”
“So instead of bringing less than what was expected, Miss Laurent”—Mrs. Acklen’s old-soul eyes held hers without mercy—“you brought nothing?”
Wordless with embarrassment, Claire felt a coolness on her tongue and realized her mouth was hanging open. She promptly closed it. She tried to take a deep breath, but her rigid posture—and the corset she’d tied extra snug in the hope of appearing more fashionable—prevented it. The image of seeing herself fainted dead away on Mrs. Acklen’s pristine floral carpet spurred her on. “If you will allow me to give account of my knowledge and skills, I believe they will prove to be more than adequate.” More than adequate! She barely masked her grimace. That’s not what she’d planned to say! “What I meant was . . . if you will allow me to expound on my strengths, I’m—”
Irritation clouded Mrs. Acklen’s features, and Claire hastened to regain lost ground.
“I’m thoroughly experienced in bookkeeping and am very detail-oriented by nature. I’ve organized a library.” She forced a smile, which died a quick, pathetic little death. And with good reason. She had, in fact, organized a library. Her family’s, which had consisted of thirty-eight sad little volumes and a ponderously large dictionary. She’d been only five at the time, so the feat—completed on her own initiative—had seemed quite an accomplishment.
Before viewing it through Adelicia Acklen’s eyes.
Claire licked her dry lips, then wondered if that was poor etiquette. “I’m fluent in French, and have been told that I’m quite gifted in communicating. Although . . .” Her self-deprecating laugh came out more like a high-pitched squeak. “I’m certain it doesn’t appear that way at the moment. Lastly, I also possess excellent handwriting. I’d be happy to demonstrate, if you’d like.”
Interpreting Mrs. Acklen’s lack of response as a clear no, Claire waited, wondering if she should continue or simply excuse herself and flee the mansion without a backward glance.
Silence thundered in her ears, and it was all she could do not to give in to the stranglehold of emotion tightening her chest.
Following an excruciating pause, Mrs. Acklen reached for her teacup. She took a sip and set the cup down again, then drew an unhurried breath and exhaled. “Miss Laurent . . . am I to understand by your lack of provision up to this point that you also came to this interview without the requested recommendations?”
Through sheer willpower alone, Claire maintained the woman’s gaze. What had she been thinking, coming here? But that was just it. She hadn’t known where here was. Nor had she known how demanding a woman Adelicia Acklen would be. “No, Mrs. Acklen. I’m sorry. I did not bring recommendations with me. I’ve only recently arrived to Nashville, so I haven’t had the opportunity to—”
To what? Everything she thought of to say felt like a flimsy excuse. Either that, or a partial lie. And worse, she sensed Mrs. Acklen knew it too.
The silence grew thicker, and Claire felt the hot prick of tears as her hopes for this interview, and what it could have meant for her, came to a crashing halt. But she would not cry—she bit the in
side of her cheek—not in front of this woman who had probably never shed a tear in her privileged, wealthy life.
Staring at her hands twisted tight in her lap, Claire thought of the man’s portrait in the entrance hall, and knew she wasn’t being fair. Yet, look at all this woman had. How could someone like her understand what Claire was feeling?
The hollow ticktock of a clock somewhere in the room marked off the seconds.
This wasn’t the way she’d thought her life would turn out. She couldn’t exactly pinpoint, in that moment, what she’d dreamed it would be. She only knew this wasn’t it. Three months into her nineteenth year, and she had no family, no home, no means of provision. Everything she owned was in her satchel at the Buntings’ home. She didn’t even have a place to sleep tonight. And she could encroach upon the Buntings’ kindness for only so long.
Feeling Mrs. Acklen’s intense stare, she sensed the woman was waiting for an explanation as to why her valuable time had been wasted. And rightly so. No matter how curt Mrs. Acklen had been with her, Claire knew she’d wasted both of their time.
Apology was on the tip of her tongue when she spotted a magazine peeking from beneath a cushion on the settee where Mrs. Acklen sat. Recognizing the cover, she felt a twinge of tenderness.
Godey’s Lady’s Book.
The monthly publication had been a favorite of Maman’s and hers for years. They’d read it together and had traveled the globe through the magazine’s collections of stories and poems. They’d delighted in learning about fashion and culture from around the world. Seeing the magazine—and learning that a woman like Adelicia Acklen read it too—brought both a warmth, and a renewed yearning for her mother.
Despite the shambles of her interview, Claire knew she was qualified to be Mrs. Acklen’s liaison. And something inside her whispered that this wasn’t an accident, her being here, her having overheard those women in church earlier that morning. If only Mrs. Acklen knew what she’d been through to get to this moment, and how much the opportunity meant to her. How much she needed the job, the opportunity to start over again.
And what better place to pursue her own art than Belmont? She would be surrounded by timeless works of beauty that could—and would, she felt it in her bones—inspire her to create something truly worthy. Another painting like her rendition of Jardins de Versailles, perhaps. Or better.
And being at Belmont held another advantage. . . .
If the right people saw her work, people who moved in Mrs. Acklen’s social circle, perhaps they would recognize her talent, and—Claire felt her desperation narrow to a single point of focus—that would enable her to gain the recognition she sought, that she could almost taste. Then like Randolph Rogers and his Ruth Gleaning, she would create something that would inspire. That would affirm her talent. Something with her name on it that would earn her the respect and attention of critics.
She took a breath and released it with practiced ease. But how to get Mrs. Acklen to change her mind? And then it occurred to her. It was almost too simple and had been right in front of her the entire time.
She lifted her gaze. Only seconds had passed, but it felt like much longer. “Mrs. Acklen, you’re right. I apologize for coming here today so ill-prepared for our interview. I need to confess something to you, but before I do, I ask that whatever opinion you form of me, you will not hold Reverend or Mrs. Bunting responsible for my failure to make a favorable impression.”
Mrs. Acklen studied her with a glimmer of renewed interest. “Very well, Miss Laurent. You have my assurance. After all, it’s only proper that one take responsibility for her own shortcomings.”
The razor-edged comment cut, but sensing the sand pouring through the hourglass, Claire plunged ahead. “I arrived to Nashville only yesterday. And through a series of unfortunate events, late last night I found myself at a chur—”
She jumped at the sharp knock on the door behind her.
Looking equally surprised, and bothered, Mrs. Acklen glanced in that direction. “Yes, come in.”
The smooth glide of recently oiled hinges announced someone’s entry.
“Mrs. Acklen,” a man said, “I need to speak with you about—oh, my apologies for interrupting, ma’am. I didn’t realize you were entertaining a guest.”
Recognizing his voice, Claire didn’t move—except to turn her head slightly away so that Sutton Monroe wouldn’t see her face.
11
Claire sat absolutely still, feeling as though she’d been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Any second now, Sutton Monroe would recognize her, and her chance to win Mrs. Acklen’s trust would be lost. If that chance had ever been hers to begin with.
Mrs. Acklen looked past her and smiled with a sweetness heretofore unseen. “That’s quite all right, Mr. Monroe. You’re never an interruption. I’ll be finished here shortly. Can you wait?”
“Certainly, ma’am. I’ll be in the study.”
“Very well.” Mrs. Acklen nodded. “Thank you.”
Hearing Monroe’s retreating steps, Claire took a much needed breath. How had he not recognized her? Yet considering she’d been sitting with her back to him, and remembering how she’d looked that morning at the church building, no wonder he hadn’t—
“Oh! And Mr. Monroe?”
Claire tensed again.
Mrs. Acklen gestured to the side table directly to Claire’s left. “While you’re waiting, would you mind reviewing a document for me? Mr. Olensby had the file delivered today while you were away. He’s requesting an answer no later than tomorrow morning, and I assured him we’d have one for him by then.”
Hearing Mr. Monroe draw closer, Claire bowed her head and pretended to be distracted by a thread at the edge of her sleeve. She could see his hand as he reached for the folder.
“I’ll review it immediately, Mrs. Acklen,” he said. “And again, please accept my regrets for interrupting your visit.”
Mrs. Acklen waved as though dismissing his apology. “It’s an interview, Mr. Monroe. Not a personal visit. And we’re nearly finished. I’ll join you in a moment.”
Claire silently counted Monroe’s steps to the door as the niggling thread magically fixed itself.
Mrs. Acklen’s attention returned to her. “Now, Miss Laurent . . . you were saying?”
Monroe’s footsteps halted. And Claire cringed, feeling the lid to the cookie jar clamp viselike on her hand. And on her future.
Mrs. Acklen glanced past her again. “Is something wrong, Mr. Monroe?”
Claire heard him approach a second time and knew there was no use trying to hide her face as she’d done before.
“Miss Laurent?” Disbelief weighed his tone.
Her heart pounding so hard she felt breathless, Claire attempted a pleasant countenance as she lifted her gaze. “Mr. Monroe . . .”
Mrs. Acklen leaned forward. “You two know one another?”
Calculation and suspicion darkened Monroe’s features, and Claire quickly realized he was leaving Mrs. Acklen’s question for her to answer. “N-no, ma’am. We don’t know one another. Not formally, anyway. But our paths did cross briefly this morning at the . . . First Presbyterian Church.”
Claire waited for him to say more. But he didn’t. He only stared.
“I see . . .” Mrs. Acklen looked between them, curiosity evident in her gaze. “Then allow me to make the proper introductions.” She rose and Claire did likewise. “Mr. Monroe, may I present Miss Claire Laurent, who is interviewing for the position of my liaison. Miss Laurent, this fine gentleman is Mr. Willister Sutton Monroe, the most promising young attorney in the state of Tennessee. Mr. Monroe is responsible for managing interests pertaining to Belmont, as well as my other business holdings. I could not do without him.”
Claire curtsied, encouraged by Mrs. Acklen’s use of the present tense “is interviewing.” Meaning, perhaps there was still hope. But as she lifted her gaze and met that of Willister Sutton Monroe, she read the very opposite in his eyes. “It’s my pleasure to ma
ke your formal acquaintance, Mr. Monroe.”
He offered a stiff bow. “On the contrary, Miss Laurent. The pleasure is all mine.”
The way he said it, his voice velvet smooth, made Claire tremble. But not in a good way. Reluctantly adhering to custom, she offered her hand and he kissed it briefly, just as he’d done that morning. But this time, as he drew back, he squeezed her fingers the slightest bit and gave her a smile heavy with meaning. Without knowing exactly how she knew, Claire understood that he intended to have words with her. Words she would not welcome.
“I’ll leave you two ladies to finish your interview.” Folder in hand, he turned. But he paused at the door. “It’s slightly stuffy in here, Mrs. Acklen. Would you prefer that I left this open?”
Mrs. Acklen nodded. “Yes, please do, Mr. Monroe. Thank you for your attentiveness.”
Claire didn’t miss the look Mr. Monroe threw in her direction as he left. Which confirmed what she already knew. Attentiveness was the last thing on the man’s mind. He wanted to hear their conversation. Not that she could blame him.
Mrs. Acklen reclaimed her seat on the settee and indicated that Claire do the same. “Miss Laurent, in the interest of time, I must be frank with you.”
“Please, Mrs. Acklen, if you’ll only allow me to—”
That same silencing forefinger rose. “I’m an excellent judge of character, Miss Laurent. And while I appreciate your interest in the position and the courage you’ve shown in coming here today”—a sly little smile tipped her mouth—“as well as the manner in which you conducted yourself in the face of grave embarrassment, and accepted responsibility for your lack of readiness . . . I fear the nature of this position and its strenuous demands—especially when considering upcoming events—would stretch you beyond your current abilities. You’re a young woman yet, Miss Laurent. You have much to experience and to learn. However, I do see promise in you.”
Claire didn’t know whether the gripping ache in her chest was due to Mrs. Acklen’s rejection of her for the position, or to the unexpected compliment the woman had just paid her. Or the unnerving prospect that Willister was listening to it all outside the door.
A Lasting Impression Page 10
