A Lasting Impression

by Tamera Alexander

  Claire followed the apron-clad woman into the grand salon. A savory whiff of herbs layered the air, and Claire inhaled. “Something smells delicious.”

  “That’d be my pork roast, Miss Laurent. I baked it with rosemary and thyme picked fresh from the garden this mornin’. ’Bout melts in your mouth. But you’ll find that out soon enough.” She paused and gestured to an out-of-the-way corner. “Just stow your bag right over there for the time bein’. They’s all waitin’ on you.”

  Claire stilled. “Waiting on me? Who’s waiting on me?”

  “Mrs. Acklen and her children, and Mr. Monroe. They’s all in the family dinin’ room down the hallway here. Ain’t been there long, though. They’s still workin’ on their soup.”

  “Working on their soup? But I didn’t realize . . .” Panicking, she shoved her satchel into the corner and started hand-pressing the wrinkles from her dress. She glimpsed the splotches of mud staining her hem and grimaced, trying to remember . . .

  She was certain Mrs. Acklen hadn’t mentioned anything about dinner. She’d simply said to arrive sometime during the afternoon. Oh . . . Claire cringed. Late on her first day! The look Mrs. Acklen was going to give her . . .

  “Calm yourself down there, missy.” The woman gently touched her arm. “Ain’t nothin’ to get worked up over. It’s only dinner, child. And they’s eatin’ a mite early on account of the Lady goin’ out this evenin’.” Smiling, she puffed out her generous bosom as though making airs. “She be goin’ to a fancy opera in town.”

  Claire shook her head. “But I’m not properly dressed for dinner, and I—” Seeing a mirror, she chanced a quick look, and sucked in a breath. The curls she’d worked so hard to tame were a mass of frizzy ringlets. What had the young girl asked her yesterday, about what her hair did when it got wet? “Goes all wild? Like a soured mop?” Claire tried to tuck the curls back into place, but with little success.

  The sharp tinkle of a bell sounded.

  “That’s the Lady,” the woman whispered. “That means they done with their soup and they ready for the main course.” She winked and took hold of Claire’s hand, her grip firm, like a man’s. “We’ll just serve you up right alongside the pork roast. Come on now.”

  Claire had no choice but to follow.

  Feeling smaller with each step, she found herself clinging to the woman’s hand. Just before they entered the dining room, the woman loosened her grip, and Claire let go. All eyes turned, and conversation around the table fell silent.

  “Miss Laurent is here, Mrs. Acklen. You asked me to bring her on in, ma’am.”

  The woman’s introduction urged Claire forward.

  Claire curtsied and lifted her head. Her gaze brushed that of Mr. Monroe’s, then quickly found its way back there again, and lingered. Wearing a black coat with freshly starched white shirt and cravat, he looked nothing less than dashing. Claire gathered he would be attending the opera too.

  Mr. Monroe stood, as did the two boys seated beside him, one of whom looked considerably older than the other and who bore a striking resemblance to the man in the portrait in the entrance hall. Claire’s gaze swept the table.

  Mrs. Acklen, donned in a stunning blue dress, was seated at the head, her attention unyielding, her expression inscrutable, and her brief up-and-down gaze . . . telling. To her left sat a young girl whose silky dark hair was caught back in a decorative-beaded band. Her eyes were dark and inquisitive. Beside the girl perched the youngest boy seated forward in his chair as if ready to spring at any moment. His eyes were the identical shape and striking brown of his siblings’.

  “Welcome, Miss Laurent.” Mrs. Acklen, her smile gracious, motioned Claire toward the empty chair directly across the table from Mr. Monroe. “How lovely that your schedule has finally allowed you to join us.”

  Hearing the subtle reprimand, Claire halfway wished she could announce that on the way the Buntings’ buggy had overturned in a horrific accident, and that only after clawing her way through the carnage had she barely managed to escape with her life, and that was why she was late. But of course she couldn’t say that, and the real excuse felt flimsy by comparison.

  Standing beside the empty chair, Claire dipped her head, grateful the table hid her muddy hem. “My sincere apologies for being late, Mrs. Acklen.” The silence in the room lay heavy without an accompanying excuse, and Claire bit her tongue to keep one from slipping out, knowing it wouldn’t help her cause.

  “Allow me, Miss Laurent.” Mr. Monroe appeared behind her and held her chair as she took her seat.

  She glanced up at him, catching a hint of bayberry and spice. “Thank you, Mr. Monroe.”

  “My pleasure,” he whispered, his eyes not meeting hers. He returned to his place.

  The same woman who had answered the door returned with three other women, all carrying platters and dishes laden with food. Within seconds, the table was transformed into a mouthwatering buffet. Creamed sweet potatoes, whipped light and fluffy, mounded the scalloped edges of an ivory compote, and thick slices of herb-encrusted roasted pork loin adorned a silver platter. Lima beans in a white cream sauce and a bowl of buttery corn followed, but it was the baked apples still bubbling in their sugary cinnamon bed that drew an “Ah . . .” from Mrs. Acklen’s daughter.

  Claire had never seen the likes of such luscious offerings. Did the Acklen family eat in such a fashion every night? She couldn’t begin to imagine. . . .

  But it was what filled her glass, and everyone else’s, all the way to the brim, that truly amazed her. Ice. Which cracked and popped as the servants poured what looked to be lemonade.

  “Would you care for a roll, miss?”

  “Yes, please.” Claire looked up to see Eva, and almost felt as if she was seeing a friend. “Thank you, Eva.”

  Eva gave a delicate, proper nod older than her years. “You’re welcome, ma’am.”

  Only then did Claire notice her dinner plate. Fine scalloped china with the name Acklen painted in gold lettering in the center. She touched the gold-rimmed edging, not having to wonder whether or not the gold was real.

  After everyone was served, the servants left the room. All except the woman who had escorted Claire in. “Is there anything else you be needin’, Mrs. Acklen?”

  Mrs. Acklen gave a sigh heavy with approval. “I can’t think of a thing, Cordina. You’ve outdone yourself yet again.”

  Cordina . . . Claire made mental note of the woman’s name.

  “I ’preciate that, Mrs. Acklen. But it wasn’t just me, ma’am. I have lotsa good help in my kitchen.” She dipped her head. “Hope you all enjoy your dinner.”

  As Cordina exited the room, Mrs. Acklen bowed her head, as did the rest. Claire followed suit.

  “For what we are about to receive, dear Lord, and for what we have already received in such great bounty . . .” Mrs. Acklen’s voice held a humility and quiet reverence that drew Claire’s gaze.

  Barely lifting her head, Claire peeked from the corner of her eye, just in case any of the children were looking. They weren’t. Their heads were all dutifully bowed and their eyes closed, as hers should have been.

  She chanced a look across the table and felt her breath catch. Mr. Monroe’s head was bowed, but only slightly. And he was watching her. She offered a meager smile, which he barely returned before looking down again.

  “Grant us wisdom and discernment to be good stewards of all you have bestowed . . .”

  Claire felt a slight frown. Based on her exchange with Mr. Monroe yesterday, she’d thought the two of them had reached a friendly truce. But what she’d seen in his eyes just now hardly resembled a warm welcome.

  A thought occurred. One that didn’t bring comfort.

  He’d started to say something to her yesterday, just as she was leaving, but they were interrupted. She’d been so preoccupied at the time, she hadn’t thought anything about it, until now. He’d said something about there being a lot of applicants, so she shouldn’t let it—

  Bother her . . . Cla
ire blinked. Was that what he had been about to say? That she shouldn’t let it bother her . . . that she hadn’t gotten the job. He’d assumed Mrs. Acklen had said no to hiring her.

  “. . . and may we always be mindful of those less fortunate. . . .”

  Claire stared through the steam rising from the food. She surmised that Mrs. Acklen relied heavily on Mr. Monroe for legal counsel. But she sensed a more personal bond there too. So securing his good opinion was paramount to making this a more permanent arrangement.

  “In the name of Jesus, we pray . . .”

  Claire quickly bowed her head again and closed her eyes.

  “Amen.”

  “Amen,” Claire echoed softly with everyone else, careful not to look in Mr. Monroe’s direction.

  Fork raised, Mrs. Acklen gave a queenly nod, and dinner ensued. “Children, I’d like to introduce Miss Claire Laurent. I’ve already told you a bit about her. She’ll be working with me over the next few days to plan William’s birthday celebration.”

  Claire smiled at the boy sitting beside Mr. Monroe, fairly certain that he was William.

  “You may remember that Miss Laurent was born in Paris,” Mrs. Acklen continued.

  Her daughter leaned forward and peered down the table. “We just got back from there.” Her lower lip pudged. “It’s so pretty!”

  Claire smiled. “Yes, it is. But it’s also very lovely here.”

  The little boy next to her leaned closer. “Mama knows the emperor of France. Do you know him?”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting him.” Claire sipped her lemonade, relishing the cold against her throat, as well as the boy’s short attention span and apparent affinity for sweet potatoes.

  “Miss Laurent, allow me to introduce my children.” Mrs. Acklen looked at the older boy seated to her right. “This is my eldest son, Joseph. He’s sixteen and will be returning to school. So he’ll only be with us through the weekend.”

  Joseph was a handsome boy with a head of thick, dark brown hair, and was undoubtedly the son of the man in the portrait.

  “William is our birthday boy. He turned eleven while in New York, on our way back from Europe, and I assured him that we’d celebrate in style upon our return.” Mrs. Acklen beamed. “Sitting next to you, Miss Laurent, is Claude, who is nine. He’s as sharp-witted as he is precious, so be on your guard. And this”—she patted her daughter’s arm—“is Pauline, who is six . . . going on twelve.” She smiled. “My children are my greatest treasures.”

  Claire looked around the table. “And I can see why. It’s very nice to meet all of you.”

  Joseph nodded, again in a manner much like his mother, while William eyed her with meager interest. Only Claude and Pauline offered welcoming smiles.

  Claire returned them, directing her next comment to the youngest Acklens. “Do you both enjoy attending school? Seeing all of your friends?”

  Silence rewarded the questions, and Claude and Pauline looked to their mother.

  “Actually, Miss Laurent, the childrens’ private tutor returns to Belmont in two weeks.” Mrs. Acklen’s tone, though genteel, held a touch of correction, and Claire nodded as Claude and Pauline let out yips of excitement. Mrs. Acklen quieted them with a hushing hand. “Miss Heloise Cenas has been with us for many years now. She oversees the children’s studies in remarkable fashion. I don’t know what we would do without her.”

  Claire started to say “How very nice” but decided that simply nodding again and concentrating on her meal was the safer choice.

  A moment passed, the only sound the tinkling of silver cutlery on delicate china.

  “I’m certain, Miss Laurent,” Mrs. Acklen continued, “that you’re dreaming up some wonderful plans for William’s birthday celebration.”

  Hearing a request in the woman’s tone, Claire hurriedly swallowed the bite of lima beans and washed it down with a gulp of icy lemonade, which rushed a chill to her head. “Yes, ma’am.” She smiled at William for good measure, though he still didn’t return the gesture, and she wondered whether the details were meant to be a surprise for him. “I had intended to discuss them with you first . . . privately.”

  Mrs. Acklen shook her head. “I think William would be interested in knowing what you have planned.” She glanced at her son, whose expression conveyed considerably more interest than moments earlier. “So . . . do tell us all, Miss Laurent. What are your thoughts at the moment?”

  Claire rested her fork beside her plate, eyeing her remaining sweet potatoes. She dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “Well . . .” Excitement rose inside her as she imagined the scene in her mind. “Turning eleven is a special time in a child’s life, and . . .”

  She glanced at William, whose features instantly dulled.

  “And . . .” Scrambling to regain her thoughts, she wondered what she’d said to provoke such a response. “I was thinking that we could invite his friends, of which I’m sure there are many.”

  The boy’s air of disinterest plummeted to full-fledged boredom.

  Claire decided to skip her rehearsed introduction and jump ahead to the best part. “This morning, I browsed in town and found the most wonderful puppet shop. I thought we could—”

  “Not puppets again!” Claude sighed. “We saw those in Europe. Over and over . . .”

  Pauline sat straighter. “I like puppets! Especially when they hit each other!” She smacked her fork against her spoon. But only once. A cowing look from her mother saw to that.

  William exhaled. “Puppets are for children.” He rolled his eyes. “And I’m not a child anymore.”

  “Now, now . . .” Mrs. Acklen lifted her chin. “You will keep your comments to yourself and allow Miss Laurent to finish her thoughts. I’m certain she has other ideas.”

  She told herself not to, but Claire glanced across the table only to discover Mr. Monroe’s gaze now confined to his plate, which somehow only deepened her embarrassment.

  “Yes, ma’am . . . I have other ideas.” She took a breath, willing her forced enthusiasm to sound authentic, and hoping Mrs. Acklen wouldn’t consider this next idea too indulgent. “I’ll need to explore the logistics, of course, but imagine how exciting it would be to ride in a hot air balloon!” She paused to let the idea take flight, as it were. “We could hire a balloonist to take the chil—” She caught herself. “To take William and his friends for a ride. We would have the balloon tethered, of course, so that it would be secure. Less risk for injury or mishap.”

  Claire had trouble gauging their reactions to the idea, so she pressed on. “I’ve actually seen these balloons before. Once,” she admitted. “They’re quite beautiful, and the experience looks like it would be a memorable one.”

  The expressions of Mrs. Acklen and her sons could best be described as complacent. Little Pauline, her eyes wide, seemed close to bursting with excitement yet remained compliantly silent. It was Sutton Monroe’s expression—the flicker of compassion, however fleeting—that explained everything.

  Claire’s throat tightened. Her face burned with embarrassment. “You’ve already done that too, I suppose.”

  “In Paris,” William said, his tone gloating. “We flew the balloon over the city. Without a tether.”

  “However”—Mrs. Acklen cast a sharp glance at her middle son before looking back at Claire—“your description of the experience is most accurate, Miss Laurent. It was a memorable part of our journey.”

  It was all Claire could do to nod.

  “Well . . .” Mrs. Acklen rang the silver bell beside her place setting. “I think that’s enough conversation about the party for now.”

  Claire bowed her head as familial conversation resumed. She sensed Mr. Monroe’s attention but didn’t dare look across the table. The last thing she wanted to see was his pity.

  Hearing footsteps in the hallway, she glanced at the others’ plates. All empty. Hers was still half full. Despite having failed miserably to impress them, she was still hungry, but she wasn’t about
to ask to be given more time.

  A dessert plate was placed where her dinner plate had been, and the serving of petits fours glacés blurred in Claire’s vision. Her mother had always loved these tiny little iced cakes. Claire gritted her teeth until her jaw ached, refusing to give in to the slow-burning truth flickering inside her. She knew she didn’t belong. In this house, in this position, in this make-believe kind of world.

  And what was worse—she slid a look across the table—Sutton Monroe knew it too.

  14

  May I have a word with you, Miss Laurent?” Sutton could tell by the way she’d avoided his gaze during dessert, and how she’d bolted from the family dining room, that a word with him was the last thing she wanted. And he couldn’t say he blamed her. Not after what she’d just been through.

  He understood her desire for a hasty retreat and empathized with her embarrassment, but he needed to properly congratulate her on getting the job, regardless of how he felt about it. And equally as important, he wanted to lay the groundwork for their working together. However brief a time that might prove to be.

  She paused by the staircase and turned back, wearing a pasted-on smile and tugging nervously at her dress. “Yes, Mr. Monroe, you may. But please don’t allow your conversation with me to make you late for your opera.”

  Telling by the faint flicker in her expression, Sutton gathered she’d tried to keep the hurt from her voice, but a thread of it had needled its way through, and he felt its prick. “There’s time yet before we need to leave, ma’am. And, I promise, I’ll be brief.” He smiled in the hope of setting her more at ease, but the tiny lines at the corners of her eyes only knit tighter. “Allow me to extend my formal welcome to Belmont, Miss Laurent, as well as my congratulations to you on being chosen for the position. If I can be of assistance to you, I hope you’ll consider me at your service.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Monroe. And your offer is most generous.”