A Lasting Impression

by Tamera Alexander

  Sutton studied her, wondering if she was aware of how truly poor a liar she was. Not that she was lying, per se, but she definitely wasn’t speaking her mind. Adelicia was right. That apparently took some coaxing.

  With silent deliberation, he checked his pocket watch. If the two of them were going to work together—which Adelicia had made clear they were, at least for the time being—they needed to get some things straight. But the grand salon wasn’t an appropriate setting.

  He glanced to where Mrs. Acklen was bidding her children good-night, then back to Miss Laurent. “The gardens are especially lovely this time of evening, Miss Laurent. Would you care to view them with me?”

  “That’s most kind of you, Mr. Monroe. But I have no intention of making you late for your plans. And I still need to be shown to my—”

  “Miss Laurent . . .” Apparently, he needed to take the more direct approach. “I’m requesting an opportunity to speak with you privately. I’d prefer to do that now, if you are agreeable. Or we can meet following breakfast in the morning.”

  Emotions flitted across her pretty face—fear, dread, and finally, begrudging acceptance. With a frown, she nodded, her auburn curls bouncing. He gestured for her to precede him, smiling at her back.

  Adelicia caught his attention and gave the faintest nod. He returned it. She hadn’t specifically requested that he have a conversation with Miss Laurent. It was simply understood that he would. Adelicia would view it as his responsibility to keep an eye on the young woman.

  The air outside was cooler, and he welcomed the breeze. The rainfall had ceased, leaving behind a world of deeper green and a veil of moisture that clung to every surface. He breathed in and caught the scent of Adelicia’s innumerable roses and was grateful the heavy days of summer were behind them.

  He offered Miss Laurent his arm as they descended the steps. She slipped her hand through, then promptly removed it the second her little boot touched level ground, which only renewed his smile. The poor liar, who had trouble speaking her mind, possessed an independent streak. Interesting combination.

  They strolled toward the main fountain and as far as the first tiered garden before he broke the silence. “I appreciate your taking the time to speak with me, Miss Laurent. And I’m wondering . . .” He peered over at her. “Would you like to go first, or shall I?”

  Her steps slowed. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that we both have things we want to say to each other. I’ll go first, if you’d like. Or you may.”

  She came to a stop. “I’m afraid you’ve misread me, Mr. Monroe. I . . . don’t have anything pressing that I want to say to you.”

  “Are you certain?”

  She blinked as though checking her own thoughts. “Quite.”

  “Very well, then.” He motioned toward a gazebo, thinking she might like to sit, but she shook her head. So they continued their stroll. “First, may I say, ma’am, that I believe you handled the situation in the dining room with grace and decorum.”

  She peered up at him. “Yes, you may, Mr. Monroe. And I thank you. But . . . I doubt that’s what you brought me out here to tell me.”

  He let his smile show, appreciating her candor. It was a step. “You’re right. It’s not. The main thing I want to say to you, Miss Laurent”—he prayed he would speak with a fraction of the genteel honesty he’d always admired in his father—“is that, while I was not in favor of Mrs. Acklen hiring you for this position, I do respect her choice. And I was most sincere earlier when I offered to assist you in whatever way I can.”

  As they rounded a curve in the path, he glanced back toward the house to make sure the carriage wasn’t waiting, dreading the evening before him. He’d gotten his fill of opera for a lifetime in Europe, as well as the social politics that accompanied the event locally.

  They walked in silence until Miss Laurent paused by one of the many statues Adelicia had collected through the years. “Why did you not want me to get the position?” Her voice was quiet, her attention fixed on the polished marble of a young woman trimming vines next to an arbor.

  Studying her profile, Sutton debated how to phrase his answer, not wanting to intentionally hurt her. But not wanting to mislead either. And certainly not wanting to reveal a confidence between him and Mrs. Acklen. “Because I didn’t feel as though you were among the most qualified applicants, Miss Laurent. I’m sorry. . . .”

  She stared at him, then nodded, slowly, as though having to accept his response in increments. They continued down the walkway, and when they came to a fork in the path, Sutton chose the direction leading back toward the mansion.

  “What position do you hold here at Belmont?” she asked after a moment.

  “I’m Mrs. Acklen’s personal attorney. I also help manage the financial holdings of her estates, which—among other things—means protecting her, and her wealth, from people who would seek to take advantage of either, or both.” He gauged her expression, watching for a reaction—a trace of guilt, perhaps, a sign of discomfort.

  And saw traces of both—just before she looked away.

  As they neared the main fountain, he spotted the carriage in the distance, coming up the lane. “Shall we?” He offered his arm as they ascended the steps to the front portico. Once inside the entrance hall, he heard Adelicia’s voice, and Mrs. Routh’s, coming from a nearby room. “Has Mrs. Routh shown you your quarters yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then allow me. It’s through here.” He led the way across the grand salon to the northeast wing. “Others might disagree, since your room doesn’t overlook the gardens, but I think you have one of the most beautiful views Belmont offers.” He opened the door to the bedroom, working to sort the culpability he’d seen in her features a moment earlier with her seeming innocence. “I know because I stayed in this room when I first came here.”

  “You don’t live at Belmont anymore?”

  “I do. But in another building. The art gallery has guest quarters. I live in one of those.”

  Her eyes lit. “Belmont has an art gallery?”

  He nodded, feeling a little as if he were seeing the estate for the first time again, through her eyes. “Come and see your view.” He pulled the curtains back to reveal the lush rolling meadows that encompassed the majority of the one hundred eighty acres surrounding the manor. Acreage he and Truxton knew by heart.

  She stepped close to the window. “It’s like a painting,” she whispered. “All the colors . . .”

  “And it’s not even at its best yet.” He pointed to the tree line in the distance. “Those are all maples. Give it a few weeks and that entire hillside will be on fire with autumn.”

  She sighed, and her breath fogged the glass pane. “Autumn was my mother’s favorite time of year. It’s mine too.”

  Sutton studied her profile, remembering her recent losses. “I’m sorry about your father’s passing, Miss Laurent. And that of your mother.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Monroe.” A moment passed before she looked back at him. Silent tears marked her cheeks.

  Knowing he needed to go, Sutton found he didn’t want to. He hated to leave her melancholy. “Is there anything I can do for you, Miss Laurent? Believe I leave . . .”

  She dabbed her cheek. “Actually, there is. You can stop calling me Miss Laurent. That’s getting rather bothersome, don’t you think?”

  He smiled. “With your permission, then, may I address you as Claire, in less formal settings?”

  “You may.” She looked up at him. “But only if I can call you Willister.”

  Sutton realized he’d walked directly into her trap. “You may. But only if you don’t want me to respond.” He crossed to the door. “I’m certain Mrs. Routh will be by soon enough to answer any questions you may have.” He gave a brief bow. “Good evening, Claire.”

  She curtsied. “Good evening . . . Willister.”

  It wasn’t until the curtain fell after the third act that Sutton realized his misstep earlier that evening. He
tugged at his collar, the lead soprano’s excessive vibrato gnawing at his patience. In his effort to be upfront with Claire Laurent, he had in all likelihood driven a wedge between them, and he’d undermined his pledge to Mrs. Acklen to keep an eye on her.

  He’d admitted to Claire that he didn’t believe she was qualified for the position, which meant she wouldn’t dare seek his advice on anything, because that would only prove his point. So instead of nurturing their working relationship, which would further his employer’s goal, he’d actually given Claire a bona fide reason not to confide in him. Or trust him.

  Seated in the row behind Mrs. Acklen in her box seats, he stared out over the crowd of Nashville’s elite. As much as he despised the name Willister, he’d certainly earned it this time.

  15

  While these are not wholly unappealing possibilities for a party, Miss Laurent, I was certainly hoping for something with a little more . . . creativity from you.” Mrs. Acklen eyed her across the library desk. “This needs to be an event that William and his friends will remember, that their parents will talk about, instead of a celebration centered around . . .”

  Claire cringed in her chair as Mrs. Acklen reached over the desk for the list of ideas she’d stayed up past midnight last night compiling. Around the same time Mrs. Acklen and Sutton returned from the opera.

  “. . . clowns, sack races, croquet, rolling hoops, hopscotch, and . . .” Mrs. Acklen peered over her reading glasses to look at her. “Donkeys?”

  Disapproval and fatigue lined Mrs. Acklen’s features, and Claire lowered her gaze.

  With a sigh, Mrs. Acklen pushed the piece of paper back toward her. “I assume, Miss Laurent, that you’re aware of the zoo on this estate. So correct me if I’m wrong, but I fail to see how a game with donkeys—ones fashioned from paper, no less—is going to enthrall forty-seven children.”

  In a brief moment of lunacy, Claire considered correcting her employer’s use of the word children—knowing William would have had he been present—but she quickly regained her senses. “Yes, ma’am, I’m aware of the zoo. But the donkeys I referred to are actually piñatas. A piñata is an object made of papier mâché that is filled with—”

  “I know what a piñata is, Miss Laurent! What I’m telling you is that none of these ideas appeal to me. And I’m certain they won’t appeal to William.” Mrs. Acklen removed her glasses and massaged the bridge of her nose. “Nine days, Miss Laurent. Nine days . . . That’s all that remains before the party.” She gave a tired laugh. “And we don’t even have the menu selected. But of course we can’t do that until we have an idea for the theme.”

  Part of Claire wanted to gently remind the woman they were only planning a child’s birthday party, not Nashville’s social event of the year. Then again, this “child’s birthday party” was the deciding factor in whether or not she got this job. And she needed to succeed.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Acklen.” Claire rose, eager to return to her task. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and prepare some new ideas.”

  “Creative ones this time, please, Miss Laurent. And what of the party favors? Have you ideas for those?”

  “Party favors?”

  Mrs. Acklen’s eyes fluttered closed, then opened. “Yes, party favors, Miss Laurent. A small token of appreciation given to a guest to convey the host’s gratitude for their attendance.”

  Claire felt her face heat. “Yes, of course, ma’am. I’m going into town this morning. Right this minute, actually, and will return with possibilities for those as well.”

  “Have you arranged for a carriage yet?”

  Hand on the doorknob, Claire shook her head. “No, ma’am. I thought I would walk. It’s so nice outside, and I enjoy—”

  “Take one of the carriages.” Mrs. Acklen peered over the desk. “Your hem is already caked in dust. I’d hate to imagine what it would be like after tromping the streets of Nashville after yesterday’s rain.”

  Claire looked down. She’d spent half an hour brushing the skirt of this dress, since her only other dress was still splattered with mud. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And am I to assume, Miss Laurent”—Mrs. Acklen’s tone softened by a degree—“by your lack of mourning garb that your trunks have not arrived as of yet?”

  Claire fingered her skirt. “No, ma’am, they haven’t. But I’ll be sure to stop by the train station when I’m in town and check again.”

  “Yes, please do that. And tell the steward to have them sent here. No need to continue making needless trips into town when there’s so much to be done. In fact, I have several contacts in New Orleans. We could wire them and ask them to check on your belongings and—”

  “No, ma’am,” Claire said quickly, panic clawing its way up inside her. The last thing she needed was for an acquaintance of Mrs. Acklen’s to visit the gallery where they had lived. “What I mean is . . . that won’t be necessary. I’m sure the trunks will arrive soon enough.”

  Mrs. Acklen looked pointedly at her. “If your trunks don’t arrive today . . . then other arrangements will need to be made.”

  “Other arrangements, ma’am?”

  “Yes, Miss Laurent.” Mrs. Acklen smoothed the front of her own immaculately pressed pastel dress. “We’re having dinner guests tomorrow night, and you need a suitable ensemble for that occasion. As well as an appropriate mourning dress.”

  Claire tightened her grip on the doorknob, summoning her nerve. “I understand what you’re saying, but I’m rather short of funds right now, and buying even one dress—”

  “Oh yes, I remember you saying as much. Not to worry, I’ll deduct the dresses from your wages.” With a fountain pen, Mrs. Acklen wrote something on a piece of stationery and held it out. “Visit this shop and ask for Mrs. Perry. She’ll assist you.”

  Claire took the fine linen paper and stared at the name of the shop, then the address, wondering why the street sounded so familiar. Her grip tightened on the page as realization dawned.

  “Do you have a question about what I’ve written, Miss Laurent?”

  Claire looked up. “No, ma’am. There’s no question. Thank you.” She opened the door to leave, existing solely for the moment she could close it behind her.

  “Miss Laurent?”

  Masking her dread, Claire looked back. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “One does not say they’re sorry when they have committed no wrong. While you were mistaken in thinking that your ideas for the party were worthy of serious consideration, you committed no wrong. Offering an apology for an offense and admitting you were mistaken on a subject are two quite different responses to two quite different circumstances.”

  Claire stared, waiting, wondering if Mrs. Acklen was finished. “Yes, ma’am. I understand. I’m sor—” She caught herself. “I’m so very grateful that you pointed that out to me. Thank you.” Sweat beading beneath her chemise, Claire thought she caught the flicker of a smile in Mrs. Acklen’s eyes. As she pulled the door closed, she looked again to be sure, and knew she must have imagined it.

  The latch clicked into place behind her, and Claire leaned against the doorjamb in the entrance hall and sighed.

  “That bad, was it?”

  She quickly straightened. Mr. Monroe—Sutton—was standing in the hallway leading to the grand salon.

  Gathering her wits, she shook her head. “No, everything’s fine.” She recalled his admission last night, and while having suspected his opinion of her, hearing him say he didn’t consider her qualified for the position stung.

  Determined to appear more confident, she pasted on a smile. “I’m simply weary from a late night. And I have a busy day ahead. So if you’ll excuse me . . .” She headed toward her room, not really knowing why. Only that she wanted to appear confident and as if she knew what she were doing.

  He fell into step beside her. “And what does that busy day entail . . . Claire?”

  “It entails going into town . . . Sutton.”

  “Have you requested a carriage?”


  She stopped midstride. “I was going to do that right now.”

  “Well done, then.”

  Aware of his deepening amusement, she took a step and glanced about, wondering where to go and whom to ask about a conveyance. Mrs. Routh had given her a brief tour of the main floor of the mansion last evening, but the head housekeeper had left the rest of the mansion to her imagination, stating rather coolly that “the family’s private quarters are upstairs.” Which Claire had taken to mean she wasn’t supposed to go up there.

  Sutton cleared his throat. “Eli would be happy to send for a carriage.” He motioned. “He’s out front.”

  Claire nodded. “Of course.” She should have known that. She headed toward the entrance hall.

  Sutton followed. “Ask for Armstead, Mrs. Acklen’s coachman. I’d be happy to accompany you too, if you desire.”

  “No,” Claire said quickly, a little too quickly, she realized after the fact. “Thank you, Sutton, but . . . I imagine your day is rather full, and I have several errands.” One of which she was still debating the wisdom of making, but she certainly couldn’t see to if he were along.

  “I understand.” He motioned for her to precede him into the entrance hall. “Have you decided on a theme for the party yet?”

  She gave him a look, and he held up his hands as if declaring a truce. “It was merely a question.”

  “I’m still working on it. But I’m getting closer.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. Even though she still had no clue what she was going to do, she was getting closer simply by the process of elimination. The cumulative number of ideas inhabiting the universe pertaining to children’s birthday parties was shrinking rapidly due to their lack of appeal to Adelicia Acklen. Which therefore meant she was getting closer.

  The door to the library opened, and Mrs. Acklen stepped out. Claire sucked in a breath.

  “Oh, Mr. Monroe, I’m glad you’re here. I just opened a telegram. . . .” Mrs. Acklen held up a piece of paper. “It’s one I believe you’ll find most encouraging.” With a nod, she included Claire in the conversation, and Claire saw a definite glimmer in her eyes this time. “The LeVerts will be departing New York soon and have requested to break their journey at Belmont. They’ll be here the first week of October.”