As she neared the mansion, she was tempted to take a brief detour to explore the building Sutton lived in, the one housing the art gallery. But work came first.
A carriage pulled up to the front of the mansion, and she slowed her steps. She didn’t think the carriage belonged to Mrs. Acklen but couldn’t be sure. The woman had several. When two gentlemen climbed out and young Pauline and Claude ran down the steps to greet them, Claire decided to find a door leading in through the back. She didn’t want to chance interrupting a meeting between Mrs. Acklen and her guests.
Behind the mansion, rolling hills and meadows extended as far as she could see. Off to the side, between the manor and the stable and carriage house sat five brick cottages, identical to one another, all lined up in a neat row, clustered alongside a bank of unwieldy pines. She assumed the servants lived in them and couldn’t help noting the contrast between those structures and others she’d seen made of rotting plank wood and timber. It made her feel better about Mrs. Acklen, in a way. And still . . .
Brick or timber, it didn’t change what the people who lived inside those structures were. Or had been. From what she’d seen since coming to Nashville, the war might have abolished slavery, but it hadn’t eliminated the scar. Or even started to close the wound.
Continuing on around, she spotted a Negro boy crouched beneath a tree some distance away, nine or ten years old, judging from his size. He dug in the dirt with something. A broken stick, perhaps. Suddenly he stilled, bent low, and reached into the hole he’d made. He felt around and pulled something out.
He held the object up close, blew against it, eyed it again, then grinned and stuffed it in his pants pocket, and started digging all over again. Claire watched, amused. Whatever he’d found and whatever he continued to search for, it had him spellbound, the little scavenger.
She saw a door on the back of the mansion and tried it. Locked. She knocked. No answer. She tried a second door. Locked as well. She knocked on it too, but again, nobody answered.
She turned back to the boy, certain he would know how to get inside. He didn’t hear her approach.
“Excuse me, but—”
The boy jumped up to his full height, his eyes wide as saucers. “Lawdy, ma’am, you done scare’t me good.”
Claire tried not to laugh. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
He started giggling, which tickled her even more, because when he laughed, his ears wiggled. Actually wiggled. She couldn’t keep from laughing now.
“You the Lady’s new helper, ma’am?”
“I am. At least for now.” Claire extended her hand. “My name is Claire Laurent.”
He looked at her hand good and long before giving it a quick shake. “I’m Ezekiel. But I go by Zeke.” His attention drifted upward. “That’s some right pretty hair you got, ma’am. My aunt done told me about it.”
“Thank you, Zeke.” She gave a little curtsy. “And who is your aunt?”
“Aunt Cordina. She runs the kitchen for the Lady.” He gestured toward the mansion. “She and Uncle Eli been with the Lady long ’fore I was born.”
Cordina? And Eli? “Your Aunt Cordina and Uncle Eli are married?”
He grinned again. “Yes’um. They ain’t never had no kids, though.” He shrugged his shoulders. “So they do their dotin’ on me and my brothers and sisters.”
“May I ask you something, Zeke?”
“Yes’um.”
“What were you digging for when I walked up?”
He smiled and reached into his pocket. “I’s lookin’ for bullet shells this mornin’. But I found me a nickel too.” He held up the coin, proud as could be. “I dig around some.” He scuffed the toe of his shoe in the dirt. “I just like findin’ things, I guess.”
“Well, how would you like to find something for me?”
“What you lookin’ for, ma’am?”
“A way back into this house without having to go all the way around front.”
Those ears of his wriggled, and just as she’d thought, he knew precisely which door was unlocked.
Zeke led her through the maze of rooms comprising the basement of the home. She’d had no idea how massive the space was from her brief visit to the kitchen, and how much storage it boasted. Shelves of food and supplies lined the plaster walls. Yet she hadn’t seen crops or fields anywhere on her walk. She asked Zeke about it.
“Yes, ma’am. We got us a farm. Over back behind the fancy flower house.”
Behind the conservatory, Claire thought, nodding.
“We grow us all sort of things over there. Watch your head, Miss Laurent. It’s kinda low through here.”
Claire ducked through a doorway.
“The Lady, she gots her own plantations too. In Louisiana. They grow cotton, mostly. But I ain’t never seen those places.”
Mrs. Acklen had cotton plantations in Louisiana? In addition to all of this? The sources of Mrs. Acklen’s wealth were becoming clearer by the minute. She wished she could ask Zeke a few more questions, but he’d led her into the kitchen, where she and Sutton had eaten that morning. The space was bustling with activity, and the aroma of baking bread made her mouth water.
Women cooking at the stoves and stirring bowls at counters turned and looked. Claire smiled, noting that Cordina wasn’t among them.
Zeke sidled up to one of the smaller women. “This here’s my mama, Maria. She cooks for the Lady and her family.” He said it proudly, hugging his mother’s waist.
Claire curtsied, remembering having seen the woman serving dinner. “Maria, it’s nice to meet you. You have a delightful son.”
“Thank you, Miss Laurent,” Maria said in a soft voice, cradling her son’s head.
Claire didn’t wonder how Maria already knew her name. News traveled fast at Belmont.
“And this here”—Zeke pointed, continuing on down the line—“is Rena and Harriet and Ive and MaryAnn. They work down here in the kitchen too, but sometimes upstairs with Mrs. Routh.”
Claire nodded a greeting.
“This here’s Amanda. She’s a cook too. And Miss Betsy, over there”—Zeke motioned to an older woman seated at a table, a set of silver service and oilcloths spread out before her—“she’s Amanda’s and Ive’s and Harriet’s mama. She’s been with the Lady longest of anybody, exceptin’ Eli.”
“It’s nice to meet all of you,” Claire said, noting the familial relationships and wondering how many servants worked at Belmont. She asked Zeke that as they started up the stairs leading to the mansion.
“There be eleven of us, I think. Not countin’ the gardeners and workers the Lady hires.”
The soft pitter-pat of footsteps sounded from above, and Eva met them on the stairs, a bundle of clothing in her arms. She dipped her head politely in Claire’s direction, then turned a glare on Zeke. “Eli’s been askin’ for you, boy! The Lady’s got guests, and their horses need waterin’. You best get yourself upstairs right now, or you’re gonna get what for from Eli—and your mama once I tell her!”
Zeke bolted, throwing a hasty “Good-bye” over his shoulder as he raced up the stairs.
“That boy . . .” Eva shook her head, but Claire detected a smile in her voice, as though she enjoyed bossing him around. At least a little.
Claire eyed the laundry. “Are you the one responsible for cleaning my dress, Eva? The one that was splattered with mud?”
Question lit the girl’s expression. “Yes, ma’am. Was everything all right?”
“Oh yes! More than all right. I just wondered who to thank, that’s all.”
Eva smiled. “I help with the laundry, mostly. But my mama’s Mrs. Acklen’s personal maid. I’m trainin’ to take her place.”
“Well, you do a very fine job, Eva. Thank you.”
Eva continued down the stairs, a spring in her step, and Claire continued up, hoping Mrs. Acklen hadn’t been looking for her. She’d been gone longer than she’d planned. Almost to her room, she thought of Zeke again and the way his ears wiggled when
he smiled. And something he’d said returned to her.
“I just like findin’ things, I guess.”
She paused in the hallway leading to her bedroom. That was it! The idea she’d been searching for! She raced to her room, eager to capture on paper the perfect theme for William’s party, all while beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, God was listening to her after all.
18
Knowing dinner with the Worthingtons was long over, Sutton reined Truxton in by the stables as the sun made its final descent in a haze of dusky orange. He dismounted, frustrated at being so late but even more so by the summons from the St. Francisville, Louisiana, attorney that had been delivered to the law offices that afternoon.
For over two years the lawsuit had been dragging on, and he was beginning to wonder whether the whole cotton debacle would ever be resolved. He rued the day they’d ever involved Mr. Alexander Walker. But one thing he knew for certain—Adelicia was not going to be pleased.
He led Truxton into the stable, welcoming the brief walk to the house in order to gather his thoughts.
“Evenin’, Mr. Monroe.”
Sutton looked up. “Good evening, Zeke. How are you tonight?”
“I’m good, sir. You comin’ in awful late.”
Sutton sighed. “Later than I’d planned.”
“Here, let me see to him for ya, sir.” The boy grasped Truxton’s reins in one hand while making a show of holding something out in his other.
Amused, Sutton squinted in the dim lantern light as if not already knowing what was in the boy’s palm. “You find something in your digging today?”
“Yes, sir, I did. Somethin’ special.” When Zeke grinned, his whole face took part. “I told you there’s treasure buried round here.”
Sutton peered closer at the coin he held. “You’re kiddin’ me. You found that out there?”
“Yes, sir. Sure did. Found these too.” Zeke dug into his pocket again and held out a collection of spent shotgun shells. “I reckon these are from the battle that happened right here.”
Sutton nodded. “I’m sure they are.” He knew how much the boy enjoyed hearing stories about the war, especially the battles that took place nearby. But talking about those experiences was never easy for him, and he just couldn’t right now. Not tonight.
“I need to get on up to the house. Mrs. Acklen’s expecting me.” At Zeke’s nod, he gave the boy’s head a playful rub. “Congratulations on finding that coin. And thank you for seeing to Truxton. You always do a good job. And Truxton likes you.”
The boy grinned. “Thank you, sir.”
Sutton took long strides, the muscles in his legs tightened up from the ride from town. He loosened his tie and angled his neck from side to side. The mansion loomed ahead, the open windows in the front study aglow with lamplight. The curtains billowed in the breeze. As he grew closer, he thought he caught the murmur of feminine voices.
He pictured Claire again from that morning, when he’d asked her about whether or not she liked the opera. Recalling her response, he again felt properly chastised. She’d tried to mask her true feelings, but pretense wasn’t her forte. She said she didn’t have any interest in attending the opera, but that wasn’t true. And it made him feel smaller inside somehow, for not appreciating something that she longed to experience.
Another image of her arose, and he grinned, remembering her pretending to choke. Adorable. She’d been so proud of herself, which made it even more comical. He’d tried his best not to stare at her over breakfast, but it hadn’t been easy. He’d thought she was pretty the first time he’d seen her in the church, all mussed up and with her dress wrinkled.
But this morning in the kitchen . . .
She’d been downright intoxicating. That fresh look of sleep about her, the dimples when she laughed, the way she’d hopped right in beside him to cook the eggs. She hadn’t even seemed to notice when their bodies brushed against each other in the process—he exhaled—but he sure had. He noticed details about her that a man who had an understanding with another woman shouldn’t.
It wasn’t that he never thought about Cara Netta. It was just that he never thought about her the way he thought about Claire Laurent. The realization wasn’t reassuring.
Bits of conversation drifted toward him through the open window as he climbed the front steps.
“Yes, ma’am. That’s exactly how I’m picturing it. I’m also imagining . . .”
“That idea actually appeals to me, Miss Laurent. The boys competing against the girls . . .”
Sutton shook his head. Adelicia would find that appealing. The woman had a competitive streak a mile wide. He had an inkling Claire did too. Heaven help these two women if they ever got into a competition with each other. Claire would probably allow her employer to win, as well she should, though he couldn’t be certain. Mrs. Acklen would simply go for broke and never give up.
What a combination . . .
If only Adelicia had hired someone a little more homely. Someone who didn’t have “that way” of looking at him that made him feel more like a schoolboy than a grown man. But it wasn’t only Claire’s loveliness that attracted him. He was often in the company of beautiful women, yet they didn’t linger in his thoughts the way Claire Laurent did. They didn’t make him want to invent excuses to see them again.
It wasn’t prudent, he knew, his being so attracted to her. First, she was an employee of Mrs. Acklen’s. Second, he was supposed to be watching her—which he was certainly doing, but at least in part for his own personal reasons.
The entrance hall was dark, save for the lamps in the small study. Their flickering glow cast a sliver of light onto the statue before the fireplace, giving Ruth Gleaning an almost ghostlike quality. He understood why Adelicia had purchased the statue. It was exquisite. But it still surprised him that she’d placed it in such a prominent place, where everyone entering the home would see it. A rather bold choice.
Looking more closely at the sculptor’s lifelike detailing, he remembered the Biblical account and imagined what Boaz’s reaction would have been to such a display, however unintended by dear, innocent Ruth. The poor man wouldn’t have stood a chance against Ruth’s doleful gaze and her lovely physical attributes, for lack of a better—
“Good evening, Mr. Monroe.”
Startled at the voice behind him, Sutton turned. “Mrs. Routh . . .” He smiled to mask his jumpiness. Somehow the woman always managed to sneak up on him. “I didn’t realize you were here, ma’am. How are you this evening?”
“I’m well, sir. Thank you.” She dipped her head in a subservient manner. “I heard you arrive and wanted to make sure you weren’t in need of anything before I retire for the evening.”
“That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Routh. But no, I don’t need anything. I’m simply here to meet with Mrs. Acklen. Then I’ll be retiring myself.”
“Very well, sir. Good evening, then.” She took two steps and paused, then turned back. “I’m wondering, sir, if . . . I might pose a question.” She lowered her voice. “One I prefer be held in strictest confidence.”
“Of course, Mrs. Routh.”
She gestured for him to follow her into the grand salon. Sutton was accustomed to Mrs. Routh’s careful nature. A widow, the woman had been Adelicia’s friend—and social equal—before the untimely death of Mrs. Routh’s husband, Francis, several years ago. Since then she had been a faithful employee to Mrs. Acklen.
He’d questioned the arrangement at first. Having a good friend as an employee often spelled disaster. But the woman performed her head-housekeeper duties with excellence and kept the mansion in tip-top condition. She held a loyalty for Adelicia as well—and with good reason. But sometimes that loyalty led her to suspect trouble where there was none. Like now, he guessed.
Mrs. Routh stopped by the staircase, looked around, and leaned close. “It’s about—” she glanced back toward the entrance hall—“the new hire.”
His interest piqued. “Miss Laurent?”
She nodded, reluctance etching the lines of her face. “I don’t wish to overstep my bounds, sir, but . . . I’m simply wondering what we know about her.”
Had he not known better, Sutton would have thought she was fishing for gossip. But not Mrs. Routh. Honest and upright, she expected everyone else to toe the same line. “Has Miss Laurent acted in such a way that causes you to question her intentions?”
A stricken look crossed her face. “No, sir. And please don’t hear me insinuating that the young woman has done anything improper. It’s just that, well . . . Take this morning, for instance. I found her in the central parlor looking at one of Mrs. Acklen’s statues. Just standing there, staring at it.” She raised an eyebrow.
“You found her staring at a statue?” Sutton curbed a grin.
“The one of the little girl.”
Sans Souci. Adelicia had purchased it in Rome on their trip. “Perhaps she was simply admiring it.”
“That’s what I thought too. At first. Then she crouched low and started searching around the base.” She leaned closer. “When I questioned her, she said she was looking to see who had sculpted it.”
Sutton smiled, able to imagine the scene between the two women quite well. “Maybe that’s what she was doing.”
Mrs. Routh eyed him as though he were naive, and then it occurred to him what she might be insinuating.
“Are you suggesting, Mrs. Routh, that you believe Miss Laurent has . . . less than honorable motives in being here at Belmont?” He couldn’t begin to estimate the worth of Adelicia’s art collection. Not only the statues and paintings, but the jewelry, the century-old books, and family heirlooms, the gifts from foreign dignitaries. He’d been after her for years to catalog everything, which would take weeks to do properly.
But Claire Laurent, an art thief? The thought was laughable.
Mrs. Routh suddenly looked away, guilt shading her expression. “I’m sorry, sir, for even broaching the subject. It was wrong of me to do so without a firm—”
Sutton touched her arm. “Mrs. Routh . . . it’s never wrong of you to bring a concern to me when it involves Mrs. Acklen’s welfare. I appreciate your care and concern, as does Mrs. Acklen. And rest assured, we closely evaluate every person who’s hired to work at Belmont.”
A Lasting Impression Page 17
