With an acquiescent nod, Mrs. Routh bid him good night, yet Sutton felt a twinge of unease walking back to the entrance hall, knowing he hadn’t “closely evaluated” their most recent hire as thoroughly as he usually would have. At least not before she’d begun working there. Mrs. Acklen’s hasty decision had seen to that.
He’d mailed the letter to his colleague in New Orleans, as requested, but it would be at least a couple of weeks before he could expect to hear anything. He’d considered sending a telegram. But the last time they’d done that with potentially delicate news, the findings had ended up as fodder for gossip. So until he received his colleague’s reply, he would simply watch Claire more closely. And if he discovered her hauling statues out the front door in the middle of the night, he would confront her about it straightaway.
The thought made him grin.
Muffled voices came from within the study, and he drew closer.
“So tell me in greater detail about the pastries, please. Do you know how to make the Napoléons?”
Recognizing the subdued enthusiasm in Adelicia’s voice, Sutton stepped closer to the study and found the door partially open. Whatever ideas Claire had finally come up with, Adelicia liked them. Liked them a great deal. Though he doubted she would openly convey that at this point. Generous at heart, Adelicia wasn’t quick to trust. And he couldn’t blame her after what she’d been through.
Which reminded him of the letter in his pocket.
He stepped around the corner and knocked on the door. It inched open. “Good evening, ladies.”
Claire knelt by Adelicia’s chair. Their heads lifted in unison.
“Good evening, Mr. Monroe.” Adelicia waved him into the room. “You must have had a very busy day.”
“Yes, ma’am. You could say that.”
Adelicia locked eyes with him, and held. And without saying a word, he knew she was aware that he had bad news. But he also knew it would wait until Claire had taken her leave.
Adelicia’s smile never faltered. “You missed a lovely dinner with the Worthingtons. Cordina outdid herself yet again, and Mrs. Worthington was especially fond of the new statue in the foyer.”
Sutton eased down into one of the diminutive parlor chairs, finding it a little confining, as usual. “Did she offer to purchase it from you?”
“Actually, she did. In her own subtle way.” Adelicia’s eyes narrowed. “I graciously refused, of course.”
Sutton shook his head, then turned his full attention to Claire, as he’d wanted to do ever since walking into the room. “What’s this I hear about Napoléons?”
Claire’s eyes lit. She put a finger to her lips. “It’s one of the desserts we’re having at William’s party.” She whispered as though someone might be eavesdropping around the corner. “I’ve written the recipe for Cordina”—she looked back at Adelicia—“and I’ll arrange a time to help her make them early this week, along with everything else. A sort of . . . trial run for the desserts, so to speak.”
Sutton caught the secretive look Claire gave him, and smiled. Adelicia did too, he knew, but she wanted to know what news he had as badly as he didn’t want to tell her.
As if sensing the silent exchange between them, Claire rose. Sutton did likewise. Only then did he notice her dress. Or, more rightly, the way the dress looked on her. The rich charcoal gray set off her blue eyes, and the rest of the dress set off everything else. Realizing he was staring, he redirected his focus, only to meet Adelicia’s all too observant gaze.
He cleared his throat and had to remind himself to swallow. “You look lovely this evening, Miss Laurent. Is that a new dress?”
She smoothed a self-conscious hand over the front, giving him a smile that made him wish he’d gotten there hours earlier. “Yes, it is.” She glanced at Adelicia. “Seeing as my trunks haven’t arrived yet, Mrs. Acklen encouraged me to purchase something a little more suitable to wear for dinner tonight, and . . . for still being in mourning.”
Subtle meaning softened her voice, and Sutton nodded, remembering she had just lost her parents.
“Well . . .” Claire turned. “If you’ll both excuse me . . .” She started gathering items from a side table. All things pertaining to William’s birthday party, from the looks of them. “I’m going to say good night.”
Adelicia stood. “Of course, Miss Laurent. It is getting late. Thank you again for your contributions at dinner this evening. I had no idea you were so well-informed about the world of art.”
Sutton looked up, the comment standing out to him and gently prodding his doubt.
“Oh . . .” Claire looked away. “I’m not that well-informed, ma’am. But I do have an appreciation for art. For painting, in particular.”
“So I can see.” Adelicia picked up something from the table. “Mr. Monroe, have you seen what Miss Laurent has planned for one of the party favors? They’re quite nice.”
“Quite nice.” That was high praise from Adelicia. She placed a toy in his palm. He’d seen children playing with the thick wooden discs when they were in Europe. A string was wrapped around the middle and the goal had seemed simple—to allow the disc to drop, then with a flick of the wrist, recoil again. A burgundy A had been painted in an elegant script on the side. Personalized, as it were.
Feeling both women watching him, waiting for his reaction, he nodded. “It’s nice. Very nice.”
“It’s a joujou,” Claire said, stepping closer. “At least that’s what we called them in France. It means little toy. With Eli’s help, I contacted a woodworker in town this afternoon. He was kind enough to carve a sample for me.”
“Turn it over, Mr. Monroe,” Adelicia instructed, a smile in her voice. “See what Miss Laurent painted on the other side.”
He did as she asked. And though he couldn’t explain why, he felt a stir of caution mingle with his surprise.
19
Sutton moved into the lamplight and held the joujou closer, astonished at the detail with which Claire had captured a miniature rendition of the Belmont mansion. The tiny replica of the manor, painted on the joujou in a ruddy hue identical to the original, included the white columns, the balconies with black cast-iron trim, the cupola and parapets, even the statues adorning the roofline.
He studied it more closely, then realized . . . while she had depicted the major architectural details of the mansion, she’d somehow also captured that swept-away feeling one experienced when first glimpsing the magnificent estate. And on the side of a child’s toy, no less. No wonder Adelicia was pleased.
He would have been pleased too, if not for a lingering sense of doubt about Claire. Mrs. Routh’s comments from moments earlier only fed that concern.
“You painted this, Miss Laurent?” Hearing the disbelief in his own voice, he rushed to clarify. “I mean no disrespect, I assure you. I’m simply . . . surprised. And impressed.”
“No offense taken, Mr. Monroe.” Appreciation lit Claire’s features. “I’m glad you’re pleased. That you’re both pleased. As Mrs. Acklen and I were just discussing, the theme of the party will be Hidden Treasures. All of the games and party favors will center around that theme. We’ll put each joujou in the bottom of a drawstring bag, and then fill each bag with candy.”
“And . . .” Adelicia reached for something on the table behind her. “We’ll also be giving these away. It’s called a bombonnière, which is French for sweet box. It was Miss Laurent’s idea to paint them with a picture of the mansion as well, as you can see.” She indicated the scene Claire had painted on the lid, similar to the one on the toy, only larger. “We’ll give them to parents as a token of our thanks, and inside—hidden away like a treasure—will be a mixture of sugared almonds and roasted cashews.”
“Well done, ladies.” Sutton had to admit, the theme was brilliant. “It appears as though you have everything planned, and all in typical Belmont fashion.”
“We do indeed.” Claire’s exuberance hinted at anticipation that Sutton wished he could share at the momen
t. As he helped her gather her items into a box, he considered that she probably had no idea how important this children’s party was to Adelicia. It wasn’t simply a birthday party for William. It was the first small step in Adelicia’s reintroduction to society since the family had returned from Europe.
The grand tour had been the talk of Nashville while they’d been gone, or so he’d been told. And the lavish redecoration of the mansion and refurbishing of the gardens that Adelicia set into motion before leaving had only fueled the gossip. For months. So he especially appreciated Claire’s attention to the details.
With a gracious curtsy, Claire bid them good night. And the fleeting backward glance she gave him at the door did his heart more good than it should have.
Adelicia immediately turned to him, but Sutton waited for a moment. He crossed the study, peered outside into the quiet hallway, and closed the door. He knew better than to sugarcoat the news. Adelicia always preferred the straightforward approach.
He pulled the envelope from his pocket and held it out. “It’s from the attorney in St. Francisville, Louisiana. The district court has ruled that you must pay Mr. Alexander Walker twenty-five thousand dollars for his assistance in the sale of the cotton.”
Stone-faced, Adelicia took the envelope, seated herself in her chair, and read the letter. Then she promptly refolded it, saying nothing. But Sutton could almost hear her thoughts from across the room.
He claimed the chair beside her. “We knew there was a chance of this happening.”
Her lips firmed. “Mr. Walker’s wife met us in New Orleans that morning over two years ago. She accepted the payment of five hundred dollars on behalf of her husband’s involvement. Does that count for nothing?” She turned to him. “You were there. Their own attorney was present too. Their acceptance of the payment that day indicates willful compliance in the eyes of the law. Does it not, Mr. Monroe?”
Sutton knew he didn’t need to lecture her on the finer points of the law. Adelicia had grown up reading the law books in her father’s library and—according to her late husband, who had been one of the finest attorneys Sutton had known—she began arguing cases with her father at the age of eight. It was a frivolous thought, he knew, but she would have made a formidable lawyer herself.
“Mrs. Acklen, I wish the law were that clear-cut, but we both know it’s not. In a perfect world—”
“Please spare me the perfect-world lecture, Mr. Monroe. In a perfect world justice would always be blind and all verdicts would be just.” She stated it as though she were speaking to a first-year law apprentice.
Sutton bit his tongue, knowing she was upset, and disappointed. Just as he had been when he’d first read the letter. He’d had the luxury of the past three hours to digest the frustration. She’d had the past three minutes. And it was her money they were talking about. Not his. “My apologies, ma’am, if my words seemed trite. That wasn’t my intention. But the fact remains . . .” With deep respect and concern for her, he leveled a stare. “You are an extremely wealthy and well-known widow who played a very deep game during a turbulent time in this country.”
“I was attending to my own affairs, Mr. Monroe. In the manner I thought best.”
“I’m well aware of that. But people haven’t forgotten that you were accused by the Federals of being ‘in complicity with the rebels.’ And the Confederates labeled you a Union woman.”
She scoffed. “You know my goal was to save that cotton. And I went to great lengths—and peril—to do so. Don’t forget my imprisonment! For three days they kept me under house arrest!” She gave an exasperated sigh. “I couldn’t simply stand by and allow three years’ worth of labor and potential revenue to be burned to naught all because of one general’s insatiable thirst for destruction.”
Sutton leaned forward. “Of course, I understand. I was there,” he gently reminded. “Please understand, Mrs. Acklen, I’m not questioning your motives or your actions. I’m only trying to illustrate how I believe the district court viewed this case.”
“I see the argument you’re making, Mr. Monroe. But I fail to see the connection between that and a man who agrees to accept one sum of money for his services, only to later change his mind and sue for a greater sum once he discovers how much money his employer received.” Taking a deep breath, she stood and strode to the window. “The behavior is deceitful and wrong and ought not to be rewarded. Not by a court of law and certainly not by me!”
Weary in body, and of fighting this particular legal battle, Sutton rested his head in his hands, wrestling with how to phrase his next thoughts, but knowing they needed to be said.
Finally, he straightened. “I’ve encouraged you to put this whole situation behind you, and my counsel in that regard still stands. What’s done is done. And as you stated, you wouldn’t do anything differently. But . . . that said, though the war is over, tensions are still running high, and certain people’s loyalties continue to be held in question.”
“As in mine.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes, ma’am. As in yours.” Remembering what she’d said about how she appreciated his speaking the truth to her, he forged on, hoping she would still feel that way when he was done. “As you know . . . a court of law is only as fair and just as is the judge seated on the bench, or the people seated in the jury. People are responsible for interpreting the law, and yet we each come with our own individual backgrounds and experiences and, therefore, biases.”
He looked back at her but she still faced the window. “At the end of the war, ma’am . . . when most people were struggling to find food and shelter for their families—many of whom still are—you managed to outmaneuver two armies and transport twenty-eight hundred bales of cotton through enemy lines. And you sold it . . . for one million dollars, and then set out on a grand tour of Europe. While others, say a judge or a jury of your peers”—he watched her closely, trying to read her posture—“returned to homes that had been burned to the ground and to lives that had been torn asunder.”
He clenched his eyes tight. “Please hear me in this, Mrs. Acklen. I do not judge you. That’s not what this is about. But I firmly believe that the district court’s decision in favor of Mr. Walker is an indictment of your choices and of the fortune you amassed during that time.”
Adelicia continued to stare out the open window, her shoulders rigid. And Sutton waited, the clock ticking, slicing off the seconds.
She turned back to him. “Mr. Walker will never get one penny more than the five hundred dollars he’s already received, and that he first agreed to.”
Sutton offered a conceding look. “That’s precisely what I thought you would say. So I’ve already begun drafting an appeal to the Supreme Court of Louisiana. It could take months for their review and a final verdict, but I trust that if personal biases influenced the decision at the district level, those biases will be corrected in the Supreme Court’s final ruling.”
She nodded. “Very good, Mr. Monroe. Very good. I appreciate your due diligence, as always.”
“You’re most welcome, ma’am.” He sighed. “Now, if there’s nothing further, I believe I’ll call it a day. Good night, Mrs. Acklen.” He bowed briefly, then turned to leave.
“One more thing, Mr. Monroe.”
Accustomed to her “one more things,” Sutton turned back.
“Have you received word from the review board yet? As to whether they’ve rendered their verdict?”
The very mention of the review board dredged up a pile of emotions and regrets he was loath to deal with at the moment. “No, ma’am. Nothing yet. I’ll be sure and let you know.” He turned to go.
“Praying your forbearance, Mr. Monroe, but . . . I have one more question.”
Swallowing a sigh, Sutton turned back again, and could tell by her expression that she knew he was finished with their conversation. But she wasn’t.
Yet she seemed unable to sustain his gaze. “In order that sleep may eventually find me when I rest my head on my pillow tonig
ht . . .” Her tone took on a fragile quality, and her manner grew tentative. “When thinking of your father, God rest his soul, and of what the government is seeking to do now—trying to take your family’s land, your inheritance—has there ever been a moment, even in the briefest sense, when you’ve contrasted your circumstance to my own, and . . .” She briefly looked away. “Have you ever thought less of me for the choices I made, and for how those choices unfolded?”
The question caught him off guard. That she cared what he thought and feared he might be holding something against her personally brought a burning to his eyes.
He confined his gaze to the carpet. “As I understand it, you’re asking me whether, when I ride up the road to Belmont and see this magnificent estate, I experience a sense of begrudging toward you because you didn’t lose your home in the war . . . and if—when faced with the loss of my own wealth—I feel a sense of jealousy that your fortune, already immense at the time, was made even more so as a result of your choice to fight to protect your own interests during the war.”
He finally looked up. “Have I correctly interpreted your question, ma’am?”
He could hear her breathing from across the room.
“Yes, Mr. Monroe. You have indeed. And with your usual thoroughness.”
He took a step toward her, seeing sincerity glistening in her eyes. “I would be lying to you if I said those questions have never assailed me. They have,” he whispered, “and still do, on occasion.”
He swallowed, feeling the solid thud of his heart in his throat. “However, I don’t judge you for your choices, or their outcome. You believed God was directing you to go to Louisiana. I watched you maneuver that cotton past the Confederate Army using Union wagons and mules.” He felt the faintest hint of a smile, and saw the same in her. “But you weren’t just saving your cotton that night, ma’am. You were protecting your late husbands’ legacies, as well as the financial futures of your children.
A Lasting Impression Page 18
