A Lasting Impression

by Tamera Alexander

  “Well, we’ll just see about—”

  “Well done, Miss Laurent.”

  They both turned to see Adelicia ascending the stairs, young Pauline and Claude racing up beside her. And—much to Sutton’s delight—Adelicia’s mother followed them.

  “Mrs. Hayes,” he said, bowing at the waist. “How wonderful to see you again, ma’am.” Little Pauline reached up to him, and he scooped her up in his arms, relishing her little-girl hug.

  Mrs. Hayes extended a lace-gloved hand, which Sutton kissed. “The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Monroe. I wasn’t about to miss my grandson’s eleventh birthday celebration. Especially not after Adelicia’s lengthy description of the pastries, party favors, and games earlier this week. Although, I don’t quite see the purpose behind intentionally setting the girls’ team against the boys’. We all know that a properly bred young lady will always allow a boy to win. Any lesser behavior would be considered lacking in etiquette.”

  Sutton caught Adelicia’s fleeting frown, and Claire’s less than subtle look of confusion.

  “It’s simply a game, Mother dear,” Adelicia said, her smile back in place. “And I dare say, Miss Laurent, that this is a party William and his friends, and their parents, will remember for years to come. As will I.”

  Her tone was exceptionally gracious, Sutton noted, and the affirmation lighting Claire’s eyes lit something inside him too.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Acklen.” Claire curtsied. “I’m happy that you’re pleased.”

  “Shall we treat ourselves to refreshments, children?” Adelicia asked.

  “I want a Napoléon!” Pauline chimed in.

  With a quick peck to Pauline’s cheek, Sutton set her down, and off she went. Claude followed, racing her down the steps. Arm in arm, Adelicia and Mrs. Hayes descended in more graceful fashion. Sutton was glad to see his employer in the company of Nashville society again, although he noticed that the guests didn’t exactly flock to her as they once had.

  He offered his arm to Claire. “Are you ready for a Napoléon?”

  With waning enthusiasm, she accepted. “Mrs. Hayes doesn’t like the party.”

  “That’s not true. She’s simply more . . . old-fashioned in some of her opinions. But I can tell you from having known the woman for years that she was impressed with what you’ve done today. And with her daughter . . . for hiring you.”

  “At least temporarily.” Claire gave him a deflated smile.

  When they reached the bottom of the stairs, he covered her hand on his arm. “Don’t let that one comment ruin the day. All right?” He playfully tweaked her chin, glad when her smile blossomed again.

  “Thank you, Sutton.”

  “Oh, Miss Laurent! May we speak with you?”

  “Do you hire out for parties?”

  Seeing a hoard of purposeful mothers heading their way, Sutton made his exit, knowing Claire could manage them without his assistance. Visiting with guests, he feasted on pastries that took him back to the streets and the delectable bakeries of Paris.

  Claire joined him about an hour later and they sat inside a gazebo, grinning along with the parents as they watched the boys and girls dart from statue to building, then building to statue, then back to the low-hanging magnolia branches.

  For most of the hunt it seemed the teams were neck and neck—until he spotted the girls heading for the icehouse.

  “Uh-oh,” he whispered beneath his breath, then looked over to see Claire beaming. “Claire Laurent, how can you be responsible for William’s party and yet want his team to lose? It’s his birthday!” He checked to make sure Mrs. Hayes wasn’t nearby. “Besides, it’s completely lacking in etiquette.”

  She gave him a look. “I never said I wanted the girls to win. Out loud, anyway.”

  He shook his head. She and Adelicia were cut from the same cloth. A breeze stirred a curl at her temple, and he smiled to himself, thinking of what she’d arranged for the members of the winning team. Even the weather was cooperating according to the woman’s plan. “I meant to ask you. How did you come up with this game?”

  She lifted her chin. “I thought of it. All by myself.” She looked down her pert little nose at him. “With no thanks to you, kind sir.”

  Sutton eyed her. The snippy little—

  “I got the idea from Zeke.”

  He frowned, not following. “Zeke gave you the idea?”

  She nodded, sipping her coffee. “I saw him one morning digging in the dirt. He was so intent on his task and having such fun. He’d found a nickel and some spent shells. Then later, I thought of Zeke again and began thinking of how much fun it might be for William and his friends to . . . What?” Her eyes narrowed. “Why are you smiling?”

  Sutton looked at her, finding a satisfaction in her answer that he wasn’t about to explain. “No reason, I just—”

  She reached over and grabbed his arm. “The girls are leaving the icehouse,” she whispered. “But here come the boys!”

  Sure enough, Sutton looked up to see William leading the pack, running full out. The boys crowded into the icehouse and couldn’t have been inside more than thirty seconds before they barreled back out, headed straight for the bowling alley. “So much for the clues that rhyme being harder to decipher.”

  The boys made a dash for their last destination, covering ground much faster than the girls, who were just reaching the steps of the bowling alley.

  Sutton stood. “It’s going to be close.”

  “Very close.” Claire rose too and started toward the mansion. Sutton followed.

  Several of the parents began moving back in that direction as well.

  Not three minutes later, the girls’ team burst through the doors of the bowling alley, decorum and propriety tossed to the wind, skirts hitched knee-high and hair ribbons flying. They raced back across the lawn, glancing over their shoulders and squealing the second they spotted the boys fast on their trail.

  Sutton had never seen anything like it, and was certain Belmont hadn’t either. He looked around to make certain Mrs. Hayes wasn’t having the vapors. But the woman was cheering along with everyone else. For the boys, of course.

  And more than that, the look on Claire’s face was pure delight. As was Adelicia’s, as she stood behind them on the stairs.

  “Come on,” he heard Adelicia whisper, and knew instinctively whose team she was rooting for. Apparently gender outweighed blood relations, at least in competitions. The parents rooted for the teams too, yelling encouragements as they raced toward the goal.

  But the winner was clear.

  22

  The girls’ team, led by the spunky little blonde who had spoken up earlier, stampeded up the stairs. With cheeks flushed and spirits high, the girls crowded together as though intent on guarding their territory as the leader pressed a neat pile of clues into Claire’s hand.

  “Here you are, Miss Laurent.” The little blonde took a breath, her eyes bright. “All the clues, in order.” She smiled. “Oh! That was fun!” Her friends nodded, giddy with triumph.

  Sharing their moment of glory, Claire counted the girls’ clues to make certain they’d found them all, and by the time William and his friends climbed the stairs, she knew the winner. Judging by William’s poorly masked disappointment, so did he.

  Claire stepped forward. “Congratulations to both teams for finishing so quickly. And now, the declared winner of the Hunt for Hidden Treasure is—the girls’ team!”

  Cheers went up from everyone, though the boys’ applause seemed halfhearted at best. Even Mrs. Hayes was wearing a smile.

  Waiting for the cheers and congratulations to die down, Claire turned to see Sutton retrieving the two large boxes stashed inside the entrance hall, right on cue. “Thank you,” she mouthed, appreciating the man more each day. “And now it’s time to award the winners their prizes.” She reached into the first box and carefully removed a resplendent red-and-yellow kite, the one Sutton had helped her assemble that morning.

  She held it high as
the girls clapped in excitement, and as the boys lowered their heads. Then she had an idea. . . .

  “As I give the girls their prizes,” she continued, knowing the boys would perk up soon enough, “I need the boys to form a single line down the stairs, starting with William, and then number off, beginning with one. Be sure to remember your number!”

  “What are you doing?” Sutton whispered behind her.

  “I’m improvising,” she whispered back as she distributed the unassembled kites and congratulated each girl.

  “Why does that frighten me . . . ?”

  Smirking, she pretended to ignore him. “Now, will the captain of the girls’ team please join me here.” The girl did as Claire bade. “And will the rest of the young ladies please make a line down the stairs as the boys have done?”

  Claire glanced at William to see whether the boy had figured out what she was doing. His sullen expression said he hadn’t, but she knew it wouldn’t take long. “To your left are special tables with fresh pastries and punch set up for you young men and women. As you’re enjoying your refreshments, I ask that each young lady seek out the young man who has her corresponding number. For instance, Miss Sally Forthright, captain of the girls’ team is number one. Likewise, Mr. William Acklen”—Claire smiled as a light crept back into William’s eyes—“is number one on the boys’ team. So, Sally and William”—Sally and William sneaked bashful looks at each other—“after you’ve finished your pastries and punch, your next task will be to assemble Sally’s kite and then take it for its first flight. Weather cooperating, of course.”

  She would’ve sworn the boys’ chests puffed out a good three inches and that the girls’ smiles widened the same. The slight bobbing of their heads told her both the boys and the girls were mentally counting down the lines, figuring out who their partner would be.

  “Quite the improviser,” Sutton whispered behind her.

  She reached back and tried to swat him, and missed. But she heard him laugh.

  The remainder of the afternoon’s events progressed even better than she’d imagined, and as the last carriage pulled away from Belmont at nearly six o’clock, Claire found herself utterly exhausted, and pleased beyond expectation.

  Claire chose to forego dinner and lay down for a nap instead. Still wearing her dress, she barely remembered her head touching the pillow. When she awakened some time later, her bedroom was awash in the glow of twilight.

  A coolness layered the air.

  She felt a hunger pang and squinted to see the clock on the mantel. Half past eight. Not as late as it felt. But as Sutton had said, it was getting dark earlier. She climbed from the bed, hoping Cordina’s stash of day-old bread would yield a roll or two left from dinner. That would be enough to last her until breakfast.

  The grand salon was quiet. A single lamp illuminated the room, its light swiftly surrendering to the shadows crowding the corners. Where was everyone? Voices drifted toward her, coming from the tête-à-tête room.

  At first she thought it was Sutton and Mrs. Acklen, but as she picked her way into the dark entrance hall, she realized the man’s voice wasn’t Sutton’s.

  “Lucius . . .” Mrs. Acklen’s lilting laughter carried through the closed door. “I don’t know where you get your stories.”

  “They’re not stories, Adelicia. They’re just my life.”

  More soft laughter. “I guess it’s the way you describe things that makes them so comical.”

  Claire smiled at the exchange, but . . . who was Lucius?

  Not wishing to eavesdrop, she quickly turned to go when a darkened silhouette stepped from the shadows. She nearly jumped out of her skin. “Mrs. Routh!” Hand over her heart, Claire took several breaths. “You scared me to death, ma’am. What are you doing out here?”

  “I was in the study making certain the windows were latched, Miss Laurent. What are you doing out here?”

  “I just awakened from a nap. I was on my way to the kitchen when I heard voices, and—” Even without seeing the housekeeper’s face, Claire could feel Mrs. Routh’s disapproval. Would she never win this woman’s favor? “I came in here to see if Sut—” She caught herself. “To see if Mr. Monroe was here. But he’s not. And since I didn’t wish to eavesdrop, I was leaving to—”

  The door to the tête-à-tête room opened, and light poured into the entrance hall.

  Mrs. Acklen emerged, oil lamp in hand. A gentleman followed, one Claire remembered having seen at the party earlier that day.

  Mrs. Acklen paused in the doorway. “Mrs. Routh. Miss Laurent. Did I miss the notice for our gathering?” She smiled in an almost jovial manner.

  “No, ma’am,” Mrs. Routh answered, her tone having thawed by a degree. “I’m taking care of my nightly duties, and Miss Laurent was on her way to the kitchen, it would seem.”

  “Ah, yes, Miss Laurent.” Mrs. Acklen shone the lamp in Claire’s direction. “We missed you at dinner. Cordina said you’d gone to lie down. I hope you’re feeling more rested?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I am. Thank you.” She sneaked a look at the gentleman who was watching Mrs. Acklen with rapt attention.

  “Well, I’m glad to hear it. Because come Monday morning”—Mrs. Acklen gave her a pointed look—“we have much work to do.”

  Claire stared, wondering if Mrs. Acklen meant what she thought she meant. “A-are you saying that I—”

  “Yes, Miss Laurent. Congratulations, I’m granting you the position.”

  Having hoped and prayed she would hear those words, Claire could hardly believe them. And judging from Mrs. Routh’s stoic expression, neither could she. “Thank you, Mrs. Acklen. I promise, I’ll work hard every day and do my very best.”

  “Yes, yes, Miss Laurent.” Mrs. Acklen nodded. “And I’ll accept nothing less. Now go get your dinner. Cordina said she was going to leave you a plate by the stove.”

  Claire fairly floated down to the kitchen and retrieved her plate and a glass of milk, then slipped back up to her room. Wishing she could tell Sutton the news, she guessed he probably knew already.

  She made quick work of the pork chop, sweet potatoes, and black-eyed peas, and ate every crumb of the corn bread Cordina had slathered with butter. She licked the melted butter from her fingers, certain nothing had ever tasted so good.

  Full as a tick, as she’d heard Eli say, she changed into her gown and blew out the light, wishing she could have talked to Sutton again before going to bed. As she turned back the sheets, she glanced out the window. And stilled.

  Down below, in the same area where she’d seen Zeke digging, someone knelt in the dirt, digging just like Zeke had. She crept closer to the window, keeping her head down, glad her lamp was extinguished. She watched, and waited. For what, she didn’t know.

  Whoever was down there was taking their time digging and then smoothing the dirt out again. Then it occurred to her. They weren’t digging. They were burying. The person stood and Claire’s breath caught. Sutton! She recognized his stance, his walk.

  He moved a few feet over and repeated the process she’d just witnessed, and her thoughts turned to Zeke and how the boy had told her he’d found coins buried down there, among other things.

  She watched Sutton reach into his pocket, then drop something—a coin, she assumed—in the hole, then smooth the dirt over again, looking from side to side as he did. Who would have thought . . .

  As it turned out, Sutton was the apparent inspiration behind her brilliant idea for the theme of William’s party. Smiling, she shook her head to herself and crawled between the sheets, then rustled her legs beneath the covers, trying to get warm.

  Silvered slats of moonlight fell across the room, moving with the tree limbs outside her window as they bent and swayed in the wind. She wished she could tell Sutton the truth. In the same breath, she also wished—as silly and as farfetched as it sounded, even to her—that he cared for her the way she was beginning to care for him. Even though she knew she shouldn’t.

  Because nothing would e
ver come of it. Because how could you love someone you didn’t know? And Sutton didn’t know her. Not really. And if he did, he wouldn’t like what he saw. Because everything he stood for—integrity, honor, defending the law—she had smeared with disregard.

  She hadn’t blatantly lied. But she hadn’t been truthful either. Was telling a lie and not telling the whole truth the same thing? She didn’t think it was. But right now, in that moment, they felt the same.

  Because if she were to tell Sutton the truth—about her past and the paintings she’d forged, and her family’s gallery where they had sold them—she knew in her heart that he would believe she had lied to him, and to Mrs. Acklen. And he would be right. And she would be gone.

  Away from Belmont. Away from him. Away from this fresh start at a new life.

  No . . . telling the truth came at too great a cost. Besides, that life was behind her now. Wasn’t her pledge to start over, to do better, never to steal or to lie or to forge anything else again . . . enough?

  23

  You’re certain I’m not speaking too quickly this morning, Miss Laurent? You’re keeping up?” Mrs. Acklen crossed the study to the secretary’s desk and peered over Claire’s shoulder.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ve written everything down. Including the Christmas menu, along with the amounts and what to order from which company.” Claire offered her the pages for review, accustomed to Mrs. Acklen’s perusal. Her hand ached from taking dictation all morning, no matter that the fountain pen was the nicest she’d ever used. The ink fairly glided onto the page.

  A gentle rap sounded.

  “Come in,” Adelicia announced, turning as the door opened. “Ah! Miss Cenas, how are you this morning?”

  Claire looked up to see the children’s tutor smiling in her direction and returned the gesture, mouthing a quiet “Good morning.” She’d met the teacher earlier in the week, and a more organized individual she’d never known.

  Miss Heloise Cenas worked magic with the children and their studies. With never a cross word and never her voice raised, the eloquently spoken schoolmarm delivered the lessons in such a way that even Claire had found herself listening, on occasion, outside the classroom, which was conveniently located in a spare bedroom off the grand salon.