“Very good.” Mrs. Acklen ran a hand over the bronze statue of Bucephalus on a side table, her expression growing pensive. “How many responses have we received to date for the tea in November?”
Claire glanced down at her notes, already knowing the answer, but not eager to relay the information. She’d sent out thirty invitations for the tea the Monday following William’s party, and every other day, it seemed, Mrs. Acklen requested an update. “We’ve received four so far, ma’am. . . .” And those from Mrs. Acklen’s mother, two sisters, and Mrs. James Polk, a close family friend, though she withheld that detail. “But it’s still early yet. The tea is a full month away.”
Mrs. Acklen said nothing, and Claire sensed she was more than a little hurt by the lack of timely replies. Frankly, Claire didn’t understand it. What woman would turn down an invitation for tea from Mrs. Adelicia—
“A carriage!” Mrs. Acklen gave a tiny gasp. “They’re here!” Smoothing the front of her dress, she exited the study without a backward glance.
Claire hurried to the open window and watched the driver of the carriage negotiate the winding path past rose gardens and between statues and fountains. The carriage came to a halt at the front steps, and not wishing to be seen, Claire took a step backward and peered around the draperies. Eli opened the carriage door and bowed low.
A gloved hand appeared, elegantly extended, and Claire leaned forward, waiting to see to whom it belonged.
With Eli’s assistance, the woman stepped from the carriage, and Claire knew immediately that the woman was Madame Octavia LeVert—the Pride of Mobile, Alabama, and the granddaughter of George Walton, a member of the Second Continental Congress, one of the three Georgia signers of the Declaration of Independence, and . . . a former governor, if she remembered correctly.
Bless Cordina’s heart . . . Knowing that woman provided all sorts of advantages.
Madame LeVert’s dress was exquisite, reminiscent of a style Claire had seen in a recent issue of Godey’s. She glanced down at her own new gray dress, mended as it was, and though it fit her station, she suddenly felt underdressed.
“Welcome to Belmont once again, Octavia dear . . .” Mrs. Acklen’s voice drifted in through the open window. “Seeing you again does my heart such good.”
“As seeing you does mine, Adelicia. Bless you for allowing us to break our journey here. The girls and I have been beyond ecstatic when thinking of seeing you and . . .”
As the two women embraced, a second woman exited the carriage with Eli’s assistance. From what Cordina had shared, Claire guessed her to be the older of the two daughters. Then a third woman stepped from the conveyance and Claire sucked in a breath.
Cara Netta.
With thick tresses of rich black hair, dark as a raven’s wing, and with eyes that—even at this distance—shone more violet than blue, the young woman was stunning. With such delicate features, and so tiny a waist. And her dress and . . . décolletage. Claire laid a hand to her own decidedly less bountiful bodice, and suddenly the onion soup comment made by Mrs. Acklen took on more meaning.
“Miss Laurent?”
Claire jumped, her heart catapulting to her throat. “Mrs. Routh!”
The head housekeeper approached. “Taken to lurking behind the draperies now, have we?”
Claire pushed back from the window. “No, ma’am . . . I simply heard the carriage and—”
“And now that you know the LeVerts have arrived, Mrs. Acklen would appreciate it if you would come out from hiding and be properly introduced.”
Wishing again that she hadn’t gotten off to such a poor start with the woman, Claire laid the papers in her hand on a side table. “Yes, ma’am.”
Mrs. Routh promptly scooped the papers up, gave them a good stacking on the edge of the table, and placed them in perfect symmetry on the antique secretary. “Madame Octavia LeVert is not only a most beloved public figure, Miss Laurent, she’s also Mrs. Acklen’s dearest friend. And I trust you will do everything within your means to make the LeVerts’ stay here at Belmont both enjoyable and . . . harmonious.”
Wondering at the woman’s choice of wording, Claire nodded. “Of course, I will, Mrs. Routh.”
The head housekeeper led the way into the entrance hall. “Much like their mother, Madame LeVert’s daughters are both delightful creatures,” she continued. “So talented and refined. It’s no wonder they’ve attracted the interest of some of Nashville’s finest gentlemen.”
Claire didn’t find that statement surprising, not after seeing the sisters. And that they came from wealth—and would likely bring it with them when they married—would most certainly guarantee their prospects for a good match, especially in these difficult times. What she did find surprising, however, was Mrs. Routh’s talkativeness. This was the most the woman had said to her since she’d arrived. And frankly, Claire decided she preferred the woman’s stoic silence.
Mrs. Routh opened the front door, and Claire spotted Sutton riding up the road. Odd to see him home so early when he’d had to work so late recently. Then again, he knew the LeVerts were expected.
“Ah, Mr. Monroe, on time as always.” Mrs. Routh smiled in a way that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “He’s long been a favorite of the LeVert family, and feels quite the same about them. As I’m sure you’ll soon see.”
Something in Mrs. Routh’s tone gave Claire the feeling she was attempting to tell her something without saying it outright, which wasn’t like Mrs. Routh at all.
Not nearly as eager to meet the LeVerts as she had been earlier, Claire checked her dress one last time and walked outside to the portico, shy of descending the stairs and entering the fray of hugs and familiarity.
Seeing the exchanges of affection should have warmed her heart. But instead they roused within her a yearning to belong that eclipsed everything else, and that edged up the veil on this precarious, make-believe existence she was living.
She didn’t have anyone in her life who would greet her so warmly after an extended absence, nor anywhere she could go “to break her journey” should she travel. And standing here, at the top of the stairs, taking it all in, she felt alone and insignificant.
But not until she saw Cara Netta turn and see Sutton, then run to greet him, hug him, and give him a quick peck on the cheek—and watch Sutton return her embrace—did Mrs. Routh’s comment begin to make sense.
27
The moment Sutton dreaded had arrived, and the fact that he dreaded it as much as he did—even as he hugged Cara Netta—only compounded his guilt. And that Claire stood watching from the front steps only made it worse.
He should have told her about Cara Netta. He’d known it that night following her accident and he knew it now. He’d spent the week contemplating, searching . . . But he hadn’t been able to think of a way to explain to her what was going on inside him. Mainly because he was still sorting it out himself.
“Mr. Monroe!”
He turned to see Madame LeVert headed straight for him, arms outstretched, and he gladly surrendered daughter for mother. They embraced, and Sutton was reminded again of how important this woman and her family were to Adelicia. “What a pleasure to see you again, Madame LeVert. You’re looking very well, ma’am.” From his peripheral vision, he kept an eye on Claire—standing on the portico, off to one side. “I believe the extended stay in New York agreed with you, ma’am.”
“My dear boy, it is not New York to which I owe any improvement in my countenance. It was my anticipation of seeing you, and Adelicia, and Belmont again that buoyed me on.”
He still couldn’t see her without thinking of her late husband. He missed Dr. LeVert’s dry wit and knowledgeable insights, and knew that the three most important women to Henry LeVert were still grieving the man’s passing these two years later.
“How is she?” Madame LeVert whispered. “She looks more rested and content than I’ve seen her in a long time.”
Sutton kept his voice low. “She took your suggestion—along with m
y strong encouragement once we returned—to heart and hired a personal liaison.”
Madame LeVert’s eyes brightened, and Sutton nodded toward Claire, who was inching her way back toward the front door. Madame LeVert followed his gaze, and Claire froze as though having been caught in a crime.
Uncertainty clouded her expression, and Sutton sent her a smile, hoping to allay her nervousness. “She assists Mrs. Acklen with nearly everything now, and performs her duties with grace and efficiency.” He leaned closer. “Adelicia’s quite pleased.”
“That’s high praise, Mr. Monroe. I’m especially eager to meet this liaison now.” She smiled and patted his arm. “Anyone who can please Adelicia Acklen is certain of pleasing me.”
“Mother, would you please stop monopolizing the South’s most handsome and eligible bachelor?”
Sutton had no trouble keeping a straight face with Madame LeVert’s older daughter, Diddie. “I’m certain she would, Miss LeVert. If only that gentleman were present.”
Everyone laughed. Everyone but Diddie.
“Miss LeVert? That’s what you’ve taken to calling me now, young man?”
Sutton let his smile show. “Hello, Diddie. How are you?”
“I’m exhausted, Sutton, and my back aches.” She grinned and rewarded him with a hug. “And I’m most grateful to be out of that carriage and onto solid ground again. And to the exquisite grounds of Belmont, no less. I almost feel as if I’ve come home.”
Diddie—always unpretentious, speaking her mind, yet not without a certain charm. Sutton wondered, as he had before, why she’d not yet married. Surely it wasn’t for lack of suitors. Only three or four years his senior, she always made a point of reminding him of his junior status.
Conversation around them fell away, and he looked toward the mansion to see Claire starting down the steps. Knowing she wouldn’t have made that descent without being prompted, he caught Adelicia’s discreet signal for her to join them—a quick flick of her wrist, a gesture she usually reserved for servants.
And the discovery that she used it with Claire . . . disturbed him.
“We’ve missed you, Sutton.” Cara Netta wove her arm through the crook of his. “Very much.” She pressed close.
Hearing what she was really saying, he caught the knowing smiles of the women around him and felt himself tense, grateful Claire was still some yards away. “You’ve all been missed very much too. I feared Mrs. Acklen might redecorate the entire mansion again while anticipating your visit.”
While Adelicia laughed and shushed his comment away, Sutton attempted to introduce an inch of space between himself and Cara Netta, without success.
Cara Netta ran a hand along his upper arm, and squeezed. “The gardens are exquisite, Sutton. Perhaps you might show them to me following dinner.”
Surprised at her forwardness—and at the generous display of bosom her dress permitted at this angle—Sutton nodded politely, then felt a none-too-subtle check in his spirit. He realized Cara Netta wasn’t being overly forward, not when considering the understanding between them and those long months spent traveling together in Europe.
It was his behavior that was making him uncomfortable. The way he’d allowed himself to become too close to Claire. Encouraging the friendship beyond what was proper for a man in his situation, however innocently done at first. But this situation wasn’t Cara Netta’s fault. It was his own, and it was therefore up to him to rectify it.
Cara Netta gave his arm a tug, and he realized she was awaiting his response.
“Yes,” he whispered down. “I’d be honored to show you the gardens later. That will give us a chance to talk.”
“And . . .” She smiled. “To get reacquainted.”
His collar tightened at the look in her eyes.
“Sutton . . .”
He turned, grateful for Diddie’s interruption.
“You must ask Cara Netta about the sonata.”
It took him a few seconds to place what she was referring to. Finally remembering, he covered the lapse of memory with a gentlemanly bow and used the opportunity to extract himself from Cara Netta’s affections, mindful of Claire standing just behind Adelicia, waiting to be introduced. He would have made the introductions himself, but it was Adelicia’s privilege as mistress of Belmont and Claire’s employer. “I have no doubt that Cara Netta has mastered that Haydn sonata by now. Which one was it . . .”
“Number thirty-seven in D major,” Diddie supplied, loving pride in her eyes. “And yes, she’s mastered it. I don’t see how she plays with such vivacity. And flawlessly!”
Cara Netta gave her sister a lighthearted frown. “You ought not tell such fabrications, Diddie.” She glanced at Sutton. “Though I can get through it passably well now.”
“Passably well?” Madame LeVert shook her head.
“Following dinner this evening”—Adelicia eyed Cara Netta, her gaze holding playful indulgence—“you shall play the sonata. I insist! And we will decide for ourselves whether mastered is an appropriate term.”
Cara Netta curtsied. “As you wish, Mrs. Acklen. But I beg you, do not hold me responsible should any of your guests develop a sudden ache in their heads.” Her comment drew muted laughter.
“Ah . . . Miss Laurent.” Adelicia motioned for Claire to come closer.
Sutton tried to catch Claire’s attention but to no avail. Her trepidation was understandable. The LeVert women were daunting enough each on their own terms. But taken together as a whole—and with Adelicia . . .
“Thank you for joining us, Miss Laurent.” Adelicia gestured. “Allow me to introduce to you Madame Octavia Celeste Valentine Walton LeVert, the most accomplished woman of my acquaintance, and one whom I am deeply privileged to call my dear friend.” Adelicia wordlessly took hold of Madame LeVert’s hand, and the two exchanged a glance. “And these two lovely women are her daughters, Miss Octavia Walton LeVert, whom we affectionately call Diddie.”
Diddie dipped her head, smiling.
“And this dark-haired beauty”—Adelicia slipped an arm around Cara Netta’s shoulders—“is Miss Henrietta Caroline LeVert, whom we all know as Cara Netta. And in turn, ladies, may I present Miss Claire Elise Laurent, my personal liaison . . . and the talented and assiduous young woman who is bringing a wealth of much-needed order to my life again.”
With aplomb and grace belying the nervousness Sutton knew she felt, Claire curtsied deep. “Madame LeVert, it is indeed an honor.” She smiled at Diddie and Cara Netta. “Ladies, my pleasure to meet you as well.”
Madame LeVert extended her hand. “Miss Laurent, I’d not been here five minutes before I heard your abilities being praised to the utmost by Mr. Monroe.”
Claire looked at Sutton then, and he smiled at her, happy to see a flicker of the same on her face, along with another emotion he couldn’t define. And he usually read her so well. She was getting better at masking her feelings. The discovery wasn’t welcome. Neither was the way Cara Netta wove her arm back through his and pressed close.
Claire’s gaze dropped to where Cara Netta was touching him, then quickly skittered away.
“I would welcome your assistance,” Madame LeVert continued, “in penning some overdue missives—with Adelicia’s permission, of course.”
Claire opened her mouth to respond, but Adelicia beat her to it.
“She would be thrilled to assist you, Octavia. Miss Laurent can begin whenever you wish. And likewise, if either of you girls needs anything, please don’t hesitate to ask her. She will be at your disposal and will be happy to make your stay at Belmont as pleasant as possible. Won’t you, Miss Laurent?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Claire tilted her head in acknowledgment. “It would be my pleasure.”
But pleasure was the last thing Sutton felt. That same disturbing feeling he’d experienced moments ago grated through him again. Maybe it was the way Adelicia had flicked her wrist at Claire moments earlier or how she’d answered for her just now that rubbed him the wrong way.
&nbs
p; Or maybe, he sighed inwardly, it was his own frustration—and disappointment with himself—that he was feeling.
As dinner guests began arriving that evening, Claire worked in the formal dining room to finish the last-minute details, doing her best not to think about what she’d been trying not to think about ever since the LeVerts arrived—Cara Netta.
Or more to the point, Cara Netta and Sutton.
Friends didn’t quite describe them, she’d swiftly concluded. Not with the way Cara Netta looked at him, touched him, laid almost tangible claim to him. Sutton had to be aware of Cara Netta’s feelings for him. He’d have to be blind not to. And one thing Sutton Monroe wasn’t was blind. The man noticed everything.
Well, almost everything.
She’d done her best to bury the hurt she’d felt when the LeVerts arrived, along with the twinge of jealousy that still twisted inside her. After all, she had no claim on Sutton, not when women like Cara Netta existed in the world. And, Claire knew, not when she’d done the things she’d done.
She smoothed a wrinkle from the tablecloth and turned the candelabra a fraction, an ache starting somewhere near the vicinity of her heart.
She straightened, determined to ignore it, and eyed the china and crystal stemware. If she’d lost Sutton, then she’d lost something—and someone—that was never hers to begin with. So really, she hadn’t lost anything. At least that’s what she kept telling herself. Over and over.
She’d gotten the impression from Sutton’s occasional glances that he’d wanted to speak with her during the course of the afternoon. But between helping Madame LeVert with her letter writing and getting ready for the dinner party, she’d simply not had the time.
No . . . That wasn’t true. She simply hadn’t wanted to talk to him yet, not when she sensed what he was going to tell her—that he reciprocated Cara Netta’s affections. What man wouldn’t? So she’d managed to avoid being alone with him. Not a difficult thing to do at Belmont.
A Lasting Impression Page 25
