A Lasting Impression

by Tamera Alexander

  A clock chimed from the hallway, snapping her back to the moment, and she consulted her list again.

  She checked the place cards—arranged according to Mrs. Acklen’s instructions—then the flowers comprising the centerpiece and those on the antique sideboard, along with the gifts Mrs. Acklen had requested be placed at the top of each place setting. Boxes of cigars for the gentlemen and scented lace handkerchiefs for the ladies.

  She stepped back to admire her efforts and took a cleansing breath. Five minutes before six. Hardly any time to spare. She looked at the place card with her name on it, near the foot of the table, and was grateful again to be included in the adult gathering rather than joining Miss Cenas and the children in the family dining room.

  “Claire?”

  She turned and, though she told herself not to, she found herself staring. “Sutton . . .” Dressed in a fitted black suit with waist-cut jacket and tails, he walked toward her adjusting his tie and wearing an expression that made her glad she was a woman. Even if not the right one for him.

  “You’re a difficult woman to catch alone.”

  Maybe it was her disappointment talking or the jealousy goading her, but she couldn’t resist picking apart his phrasing. He was usually so well spoken. “I believe, Counselor, that what you mean to say is that I’m a woman who is difficult to be caught alone.”

  He tilted his head as if casually acknowledging his faux pas. “And yet, considering the woman in question, and her response just now, I think I’ll let my statement stand, Your Honor.”

  She would’ve laughed if he’d said such a thing yesterday, but she couldn’t today. Not with the telling tightness in her throat and with watching his own smile fade. He had such an ease about him. Such a way of just being himself that made her—and everyone else, apparently—want to be around him. To be with him.

  “Claire . . .” He looked down for a second, his brow creasing, and she felt a sinking inside, dreading whatever words would accompany that look. “My timing in this is poor, I realize. But there’s something I should have told you.” He lifted his head, and the seriousness in his gaze wrenched the knot inside her even tighter. “Cara Netta LeVert and I—”

  “Sutton! There you are.” The young woman herself appeared in the doorway. “I’ve been looking for you.” She floated toward them in a gauzy dress of pearl-colored satin, a sash the color of her eyes accenting her diminutive waist. She slipped her hand into the crook of Sutton’s arm as if the gesture were more of a reflex than a conscious action. “Oh, how beautiful!” Her gaze swept the table. “And look . . .” She picked up one of the place cards—Madame LeVert’s, which Claire had taken extra care with in sketching a street scene from Paris. “How exquisite. Mother is going to be ecstatic when she sees these! Where did Mrs. Acklen have them made?”

  “Miss Laurent made them.” Subtle pride layered Sutton’s voice. “She’s quite the artist, in addition to being a fine personal liaison.”

  Claire warmed at the compliment, especially when remembering his original opinion of her. The image of him falling backward out of the gazebo stirred up emotions she knew were best forgotten.

  “Really, Miss Laurent?” Cara Netta stepped closer to Sutton. “You sketch and paint?”

  “Yes, but not much lately, I’m afraid.” Claire managed a smile. “Time hasn’t been too plentiful in recent weeks.”

  “And are you enjoying serving as Mrs. Acklen’s liaison? I imagine it to be a demanding position.”

  “I’m enjoying it very much, Miss LeVert. And I’m most grateful for the opportunity Mrs. Acklen is giving me.”

  “Yes, I would think so. And living here at Belmont must seem like a dream for you.”

  Claire felt an indistinct barb in the comment, yet detected nothing of the sort in Cara Netta’s sweet expression. “Belmont is exquisite, yes, ma’am. A kind of American Versailles, if you will.”

  It felt odd referring to Cara Netta as ma’am, when the young woman seemed not that much older than she was. Yet the difference in their stations in life demanded it. A difference she had been reminded of more times today than in all her weeks at Belmont thus far.

  “Miss Laurent is originally from Paris,” Sutton offered, filling in the silence. “She and her parents came to the States when she was nine. She moved here from New Orleans earlier this fall.”

  “Well . . .” Cara Netta’s smile broadened. “You’re quite the expert on the subject, Sutton.”

  Claire was thinking the exact same thing, surprised he’d remembered those details so readily. And that he voiced them in light of present company. It was obvious—to her, at least—that Cara Netta wasn’t happy with her presence.

  “Mrs. Acklen informed me again, Miss Laurent, that your talents are at our disposal while we’re here. I’d be most grateful if you’d agree to assist me with a certain . . . undertaking.”

  Not missing Sutton’s sideways glance at Cara Netta, Claire wondered if that undertaking would involve cleaning something . . . like a chamber pot, perhaps? “Of course, Miss LeVert. I’d be happy to assist you. Simply let me know when you wish to meet.”

  Guests began entering the formal dining room, and Cara Netta glanced behind her before turning back. “I see it’s time for dinner, Miss Laurent. It’s been a pleasure.”

  Claire looked from her to Sutton, realizing Cara Netta’s assumption, yet not feeling at liberty to correct her.

  “Actually,” Sutton said, his smile a little stiff. “Miss Laurent will be joining us for dinner, Cara Netta.”

  Cara Netta’s countenance faltered only for an instant. “Well . . . how wonderful. Then I’ll look forward to continuing our conversation over the meal.”

  Claire thanked her, then excused herself, wanting to believe the young woman’s sentiment was genuine, but something inside told her otherwise.

  Oohs and ahs issued from Mrs. Acklen’s mother and sisters, and from Madame LeVert and Diddie as they found their places at the table. They commented on the place cards, then their gifts. The gentlemen expressed pleasure as well as they took a whiff of their cigars.

  “Thank you, Adelicia, how gracious.”

  “The handkerchiefs are beautiful, Adelicia. So lovely, all of it!”

  Mrs. Acklen fielded thank-yous with a queenly nod here and there, and Claire watched just in case Mrs. Acklen might nod her way. But she didn’t. Soon conversation filled the corners of the room, and Claire had just taken her seat—on the opposite side of the table from Sutton and Cara Netta, and a few places down—when Mrs. Routh appeared in the doorway.

  One look at the woman’s face and Claire knew something was wrong.

  28

  Mrs. Routh strode past Claire to where Mrs. Acklen sat at the head of the table. She leaned down and whispered, and Mrs. Acklen’s focus instantly connected with Claire’s. With an almost imperceptible rise of her brow, Mrs. Acklen signaled Claire.

  Claire scooted her chair back and started to rise, but her skirt caught beneath a chair leg and she bumped the table, causing the stemware and china to clink. Conversation in the dining room dipped to a hum as everyone turned to look. Her face hot, Claire indicated she was fine and kept her eyes down as the chorus of voices gradually regained volume.

  “Yes, Mrs. Acklen?” Claire whispered, leaning close.

  “There is a situation, Miss Laurent.” Displeasure sharpened Mrs. Acklen’s hushed voice, yet her hostess smile never wavered. “Mr. Polk has just arrived to join us for dinner. Did you not check the mail today to see if he had changed his response?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I checked. He didn’t send—”

  “Well . . .” Mrs. Acklen smiled at her mother, Mrs. Hayes, seated two places down, then lifted her water glass to her lips but did not drink. “He is very much here now and waiting in the entrance hall.”

  “I see.” Claire thought fast. “I’ll go to the dish room and get another place setting immediately and then—”

  “It would be far less obtrusive, Miss Laurent, if you
would simply eat with Miss Cenas and the children in the family dining room.”

  Claire felt the prick of tears and hated herself for taking offense. “Yes, ma’am, of course.”

  “And you did think to get an extra box of cigars, I hope.”

  Claire winced. She’d almost bought an extra box but hadn’t wanted to waste the money. How foolish. “I’m sorry, but . . .”

  Just then she saw Sutton rise from his chair, his box of cigars in hand. Without knowing how he knew, she knew what he was doing.

  “Yes, ma’am.” She took a quick breath. “I have a box of cigars for Mr. Polk.”

  “Then arrange it, Miss Laurent. Quickly!”

  Claire stood, biting back tears, and not daring to look in Cara Netta’s direction. Not when she knew the young woman was surely watching her. With every step, Claire felt the awkward attention of people trying their best to appear as though they weren’t staring, when they were—and as if they weren’t thinking, just as she was, how much she did not fit in here.

  When she reached her seat—or the seat that had been hers—a box of cigars lay by the place setting. The scented handkerchiefs were gone. As was Sutton. She was almost to the door when she remembered and stepped back to retrieve her place card, the one with her name on it. But it was gone as well. Sutton.

  In the hallway, she met Cordina and a host of other servants coming up the stairs.

  Dressed in black with a crisp, starched apron, Cordina carried a silver tray laden with her signature pork roast. Cordina puffed out her chest. “We got dinner all ready, Miss Laurent, and right on—” She frowned, pausing in the hall. “What’s wrong, child?”

  Claire shook her head. “I’m fine. Everything is fine. I just—” She spotted Mrs. Routh escorting Mr. Polk down the hallway, and she smiled, curtsying as he passed, a little longer than needed so he wouldn’t see her face. She rose. “I’m fine, Cordina. Now, please, carry the food on in. Mrs. Acklen is ready.”

  With a look that said she knew better, Cordina continued, her entourage following. Claire glanced into the family dining room and saw Miss Cenas with William and Claude and Pauline, but she wasn’t hungry anymore. She hurried across the grand salon, living only to hear her bedroom door latch behind her. And when she rounded the corner, she saw Sutton waiting in the darkened hallway, an unopened box of handkerchiefs in his hand.

  She couldn’t stem the tears any longer. He started to say something but she put up a hand. “Please, Sutton. Not now. I . . .” She took a breath. “I appreciate what you’ve done, but I just need to be by my—”

  He drew her into a hug and held her, those powerful arms wrapping her in safety, shielding her. Her tears came in waves, and she shook against him. She had trouble drawing breath, her sobs came so hard. It scared her at first, how deep the well of hurt went inside. And she realized the tears weren’t only because of Sutton and what had happened just then and earlier that day. It was as if every tear she’d held back and stuffed down for months—for years—was rebelling against the restraint.

  She’d tried so hard to be strong for her mother throughout the illness and in those last days. Then afterward for Papa, and for herself. But a person could be strong for only so long. And then . . .

  They broke. And something was breaking inside of her. Something she didn’t think she would ever be able to put back together again. Not like it had been.

  Embarrassed at Sutton seeing her like this, she made a halfhearted attempt to push away, but he only held her tighter. And she slipped her arms around him and held on as if he were the last solid thing in the world.

  “Claire, I’m sorry,” he whispered against her hair. “Cara Netta and I have known one another for a long time. Over the past few months, while we traveled in Europe, she and I became better acquainted. And we reached . . . an understanding between us. One I should have told you about before this.” He pulled back slightly, looking at her in a way Claire knew she wouldn’t soon forget. There was a finality in his eyes, and a sadness. “It was wrong of me not to say anything, and I apologize for that. But the reason I didn’t was because—”

  She briefly pressed a hand to his mouth. “You don’t have to do this, Sutton. I know the reason,” she whispered, her head beginning to throb. She just wanted to lie down and curl up into a ball . . . forever. “And believe me when I say . . . that I understand.”

  He searched her eyes. “You do?” he finally whispered.

  “Yes.” She drew in a shaky breath. “You and I are friends. Good friends, and I treasure that. But . . . I don’t expect any more than that.” Just as she knew he wasn’t prepared to give it.

  “Friends . . .” He said the word like he wasn’t certain he could be that to her anymore. Which she doubted too—considering the way Cara Netta felt about her.

  Slowly, he released her, a resolute set to his jaw. “Will you be all right?”

  She dabbed at her cheeks. “Yes, I’ll be fine. I’ll join you all again, after dinner. I just . . . need a few minutes.”

  He looked down at the box of lace handkerchiefs in his hand and held them out to her. She took them, feeling her tears return. She walked to her bedroom door, then paused to look back. “Sutton?”

  He stopped, and turned.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “For . . . this. For . . . helping me.”

  The shadows in the hallway hid the precise definitions of his face, but she thought she saw him smile. “You’re welcome, Claire. That’s what friends do for each other. . . . Right?”

  “If you will permit me, Mr. Monroe, I have a rather personal and . . . bold question to pose.”

  Sutton studied Adelicia sitting opposite him in the carriage, guessing what she was going to ask now that they were alone—a rarity since the LeVerts’ arrival. “I’m accustomed to your boldness, Mrs. Acklen. And I sincerely doubt—once you’ve set your mind to it—that there’s any question I could dissuade you from asking.”

  Her smile was instant. “I’ll take that as a yes.” She returned her attention to the window, and Sutton glimpsed the turnoff to Belmont ahead. “Have you and Cara Netta discussed plans for marriage yet, Mr. Monroe?”

  It felt as if someone had punched him in the gut. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I warned you it was a bold question.”

  “Bold, yes. Abandoning propriety, no.”

  A fine black brow rose ever so slightly. “Please understand the motivation behind my inquiry. You are not merely an employee to me, Mr. Monroe. You were my late husband’s protégé, and you are courting the daughter of my dearest friend. I believe that gives me a bit of leeway in this respect.”

  Summoning patience he didn’t feel, Sutton prayed for wisdom he sorely lacked. “To be clear, Mrs. Acklen, I’m not officially courting Cara Netta. We have an understanding of sorts between us, but we haven’t—”

  “Exactly what is your definition of courting, Mr. Monroe?”

  Heat rose from his neck to his face. “But no,” he continued undaunted, “we haven’t spoken formally, or otherwise, about marriage plans. I . . .” He hesitated, wondering how much to tell her, and if she might already suspect the truth about his feelings for Claire. Adelicia was as perceptive a woman as she was persuasive, and considering that, he decided to approach her question from a different angle.

  “I don’t wish to rush Cara Netta into a decision. After all, Europe was . . .” He searched for the right words.

  “Another world away?” she supplied.

  “Yes,” he said, aware of her close attention. “And while I have no doubts about her character or person, I believe she deserves more time to reflect upon my own situation.”

  Adelicia frowned. “Do not speak so meanly of yourself, Mr. Monroe. While it may be true that your financial standing is more precarious these days, the fine fabric of your character, the qualities that matter most, remain unchanged. The LeVerts are convinced of this, I know.”

  Her comment gave him the impression that she and Madame LeVert had b
een discussing the two of them behind closed doors. Which didn’t surprise him but it aggravated him all the same.

  The carriage rounded the corner, and Adelicia directed her attention out the window. Sutton did likewise. He’d been out of sorts lately—with Adelicia, with others, even with himself. The reasons were varied and mostly out of his control. Which only made it worse.

  No word from the Federal Army’s review board yet, but daily he waited. Earlier in the week, he’d ridden out to his family’s land late one night, seeking comfort, he guessed. Or reassurance, maybe. But instead, the visit only stirred up painful memories best forgotten.

  Regarding the report from New Orleans that he’d been waiting for, his colleague had sent a telegram . . . “Your request forthcoming. Pursuing additional information. Will post within a fortnight.” He wasn’t eager to wait another two weeks, but he’d appreciated the man’s discreet wording. And though Adelicia’s interest in the report’s contents seemed to have waned, his hadn’t.

  Not that he expected to learn that Claire was a fugitive wanted for murder or some other outlandish possibility. He simply wanted to know more about her background, enough to satisfy the lawyer in him responsible for protecting Adelicia’s interests.

  And . . . to satisfy some of his own.

  The carriage jostled over the rutted road, and he remembered how she’d cried the other night, and how he’d held her. He grimaced thinking of what a fool he’d been about to make of himself—on the brink of confessing to her how he felt about her, and why telling her about his understanding with Cara Netta had been so difficult.

  Then she’d said the one thing he could have lived the rest of his life quite happily never having heard from her lips. “You and I are friends. Good friends . . .”

  He clenched his jaw. But that’s what they were. In her eyes. And what he knew he needed to start viewing her as . . . in his.

  Cara Netta LeVert was awaiting a proposal of marriage from him, and he should be grateful to have her in his life. She was sweet and kind and possessed a tenderness of heart that appealed to a man’s innate sense of wanting to protect. Cara Netta could be headstrong and opinionated when her wishes were crossed. But then who couldn’t be, on occasion? She was fiercely loyal to family and had adored her father, doting on his every word. And Sutton knew she missed him. Conversation with Cara Netta came easily—it always had—and no matter the subject, he noticed, she always steered it back to him. What he’d been working on at the law firm. What he’d been doing that week for Mrs. Acklen.