A Lasting Impression

by Tamera Alexander

  But never did she mention the thoroughbred farm. Not once.

  On two occasions in recent days, he’d attempted to speak with her about the future of their relationship. The first time, she’d deftly skirted the issue. The next, they’d been interrupted by Diddie, though he still wondered whether that had been an accident or more of a planned interruption.

  The carriage passed the conservatory and water tower, and the mansion came into view.

  Bathed in an October sun and set against a cloudless azure sky, the manor more closely resembled an oil on canvas than a real image, and it occurred to him then how easy it was to speak of “the fine fabric of one’s character and the qualities that mattered most” when your financial standing was secure, unthreatened.

  Adelicia shifted on the carriage seat opposite his and cut him a look. “Perhaps this is none of my business, Mr. Monroe, but from what little I’ve heard, the case on which you and Counselor Holbrook are collaborating could end up being one of a rather lucrative nature, should you succeed in winning. Which would dramatically alter your financial standing and therefore your ability to move forward with more . . . personal ventures.” Adelicia’s tone held encouragement, and hinted at her appetite for gossip.

  Sutton leaned forward, trusting her but still mindful of what he said. “It could. If we win. Which is anyone’s guess at this point.” Local investigators were researching the sales and purchases of hundreds of works of art across the country. It was tedious work, and they had recovered fraudulent paintings. That wasn’t the issue. It was identifying the forgers and, even more importantly for prosecution, finding the swindlers—those who had negotiated the exchange of goods in acceptance of payment, all under the guise that the art was original—that was proving to be next to impossible.

  One would think that art dealers and collectors would keep more meticulous records. Then again, thinking of Adelicia, Sutton knew that wasn’t true. How many times had he insisted that her art collection be properly cataloged? And yet, that still remained to be accomplished.

  They rounded the last garden, and he counted the seconds, eager to be out of the confines of the carriage and of this conversation, and to go for a good long ride with Truxton.

  “Marriages are built on many different foundations, Mr. Monroe.”

  Sutton looked across from him, expecting to see that arched brow of hers again. But Adelicia’s expression was all sincerity.

  “Some are more deliberate,” she continued, “a choice made after thorough examination. Others involve far more of the heart. Make sure you choose wisely, for each has its rewards . . . and its costs.”

  The squeak of carriage wheels on packed dirt bracketed her counsel, and it occurred to him that she might be speaking of her own situation, and not him. He asked as much.

  She hedged a smile. “I suppose you could say that I’m advising us both.”

  He stared. “You’re contemplating a third marriage, ma’am?” His thoughts jumped to Lucius Polk.

  She didn’t answer.

  “It’s a bold question, I know, Mrs. Acklen. But I believe our relationship can sustain such.”

  Her eyes narrowed playfully. “I’m considering it, Mr. Monroe, and we’ll leave it at that. But I do believe, with all my heart, that you and Cara Netta would make a handsome couple. Your strengths as individuals complement one another. You’re dependable to a fault—she’s spontaneous at heart. You analyze every decision before making a move—she acts in the moment and embraces life’s joys.” She raised a shoulder and let it fall. “In the event that you desired my opinion.”

  He merely nodded, listening, but his mind was already working through the financial ramifications should she seek matrimony for a third time. She’d required Joseph Acklen to sign an agreement prior to their marriage—which Joseph had readily done—stating that the property and holdings Adelicia brought into the marriage would remain her own. An astute businessman, Joseph had promptly tripled Adelicia’s wealth after only a few years of marriage, so her fortune was never in peril.

  Sutton would insist that her third husband sign a similar agreement. His loyalty to Joseph—and Adelicia—would brook nothing less. But there was another part of this puzzle. One that affected him personally.

  If Adelicia married again, her husband would likely assume the management role he had been filling since Joseph’s death. Not the legal side of Adelicia’s business, of course, unless the man were an attorney—which Polk wasn’t. But regarding the management of Belmont, Sutton’s services would no longer be required.

  Which, when considering he already stood to lose his family’s land, made this case he was working on with Holbrook even more crucial. But even then, in one sense, that victory was only a means to an end. An opportunity that would give him the chance to do what he really wanted to do with his life.

  But not if he had a wife beside him who didn’t share his dream.

  29

  Late the next afternoon Sutton returned from the law offices to find Cara Netta waiting for him in the art gallery, eager to take the walk she’d requested.

  As they strolled the grounds, she peppered him with questions about his day, and he answered, sneaking occasional glances up at the mansion. He wondered where Claire was. Whether she was peering out one of the curtained windows or perhaps giving Pauline another lesson in sketching.

  When he’d seen her in recent days, she’d seemed fine. There was no awkwardness between them. But she was always running—fulfilling Mrs. Acklen’s and Madame LeVert’s requests, and now tutoring Pauline in sketching. He didn’t know when she was going to have time to do her own painting. But the auction for new artists wasn’t until March. She still had time.

  After touring the gardens, he and Cara Netta made their way toward the stables. For October, the temperatures were still on the warmer side, and fall was still struggling to take firm hold.

  “Mother and Diddie and I were discussing a return trip to Europe next summer, Sutton. But only for two or three months this time. Doesn’t that sound divine?”

  At the moment, he could think of little else he would’ve liked less. Last summer, he’d been eager to escape Nashville and the memories of war, and he’d welcomed the diversion of Europe—and of Cara Netta, he realized with discomfort. But the thought of repeating such a trip wasn’t the least appealing.

  Not wishing to hurt her, he knew it was best she realize his feelings on the subject. “Actually, making a trip like that again doesn’t sound divine to me at all, Cara Netta.” He smiled to soften the opinion. “My focus is far more . . . stateside at present.”

  “Well, of course it is,” she said quickly. “With all the concerns you have pressing, that’s understandable. Even . . . commendable.” She smiled up at him. “I’m certain that any day now you’ll receive word that your land is indeed still yours. Then you can start rebuilding your family home.”

  “I wish I shared your positive outlook. But I’m not anticipating the review board will decide in my favor. Not if their track record has any bearing.”

  “But your family name is so highly esteemed in Nashville, Sutton. Not to mention your own reputation. I’m certain they’ll make allowances for that.”

  He gave a bitter laugh. “Those men care no more about my esteemed family name than I do about theirs. The same for my reputation.” The thought of his father’s name and honor being sullied—all because of him—sickened him.

  Cara Netta didn’t say anything for a moment, then gestured to the mares grazing in the pasture. “I know how you love horses, Sutton. I do too. That’s yet another thing we have in common.”

  He nodded, hearing the forced brightness in her tone. “Yes, it is.”

  “I’ve been thinking”—she paused, looking up at him—“about what we discussed in the air balloon that day, floating above Paris. Do you remember?”

  “Of course I remember. But I’m a little surprised you do. You were clinging to my arm so tightly.” He gave his shoulder a slight rot
ation, as though it still ached, and she grinned. Sutton studied her, feeling genuine affection for her. But was it the strength of feeling a man should feel for his future wife?

  Her smile faded. “You said you thought each man—and woman—ought to spend their life doing what God created them to do. That they should do no less, and could do no more.”

  He grew curious at the look in her eyes, and where she was headed. “You have a very good memory, Cara Netta.”

  “I agreed with what you said, and I know you’ll be the most celebrated attorney in Nashville someday. And who knows where that will lead? You could become a judge or even a senator.” She looked down and bit her lower lip, and only then did Sutton realize how nervous she was.

  She didn’t say anything for a moment, then moved closer and laid a hand on his arm. “I wish Father were here to deliver this news. He would have done better at it than I will, I’m sure. And I know it would have given him great pleasure because . . . he thought the world of you, Sutton.”

  Sutton looked at where she touched him, wondering at the nervous quality in her voice. “Your father was a fine man. I admired him a great deal.”

  “Which is only part of what makes all of this so perfect.” She took a breath, held it, and then exhaled. “Mother has found a house here in Nashville. That she wants to buy us. As a gift.”

  He stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I know it’s a lot,” she said, her words coming fast. “And I hope I’m not getting too far ahead of . . . where we are, but a man in your position needs a home of his own. In town. I know you want to rebuild on your family’s land, and we’ll do that too, but it makes so much sense to have a house in Nashville proper as well. And Mother knows—just as I do—what a success you’ll be at the law firm when you make partner. Mrs. Acklen says you’ll likely be the youngest partner they’ve ever had. And there’ll be room enough for your mother to come and live with us, if you’d like.”

  “Cara Netta—”

  “And there’s a stable, Sutton. A small one, granted. But big enough for four horses, so you can dabble in your hobby in the evenings and on weekends when we’re not”—her violet eyes sparkled—“out at the opera, or dining with heads of state, or entertaining dignitaries. And in time, if you still want to, we can purchase a larger estate, where you could own thoroughbreds like—”

  “No . . . Cara Netta.”

  She blinked. “But . . . I thought you would be pleased.”

  “Pleased that I don’t have the means to provide for you in the manner in which you’re accustomed? And expect?”

  A frown formed. “I never said that.”

  “I know you didn’t. You’re too good and fine a woman to do that. But that’s what I hear in this . . . very generous offer from your mother. That I must flatly refuse.”

  Her mouth slipped open. “But why?”

  “Because a man wants to provide for his wife and family himself, Cara Netta. This man, anyway.”

  “This would simply be Mother’s wedding gift to us, Sutton. And it would be Father’s too, if—” Her voice broke. “If he were still here.” She looked away. “Most men of my acquaintance would be pleased at this offer, and frankly”—her expression lost a bit of its sparkle —“would accept it with gratitude.”

  “Then I’m sorry to disappoint. And regarding my hobby . . .” Hearing the defensiveness in his voice, he took care to soften its edge. “As I explained to you before, or tried to . . . When I shared with you about wanting to own a thoroughbred farm, I didn’t simply mean I wanted to own it, Cara Netta. I want to run the farm, train the thoroughbreds myself.”

  Shades of understanding shadowed her features, and he realized she’d understood his aspiration from the start—she just didn’t share it.

  She stared at him for the longest time, then lowered her head. And in a blink, Sutton saw future years passing before him. He could almost feel the soft brush of yet-to-be-lived memories on his face. It would be so easy, in one sense, to follow this course—to marry Cara Netta, to become the wealthy son-in-law of Madame Octavia LeVert, to have a fine house in Mobile, and another in Nashville, and yet another on the coast. He would have his thoroughbred farm in no time, though it would never be the one he’d envisioned. Nor would it be the life Cara Netta had envisioned either. And he wouldn’t be the husband she wanted. Not really.

  What confounded him was why she seemed so set on him. Cara Netta LeVert could have her choice of so many other men. Wealthier, and from better families.

  “Marriages are built on many different foundations, Mr. Monroe.”

  Adelicia’s comment returned on a dull echo. What kind of marriage would he and Cara Netta have if he were to proceed in seeking her hand? The question wasn’t easily answered. But what bothered him far more—and what he couldn’t deny, no matter how he tried—was knowing that if Claire had felt something more than friendship for him, he wouldn’t be here right now, working so hard to justify his feelings for Cara Netta.

  The truth was jarring.

  “Cara Netta . . .” How could he share his hesitations without hurting her, without causing her to think it was her fault? “You and I have been friends for a very long time, and I’m not saying that we shouldn’t—”

  She took hold of his hand and squeezed tight. “Have I ever told you what my father said about you the night before he died?”

  Wary, he shook his head.

  “He told me that he thought you were one of the finest men he’d ever known. And that you were just the sort of young man he would have chosen for me.”

  Sutton blinked, feeling a veil being ripped away. And he heard the answer—at least in part—to his earlier question of why she’d set her cap on him. And the truth was—she hadn’t. Henry LeVert had done that for her. Cara Netta was following her father’s wishes, not those of her own heart.

  And knowing that explained so much.

  “I appreciate that, Cara Netta,” he whispered. “I know you loved your father very much.”

  She nodded, her grip tightening on his hands.

  “And you’re doing what you believe he would have wanted you to do.”

  She nodded again, then stopped. Her gaze turned appraising.

  Sutton touched her cheek, seeing awareness dawn in her eyes. “But you need to make your own choice in this. You need to listen to what your heart is telling you.” Just as he did.

  “I am listening. And it’s telling me that we would make a grand couple, Sutton.” Tears rose in her eyes. “And that we would have a good life together. A happy life.”

  Sutton considered the statement, and found truth in it. He and Cara Netta had their differences, but they were compatible in many ways. More so than many couples he’d known. He got along well with Madame LeVert, and Diddie was the sister he’d never had. Still, something inside him held back from agreeing.

  A dinner bell rang in the distance, and they turned to see Cordina waving from up by the house. He offered Cara Netta his arm. She looped her hand through, and they started back.

  “Cara Netta, about what we were discussing, I think it would be wise for us to give ourselves time to—”

  She turned to him and pressed a hand to his chest. “Let’s not talk about this now, Sutton. You’ve had a busy day and an even busier week. You have a lot on your mind right now. And I agree. . . . Let’s give things some time.” Her smile was almost convincing. “Let’s simply enjoy each other, and . . . we’ll talk about all this later.”

  He knew they needed to finish the discussion, but he needed time to sort things out. And he would do anything not to deliberately hurt her. He only wanted the best, for them both. Whatever that was.

  When they reached the front door, she turned to him, her expression vibrant once again, as though their exchange by the stables had never taken place. “I’m so excited about tonight,” she said, preceding him into the entrance hall.

  “Tonight?”

  She smiled and swatted his arm. “We’re all go
ing to the opera. Mother arranged everything. Did you forget?”

  His stomach churned at the thought. “No,” he said quickly. “Of course not.”

  She eyed him.

  “All right, yes. I forgot.”

  Just before they entered the formal dining room, she slipped her hand into his. Everyone else was seated and turned their way, and he grew uncomfortable beneath the “happy couple” image they no doubt displayed.

  Especially when he met Claire’s gaze.

  It wasn’t until dinner was over that it occurred to him—had Claire been invited to the opera too? Sutton assumed she had. She’d joined them in the grand salon each evening as Cara Netta played and they enjoyed Cordina’s desserts.

  He stood and scooted his chair back beneath the table and tried to get Adelicia’s attention. But she and Madame LeVert were in deep discussion about something. He couldn’t very well ask Cara Netta, and asking Diddie—who’d been unusually quiet during dinner—didn’t seem like a good idea either.

  He spotted Claire speaking to Claude and Pauline while she slowly inched her way toward the dining room door.

  “Claire?”

  She turned, her features guarded. “Yes, Sutton?”

  The formality of her tone almost made him bristle. “I was wondering whether—” If she said no to his question, what was he going to do? He hadn’t exactly thought that through. “Whether you’re going to the opera with us tonight?”

  Her smile was instant, and telling. “No, I’m not. I’ve got so much to do here. It’s really best that I stay and get some work done.”