A Lasting Impression

by Tamera Alexander

  Mrs. Routh stared, her expression revealing nothing. “Your flippancy, while not at all surprising to me, Miss Laurent, is not the least bit becoming.” She spoke softly, evenly, not a hint of sarcasm in her voice. “Especially when considering your position here at Belmont.”

  Hearing that one word, Claire’s briefly lived pride faded, and the words she feared would haunt her for as long as she worked for Mrs. Acklen returned. “You are an extension of me. . . .”

  Feeling as though she’d faced a test and failed miserably, she bowed her head. She was weary of these tense, abbreviated exchanges with Belmont’s head housekeeper, and she knew that if she didn’t do this now, she would lose her nerve. “Mrs. Routh, I realize that from the first time we met, your estimation of me has been less than stellar. You’ve been brutally honest in conveying that to me, on a near daily basis. But I’ve done my best since coming to Belmont. I work hard. Every day. I perform every task Mrs. Acklen asks of me, and then look for ways to help her more. Yet you seem determined to think the worst of me, and”—a traitorous sting of emotion burned her eyes—“for the life of me, I don’t know why.”

  Mrs. Routh’s eyes fluttered closed, and she sighed, as though tired of their conversations too. “I’m well aware of the job you’re doing for Mrs. Acklen. And contrary to what you may believe, Miss Laurent, I do not seek to think the worst of you. I simply do not trust you.”

  Feeling as if the floor had disappeared beneath her, Claire searched Mrs. Routh’s face. “But I . . .” She exhaled. “Why? I don’t underst—”

  A door squeaked opened in the hallway behind her. Soft footsteps . . .

  “Ah . . . there you are, Miss Laurent,” Mrs. Acklen said. “I was beginning to wonder. Oh, good, you brought our tea. Good afternoon to you, Mrs. Routh.”

  Mrs. Routh looked past Claire. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Acklen. You’re looking more rested, ma’am. Is there anything I can get you or that I can do to . . .”

  As the two women spoke, Claire turned to pick up the tray, sensing a fierce loyalty in Mrs. Routh’s manner and in the way she addressed Mrs. Acklen. And the discovery shed new light on the confrontation of moments earlier. Mrs. Routh was like a mama bear protecting her cub. Which, while sweet, in a way, was also amusing. Adelicia Acklen was hardly a defenseless cub. She was an assertive, powerful woman of enormous wealth and far-reaching influence.

  From what, or whom, could she possibly need protection?

  Crossing the threshold into Mrs. Acklen’s private quarters was like stepping into another world. Claire deposited the tray on the table Mrs. Acklen indicated, unable to keep from staring at her surroundings.

  She felt as though she’d walked into a land of make-believe, of far-off places and ancient times—and she didn’t know where to look first. From baseboard to crown molding, two murals flowed from scene to scene to scene around the room, separated by a decorative chair rail. Every inch of wall space in the spacious room was covered.

  Brilliant blues and reds and mossy greens enhanced the renderings of scenes from a story Claire knew only too well.

  “It’s not your customary decor,” Mrs. Acklen said. “But I like it. It’s from—”

  “Les Aventures de Télémaque,” Claire whispered.

  “Oui, mademoiselle! Très bonne!” Surprise lit Mrs. Acklen’s expression. “I wondered if you might recognize it. You’ve read the novel, then?”

  “A number of times. It was a favorite of my maman. And mine.” Along with everyone else in France, and the greater part of Europe. And apparently America.

  Mrs. Acklen poured a cup of tea for Claire and then for herself. “This very wallpaper hangs in the Hermitage, the late President Andrew Jackson’s home not far from here.”

  Claire nodded, finding the rendering of a temple in the mural—specifically the rows of Corinthian columns situated along its front—strangely reminiscent of Belmont. She turned slowly, looking at the scenes. “Remarkable,” she whispered, speaking not only of the mural, but also of the room itself.

  A bed of gleaming rosewood in a style reminiscent of a sleigh set the tone for the bedroom, and the matching side tables, bureau, and wardrobe only enhanced the beauty, as did the marble fireplace and gilded mirror hanging above. Velvet draperies framed the windows, and the patterned wall-to-wall carpet—Claire blinked—was almost dizzying.

  “Shall we begin, Miss Laurent? We have much to do.” Mrs. Acklen nodded toward hatboxes stacked in the corner. Seven boxes in all, various sizes, dusty from disuse. “Move them over here, if you would. Closer to the windows.”

  Claire did as she bade, discovering the boxes were heavier than she’d imagined. She followed Mrs. Acklen’s lead and opened one, and found it full to the brim with what appeared to be newspaper clippings. Same as the box Mrs. Acklen had opened.

  After a brief discussion they decided that Claire would begin organizing the articles by newspaper first, and Mrs. Acklen would follow behind to review them and decide which ones to include in Madame LeVert’s memory book.

  Claire briefly scanned the articles as she sorted, not wanting to appear as if she were trying to read them. Which of course, she was. But she didn’t want Mrs. Acklen to think she was prying. Which was a little comical, because, after all, what she was reading had been published in a newspaper.

  Many of the clippings were from the local Republican Banner and the Union and American. But there were also articles from the New York Herald and the New Orleans Picayune, as well as papers from Atlanta, Mobile, and even Paris, Rome, and London.

  They worked through the afternoon, falling into a quiet rhythm, only commenting on occasion.

  The other boxes contained cards and letters, not only those from Madame LeVert to Mrs. Acklen but from other family members as well. Hundreds of them—perhaps more. Some bundled with ribbon and string, but apparently—like the clippings—grouped with no apparent attention to date or year. As thorough as Mrs. Acklen was in other areas of her life, her correspondence, while painfully plentiful, lacked proper organization.

  Amidst the boxes of letters and cards were party invitations and wedding and funeral announcements. Claire quickly grew familiar with the various family members’ handwriting and could fairly well place the author of any given missive based solely on the handwriting on the front of the envelope.

  “I believe, Miss Laurent”—Mrs. Acklen rubbed the back of her neck, then covered her mouth when she yawned—“that we have additional folders available in the library. If not, Mr. Monroe has a supply in the art gallery. Which reminds me . . .”

  Claire sensed another project on the horizon.

  “I’ve been meaning to speak to you about the art gallery.”

  Claire stopped sorting the letters in her hand and offered her full attention.

  “I’ve never had all the art at Belmont—both in the house and the art gallery—properly cataloged. Mr. Monroe’s been after me to do that for some time, but”—Mrs. Acklen rubbed her temples, squinting—“I never seem to make it a priority. However, with your assistance . . .” She lowered her head into her hands.

  “Mrs. Acklen, are you all right?”

  She didn’t look up. “I’m fine. This happens on occasion.”

  “This?”

  “An ache in my head.” She sighed. “It starts here”—she rubbed the front of her forehead—“and then continues to the back.”

  Claire winced. “Too much reading, perhaps?”

  “Dr. Denard refers to it as neuralgia.” She slowly raised her head. Her eyes appeared fatigued, and she kept squinting, as if the late-afternoon light, though soft in the room, was painful. “Miss Laurent, would you please take all this to your room and finish there? I think we have enough for Madame LeVert’s book, don’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am. More than enough.” Claire rose and gathered the numerous stacks sitting about the room, careful not to mix them as she placed them in the boxes and carried them into the hallway. “Is there anything I can get you, ma’am . . . befo
re I leave?”

  Mrs. Acklen had moved to the bed and lain down. “I have some powders Dr. Denard left for me. They’re in a bowl on my dressing table, right through there.”

  Claire opened a door into what she might have called a closet, if not for the room’s ample size. Gowns and trunks abounded. She crossed to the dressing table and spotted a crystal bowl containing folded medicinal papers, similar to those that had packaged her mother’s medicine. She withdrew a translucent sleeve from the batch and felt the slight bulge of powder within.

  Careful to keep it level, she’d turned to go when a portrait on the wall stopped her in her tracks.

  36

  Three angelic faces stared back at Claire, their soft expressions so sweet, so full of hope and promise. Dressed all in white and with the same dark hair, the girls shared the identical shade of chocolate brown eyes. Similar smiles tipped their rosy little lips and lit a kindred spark of mischief in their precious heart-shaped faces. There was no question in Claire’s mind.

  Sisters.

  As if prompted by some unseen hand, Claire looked back at the doorway leading to the bedroom, then slowly to the painting again, and a knifelike pain stabbed her chest. She placed a hand over her heart as memory forced her back to the day she and Mrs. Acklen had gone riding. Bits and pieces of their conversations returned on a terrible wave. “You don’t believe I know what it feels like to lose a parent at your age. And you resent my insinuation that I do.”

  Claire squeezed her eyes tight, recalling her own bitter, self-centered response to Mrs. Acklen’s statement, her all-too-clear insinuation that Mrs. Acklen didn’t understand the depth of her loss. How Mrs. Acklen had looked at her . . . Claire sensed she’d wanted to say something else that day, but now she knew it with certainty.

  Because she was staring at what Mrs. Acklen hadn’t said.

  That in addition to losing her father and husband, Mrs. Acklen had lost two daughters as well, leaving pretty little Pauline as the only girl. Death was no respecter of age, Claire knew. Children died. Parents died. Loss was all too commonplace, especially these days. Until it happened to you. And then it was different.

  For some reason, she’d simply assumed that Mrs. Acklen’s wealth had insulated her from loss.

  She moved closer to the portrait, close enough to see the brushstrokes of oil paints on canvas. Masterful, how tiny little dots of color—artful smears blended with the bristles of a brush—once combined, could evoke such powerful emotion. And such powerful regret.

  “Miss Laurent . . . did you find the powders?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Claire answered quickly. “I have one right here.”

  She kept her eyes averted as she retrieved Mrs. Acklen’s teacup and filled it halfway with tepid water from the teapot. She added the powder and stirred until the granules dissolved. She assisted Mrs. Acklen as she drank, the scene feeling all too familiar for her.

  Mrs. Acklen reclined on a bolster of pillows. “Is something wrong, Miss Laurent?”

  Claire shook her head. “No, ma’am. Nothing’s wrong.”

  Lines furrowed Mrs. Acklen’s brow. “Your maman?” she whispered, a trace of question in her voice.

  Knowing that was only part of her struggle, Claire nodded.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss, Miss Laurent.”

  Claire bit her lip again, trying to stave off words that seemed to have a life of their own. “I’m sorry too . . .” She glanced briefly toward the closet, unable to get the image of the angelic faces from her mind. “About your daughters.”

  Mrs. Acklen’s expression clouded briefly. “Ah . . .” She sighed. “The portrait.”

  Claire exhaled a shaky breath. “And I’m sorry I said what I did to you . . . that day we went riding. The way I acted . . .” She shook her head. “I didn’t know,” she whispered, tears rising. “I just didn’t know.”

  Mrs. Acklen’s own eyes glistened. “It’s all right, Miss Laurent. It was a long time ago.”

  Claire nodded once, then thought of Pauline. “But not so long. Pauline’s not that old.”

  Mrs. Acklen briefly closed her eyes. “Pauline isn’t in that portrait, Miss Laurent. The painting is of my daughters Victoria . . . Adelicia . . . and Emma.” It seemed as if the very act of speaking their names was painful. “The portrait was painted over twenty years ago.” She managed a tremulous smile. “Before you were even born. But granted, there are days”—she took a sharp breath—“when those years feel like mere moments.”

  Claire stared. Three daughters. All passed. “They were so beautiful.”

  “And they were angels, all of them. Victoria was six and Adelicia four, when they died. Three days apart. From bronchitis and croup. Emma was only a year and a half old at the time.” Mrs. Acklen briefly closed her eyes, and Claire wondered if it was the medicine taking effect, or if it was the wash of memories. “Emma died from diphtheria nine years later.”

  “You must have grieved for them so. And your husband . . .”

  Mrs. Acklen looked over at her. “Yes, Joseph grieved with me. He loved Emma, very much. And Emma loved him. But he wasn’t her father, nor was he Victoria’s or Adelicia’s.” She gestured to a side table.

  Claire picked up the framed miniature painting of an older man. A man she didn’t recognize and who certainly wasn’t the same man as in the portrait in the entrance hall.

  “That was my first husband, Isaac Franklin. We married when I was twenty-two.” She reached for the photograph and smoothed her fingertips over the frame. “We were quite the talk at the time. He was twenty-eight years my senior.”

  Claire quickly did the math.

  “We had four beautiful children together, and seven wonderful years. Our third child, a son, lived only a few hours.” She gazed at Mr. Franklin’s face, a quiet, distant love in her expression. “Mr. Franklin passed away . . . six weeks before Victoria and Adelicia died.”

  Claire tried to think of something suitable to say. But everything fell so far short of the weight of loss.

  “Oftentimes, through the years, Miss Laurent . . .” Mrs. Acklen’s voice was barely a whisper now. “I’ve pondered how much is provided for us by God’s goodness. So many sources of enjoyment, and how thankful we should be. And even if afflictions come . . . we should know that they are of the hand of God.” She sighed, the semblance of a smile gracing the edges of her mouth. “We should not expect to have all the blessings of life and none of its trials. It would make this world too delightful a dwelling place, and I fear we would never care to leave it.” Her eyes slipped closed. “As it is . . . I have come to believe that it’s only by taking some of those objects from us to which our hearts so closely cling that He endeavors . . . in His kindness, to draw us from this world to one of greater happiness.”

  Claire sat perfectly still, not daring to make the slightest sound, feeling as if a veil had been lifted ever so briefly between her and this woman. And she feared the slightest movement or merest breath would dispel the solemnity of the moment.

  The silence lengthened and finally Mrs. Acklen opened her eyes and returned the framed daguerreotype.

  Claire set it back in its place on the side table and helped situate the pillows behind Mrs. Acklen’s head. “Is there anything else I can get you before I leave, ma’am?”

  Mrs. Acklen gave the tiniest shake of her head, her eyes closing again.

  Claire had all but shut the door when Mrs. Acklen whispered her name.

  Claire peered back inside, the creak of the door overloud in the quiet.

  “Thank you, Miss Laurent, for allowing me . . . to remember.”

  That evening, Claire arrived a few minutes late for dinner. She’d lost track of time reading through a few more of the newspaper articles, and contemplating what Mrs. Acklen had said. She paused inside the family dining room, finding the table empty . . . but for one place setting.

  A fire burned low in the hearth, its woodsy smell lending the room a cozy feel. Wondering if she’d missed some
special instruction, Claire took her seat and draped her napkin across her lap.

  Scarcely a minute later, Cordina bustled up the stairs from the kitchen carrying a covered plate and a tall glass of lemonade, filled with ice, as usual. “Evenin’, Miss Laurent.” Her smile ever present, she gave Claire a wink. “From what I hear, ma’am, you’s the only one eatin’ in here tonight. Gots it all to yourself.”

  Claire glanced at the empty chairs. “Where is everyone else?”

  Cordina set the plate, piled high with food enough for two, before her. “The Lady’s feelin’ poorly, as you already know. Them head pains she gets from time to time. And Miss Cenas and the children, they’s gone into town for dinner. Special treat for the younguns since they’s doin’ good in their studies, Miss Cenas said.” Cordina gestured to Claire’s plate. “You want some of my squash relish tonight, ma’am? I run fetch it for you. It be good with them pork chops.”

  Not overly hungry, Claire shook her head. “No, thank you. This will be more than enough.” She tried for a casual tone. “By chance, do you know where Mr. Monroe is?”

  “No, ma’am. I haven’t seen him since breakfast. Mrs. Routh just said you’d be the only one eatin’. You can come on down to the kitchen, if you want. But I gots to warn you, we been bakin’ bread all day and it’s hot as blazes down there tonight.”

  Claire returned her smile. “I think I’ll stay here, if that’s all right.”

  “Sure it is, honey.” Cordina patted her shoulder. “Might be kinda nice just to sit and enjoy the quiet. You ring that bell there if you need somethin’. I’ll hear you and come right up.”

  Knowing she’d never use the bell, Claire nodded. “Thank you, Cordina.”

  She ate a bite of pork chop with mashed potatoes, then tasted Cordina’s sweet creamed peas and corn, and by the time she took her first sip of lemonade, her appetite had returned. Still, she couldn’t finish half of the food on her plate.