A Lasting Impression

by Tamera Alexander

  Now to have the strength to let her.

  “I made more notes in your portfolio last night, Miss Laurent.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Claire opened the front door. “I’ve already read them, and everything is clear.” Claire followed her down the front steps, carrying Mrs. Acklen’s satchel to the carriage where the children and Miss Cenas sat waiting. She glanced behind her, wondering where Sutton was.

  She’d hugged him good-bye a moment earlier when she bid the family a formal farewell, but it hadn’t been the good-bye she’d wanted to give him.

  “Why aren’t you going with us, Miss Claire?” young Claude asked, his brow furrowing.

  Claire rubbed her arms. She should have slipped her coat on. “Because I need to stay here and do some work for your mother. But I want you to be sure and eat two beignets for me at Café du Monde. And Pauline, practice your sketching while you’re gone. Understood?” When Claire met William’s gaze, she merely winked, and the I’m-not-a-child-anymore young man grinned in return.

  With Eli’s assistance, Mrs. Acklen climbed into the carriage, then looked down at Claire. “Do be careful, Miss Laurent, in your goings about. If you need anything, look to Eli or Cordina. They’ll instruct you well.”

  “We’ll keep her in line, Mrs. Acklen.” Eli gave a mock salute. “Don’t you worry, ma’am. And please give our best to everyone at Angola.”

  “Miss Laurent?”

  Claire turned to see Sutton standing on the portico.

  “I need to go over one more thing with you, please.” He disappeared back inside.

  Mrs. Acklen exhaled. “We need to be on our way, Miss Laurent. Please tell him to hurry!”

  Claire raced up the steps, having seen the flash of impatience in her employer’s eyes. “Sutton?” He wasn’t in the entrance hall.

  “I’m in the study.”

  She rounded the corner and saw him standing by the window. She was pleased to see that he was wearing the coat she’d given him for Christmas. “If you’re worried that I won’t record the art properly, I promise, Sutton, I’ll do it just like you showed—”

  He strode past her, closed the door, and pulled her to him. He dug his hands into her hair, angled her face to meet his mouth fully, and kissed her, long and slow, taking his time. Time they didn’t have, but at the moment, Claire didn’t care. Oh, how she’d wanted to kiss him at the reception, and then when they’d exchanged presents, and then when . . .

  She slipped her arms around his neck, loving the feel of him against her, and in his sheriff’s duster, no less.

  All too soon, his mouth relinquished hers. He held her tight, tighter than she could remember. “You take care of yourself while I’m gone,” he said, his voice hoarse.

  “I’ll be fine. You’re the one traveling. You be careful.”

  He drew back slightly, and tenderly traced his thumb along her lower lip. “That wasn’t fair, I know. Surprising you like that.”

  “That’s all right. I cheat at checkers.”

  He laughed. “Yes, you do. Among other things.”

  She walked with him into the entrance hall. “I’ll see you in two weeks.”

  “About that . . .” He paused by the front door, looking down. “I might be gone a little longer than I first thought.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve got work to do for Adelicia, plus some business to conduct for the firm.” His gaze met hers but fleetingly. “And you need time to catalog the art and to do everything on the forty-seven lists Mrs. Acklen has left you.”

  Claire smiled, but only because she told herself to.

  “I want you to have time to paint too, Claire. Time for yourself.” He looked at her then. “You haven’t had much of that lately. Time to think, to do what you’d like to do.”

  “That’s very generous of you, Sutton, but quite frankly . . . I’d rather have time with you.”

  His smile gained longing, but his eyes . . . His eyes spoke of something different. With a brief smile, he reached for his satchel, and Claire instinctively reached for him. He dropped the satchel and his arms came around her. She held him as tight as she could, pressing herself into him, wanting him to remember what she felt like—what they felt like together.

  The front door opened. Eli quickly lowered his eyes. “Excuse me, Mr. Monroe, but the Lady’s asking for you, sir.” He closed the door, not waiting for a response.

  Claire let go first, pleased that Sutton seemed reluctant to. “How long do you think you’ll be gone?”

  “I’m not sure.” He picked up his satchel again.

  “Can we write?”

  Opening the door, he smiled a little. “Yes, we can write.”

  “Every day?”

  His smile deepened, but in a sad way. “I’m going to miss you,” he whispered, then tucked a curl behind her ear and pressed a hard, quick kiss to her forehead. “I’ll see you soon.”

  And he was gone.

  45

  Feeling a little awkward, Claire stood outside Sutton’s room in the art gallery, hand on the doorknob. Two weeks had passed since he’d left, yet it felt like much longer. He’d written, requesting she retrieve a file from his desk, and informing that a courier would come by for it. But even with his permission, she felt a sense of trespass.

  The knob turned easily in her grip. Sutton had said it wouldn’t be locked. Not with the main doors to the gallery kept locked at all times, something he’d stressed when he’d entrusted her with the key.

  The door creaked as she opened it.

  His room was cast in shadows, but she quickly remedied that by pulling the curtains back from the windows. Afternoon light poured in. The first thing that struck her was how sparsely decorated the quarters felt. Then she realized it wasn’t the absence of furniture or necessities she was noticing. She was simply comparing it to the mansion’s decor where crystal vases, miniature statuary, and bric-a-brac decorated every tabletop and mantel.

  The simplicity and organization of Sutton’s bedroom suited him.

  The file was atop the desk, exactly as he’d said. She turned to leave, then caught the faintest scent and paused. She breathed in again, but it was gone. On a whim, needing a tangible reminder of him, she crossed to the wardrobe, opened it, and held one of his shirts to her face. She inhaled the hint of bayberry and spice, of sunshine and meadow, and something else decidedly male—and closed her eyes, memorizing it.

  He’d written her twice since he’d left. She’d written him nearly every day. At night before she went to bed. He’d written her once from Café du Monde in New Orleans, and she’d found it more than a little unnerving to think of him being so close to where her family’s gallery had been. But his next letter had reported them departing for Angola Plantation, some one hundred thirty miles from New Orleans, and she’d rested easier.

  She smiled thinking of the postscript he’d included in his last letter. “Try not to nod off during Pastor Bunting’s sermons. Though, from what I hear, the pews are quite comfortable.”

  Reading his letters was like sitting next to him, conversing. And more than once she’d found herself laughing or responding aloud to something he’d written. Between managing Mrs. Acklen’s business interests and working on the lawsuit with Mr. Holbrook—whatever that entailed—his days sounded overfull.

  But her favorite part of the letter was his closing, where he told her he was praying for her, which had prompted her to do the same for him even more faithfully.

  Two miniature framed portraits of a man and woman graced his bedside table. His parents, she presumed. The drawing of the man could well have been an artist’s rendering of Sutton in future years. The resemblance was striking. Delicate best described the woman’s likeness, the features of her face all softness and curves, no sharpness whatsoever. Beautiful . . .

  Claire smoothed a hand over Sutton’s pillow, wondering again if there was a reason beyond extended business that was keeping him away. Of one thing she was certain—leaving had been difficult
for him. She’d seen it in his face, felt it in his manner.

  Which, strangely, made being apart from him more bearable.

  The rendering of the review board’s verdict regarding his family’s land had appeared in the Nashville Banner shortly after he’d left. On the front page. And it hadn’t been complimentary to his father. Quite disparaging, in fact. For that reason alone, she’d been glad Sutton had been away. Though he’d no doubt read the article by now. Mrs. Acklen had the newspapers mailed to her at Angola.

  Claire completed cataloging the pieces of art for that day, then retrieved her sketching pad and pencils and headed in the direction of the meadow. She pulled her coat collar closer about her neck, her breath fogging white in the January chill as she trod the well-worn path.

  Recent days had found a steady rhythm. Awakening before sunrise, she read in the tête-à-tête room, enjoying it when she happened across Scriptures Mrs. Acklen had underlined in the Bible she’d given her. What insight that gave into a person—reading verses they’d found especially meaningful. After breakfasting with Eli and Cordina in the kitchen, she painted until midmorning, always searching for that one perfect venue to paint for the upcoming auction. The rest of the day was spent working on Mrs. Acklen’s various projects and cataloging the woman’s priceless collection of art. But the evening hours . . . those were by far the loneliest.

  She’d already finished Alexander the Great and Thomas Moore’s Paradise and the Peri, among other selections, but reading books and writing Sutton could only fill up so much time.

  The cold air stinging her lungs, Claire followed the trail alongside the creek until she came to her favorite slab of limestone that jutted out from a hillside. She settled onto nature’s bench, the bubbling harmony of water over rock speaking an ancient tongue. She drank it in, drawn to its peaceful tranquility.

  A flutter of color drew her attention a short ways downstream, and she spotted a cardinal, the bright red of its feathers brilliant against the winter dull. The bird swooped and settled by the near bank, where a pool of water ran tranquil and deep. The bird drank its fill and fluttered off.

  Claire stared at the spot where the bird had been, remembering her mother’s last request—how she’d poured the water over her mother’s body—and still seeing the scene so clearly in her memory. An image of the The Peri rose in her mind, the angel cradling the bowl of water against her chest, and Claire instinctively swallowed. Father God, would you quench this thirst inside me . . .

  She sat for a while longer, until the sun began its evening journey, then she made her way back to the mansion, her limbs stiff with cold. Cordina greeted her inside the entrance hall.

  “Land’s sake, child, look at your cheeks. You’re frozen through.” She cupped Claire’s face in her warm hands, and Claire shivered. “I’ll be bringin’ your dinner up shortly, Miss Laurent. A package came for you. It’s on the table in the small study.”

  “Thank you, Cordina.” Keeping her coat on, Claire hurried into the study, but her heart fell when she saw the fancy wrapping and ribbon. If the package had been from Sutton, it would have been wrapped suitably for posting.

  As it was, she could easily guess who had sent it.

  She’d had dinner twice now with Andrew Stanton, in addition to the first afternoon he’d come to visit. The man had sent her flowers following the reception—three times—along with chocolates and other confections. She opened the package.

  A book. But not just any book. She ran a hand over the cover, then opened it. A first-edition copy of Les Aventures de Télémaque, published . . . in 1699! She opened the enclosed card. “For you, Miss Laurent, in appreciation of our friendship and in loving memory of your dear mother. Most warmly and in anticipation for our next dinner, Andrew Stanton.”

  She shook her head, both at the book’s antiquity and at Mr. Stanton’s generosity. Such a kind man, honorable and genuine. She’d mentioned the book to him only once as being a favorite of hers and of her maman.

  The other men who, to her great surprise, had sent gifts following the reception, had ceased their efforts to gain her attention, but Mr. Stanton was different. He was humble and unassuming, and easy to converse with. Widowed four years now, he had surprised her with his candor.

  “When my dear Libba died,” he’d confided, “the thought of ever remarrying seemed foreign. But as the years have passed and my grief has eased, I’m finding myself more open to that possibility.”

  Just as he’d been honest with her, so she had been with him, sharing that while she appreciated their friendship, she had no immediate aspirations toward that goal. She’d worded the sentence with careful emphasis and had taken his slow, understanding nod as a sign he understood.

  Now she wondered.

  Following dinner that night, Claire carefully turned the pages of the treasured copy of Les Aventures de Télémaque, rereading her favorite parts, and thinking of the mural in Adelicia’s bedroom while knowing she couldn’t—and wouldn’t—keep the book. She would return it to Mr. Stanton the next time she saw him, along with her heartfelt thanks and an explanation as to why she couldn’t see him again. Flowers and candy were one thing. But a gift of this magnitude constituted something far more.

  And more with anyone other than Sutton wasn’t a more she welcomed.

  Early one morning the following week, as a late-January sun played coy with the coming dawn, Claire bundled up warm and snug and set out for the stables. Zeke had agreed to have Athena saddled and ready. But when she rounded the corner, it wasn’t Athena Zeke held by the reins.

  “Mornin’, Miss Claire.” The boy smiled big, his ears wiggling. “How are you, ma’am?”

  Claire eyed him, then Truxton, not about to ride Sutton’s horse without permission. “I asked you to saddle Athena, Zeke.”

  “Yes, ma’am. But Mr. Monroe, he told me different ’fore he left. He said to surprise you. So . . .” The boy glanced at the stallion and then back at her. “Surprise!”

  She giggled, a thrill working through her. No offense to Athena, but riding Truxton was like riding a four-legged locomotive. And to think that Sutton trusted her so much. Remembering, she reached into her coat pocket. “Cordina sent you a little something.”

  Zeke took the cloth-covered offering and held it to his nose. “Smells like one of her biscuits.” He sniffed again. “With fried chicken!”

  Claire accepted his help into the saddle and felt the power of the thoroughbred beneath her. She did her best to make her next question sound unrehearsed. “Have you found anything new recently, in your digging out back?”

  Grinning, he dug into his pocket and pulled out a quarter, along with several metal buttons and a dented lid from a tin of chewing tobacco. “I’m findin’ new stuff all the time. Like I always tell Mr. Monroe, there’s treasure buried there. But he just keeps on shakin’ his head.” Zeke stuffed the items back into his pocket. “When you think he’ll be back, ma’am?”

  Claire looked down, feeling a twisting inside her chest. “I’m not sure.” And despite her asking Sutton in nearly every other letter, he’d given no indication about his return.

  Truxton responded to her slightest command with agility and speed, and he flew across the meadow. The cold wind bit Claire’s cheeks and burned her lungs. And the thought of Sutton’s dream set her heart on fire. The thoroughbred scaled the stream as if it was a mere crack in the dirt, and she soared right with him just as Sutton had taught her.

  She couldn’t explain it, but she felt closer to Sutton in that moment than she ever had.

  She guided the thoroughbred to the top of the ridge and reined in, out of breath. Seeing Belmont below and the city of Nashville in the distance, she ached to capture the beauty on canvas. She’d painted four landscapes so far, of different views in the meadow.

  Her work was coming along—but slowly.

  She would retire at night thinking a particular painting held promise, only to awaken the next morning and see it for what it was. Something an
y tourist wandering the French Quarter could buy from a street artist. Good, but not nearly good enough for the auction just over a month away.

  “Your talent simply lacks any unique quality. . . .” Though she tried to shut it out, her father’s opinion of her work rose from the grave and condemned her efforts even before the palette was wet. And a part of her wondered if maybe he’d been right.

  Maybe she was just a mediocre painter—and a copyist—after all.

  As the sun spread golden fingers over the vistas below, Claire closed her eyes tight, still seeing the views but as a concert of brushstrokes on canvas. Father, help me create something worthy. Worthy of the auction and worthy in the eyes of the critics. . . .

  But even as the words left her heart and rose upward, they fell flat. She wished Sutton was at her side. He would know what words to pray, even if she didn’t.

  Two days later saw February ushered in and the gardens of Belmont blanketed in four inches of snow. Claire brought the last two hatboxes filled with letters and mementos into the small study, determined to get through them so she could begin the memory book for Mrs. Acklen. Not to mention finish writing the biography she’d started for Mrs. Acklen’s chapter in Queens of American Society.

  On the settee before the fire, cup of Cordina’s tea at hand, she opened the first box—and saw the invitation she’d designed for Madame LeVert’s reception on top. She smiled. Mrs. Acklen must have slipped it inside before she left for New Orleans.

  Mrs. Acklen had instructed her to keep the invitation brief and elegant. Claire had shown her the draft, fully expecting her to mark it up with suggestions. But Mrs. Acklen had approved it without the slightest alteration. Reliving that sense of satisfaction, Claire set the invitation in the stack of items slated for the memory book.

  She ran across so many things that touched her heart. The funeral announcement for Emma Franklin, letters from various family members to Adelicia . . . Then her gaze fell to a newspaper clipping next in the stack. The title drew her eye—FRANCIS ROUTH ACQUITTED.