A Lasting Impression

by Tamera Alexander

  Francis Routh? As in . . . related to Belmont’s Mrs. Routh?

  Claire checked the date. July 18, 1842. Front page of the Nashville Banner. She skimmed the first paragraph and a flush of awareness moved through her, heavy and uncomfortable, as if she were reading a diary that wasn’t hers.

  46

  Claire read the article, feeling as though she shouldn’t, and yet reminding herself—as she had before when reading these clippings—that this had been public news. Granted, over twenty years ago now.

  Following a second appeal, Francis Routh of Nashville has been acquitted of a conviction in a Louisiana land fraud case that sent him to prison over two years ago. Routh was released from the Louisiana State Penitentiary on the second of this month after serving twenty-six months of a three-year sentence.

  Claire’s gaze hovered over the next paragraph, the words revealing, and starting to blur in her vision.

  Having suffered from declining health since entering prison, Routh died of pneumonia last week at the home of his close associate and former business partner, Isaac Franklin. Since Routh’s incarceration, and the loss of his home and business, his wife has taken residence with Mr. and Mrs. Isaac Franklin of Fairview in Gallatin.

  From the outset, Routh maintained his innocence. He is predeceased by two sons, and leaves behind his wife, Mrs. Abigail Routh of Nashville.

  The remainder of the article dealt with the alleged charges from years prior, and Claire dragged her gaze from the newsprint and stared ahead, focusing on nothing.

  Mrs. Routh’s husband. It had to be. . . .

  A knock on the partially opened door brought her head up. Claire quickly buried the article in the stack of clippings. “Mrs. Routh.” She forced a smile.

  The head housekeeper stepped inside the study, envelopes in her hand. Her attention flitted to the pile of newspaper clippings, and lingered. “The mail arrived, Miss Laurent.”

  “Thank you.” Claire stood and met her halfway. “I appreciate your bringing it to me.” Mrs. Routh turned to leave. She’d seemed quieter, almost distant, lately, but Claire hadn’t questioned it. Up until now, she’d simply been grateful for the reprieve.

  Claire returned to the settee and absently flipped through the envelopes, hoping Mrs. Routh hadn’t seen what she’d been reading. There was an envelope from Mrs. Holbrook—about the upcoming Women’s League annual tea, no doubt. And Claire recognized Mr. Stanton’s handwriting on another. But no letter from Sutton.

  Gradually becoming aware of Mrs. Routh still standing in the doorway, Claire tried for a normal tone. “Is there something else you need, Mrs. Routh?”

  Her expression stoic, the head housekeeper appeared as though she wanted to say something, and yet didn’t at the same time. She stood a little straighter. “I wish to convey to you, Miss Laurent, that . . .” Mrs. Routh looked as if she’d just bitten into a sour lemon. “What you did . . . for Mrs. Acklen”—she said the name with such reverence—“with the statue of the children . . .” She gestured toward the entrance hall and glanced away.

  Then, as if realizing she’d broken her own cardinal rule about needing to look at the person to whom she was speaking, she looked back. “It was a most gracious gesture, Miss Laurent.” She spoke the last words quickly, as if gritting her teeth and hoping the doctor’s needle would be swift.

  Claire was certain her surprise shown in her face. “Thank you . . . Mrs. Routh. That’s very kind of you to say. It was my pleasure to do it. I’m most grateful for all that Mrs. Acklen has done for me.”

  Mrs. Routh’s hint of a smile was almost jarring. “As am I, Miss Laurent, for her great generosity to me.” She promptly turned to close the door behind her, but not before casting one last look at the pile of articles on the settee and then at Claire.

  For several seconds, Claire stared at the closed door, having the distinct feeling that she’d sorely misjudged the woman.

  On Thursday evening, the carriage turned off the main road and Mr. Stanton’s home came into view. Claire told herself she ought not be surprised at the manor’s size and elegance. She’d known Andrew Stanton was wealthy.

  She stepped from the carriage, assisted by Mr. Stanton’s footman and with the wrapped copy of Les Aventures de Télémaque tucked in her coat pocket. A servant greeted her at the door, and Mr. Stanton met her inside the drawing room.

  He kissed her hand. “Miss Laurent, thank you for agreeing to join me here this evening. I thought it might be a nice change to have dinner at home rather than in town.”

  Claire accepted his help with her coat. “Of course. I appreciated receiving your invitation.” He’d asked to have dinner last week, but she’d been busy working to finish cataloging the pieces in the art gallery and painting every minute she could. Her gaze was immediately drawn to the paintings on the walls. All originals, as far as she could tell, and all artists she recognized. “You and Mrs. Acklen share a common love for art.”

  “More than once, she and I have found ourselves bidding against one another in an auction. She has exquisite taste.”

  “As do you, sir.”

  Andrew Stanton was a handsome man with silvering hair at his temples and a kind, open face, and conversation with him over dinner came easily. Following the meal, they retired into the drawing room for coffee where a fire burned warm in the hearth.

  She sat on the settee, and he beside her. “You have a lovely home here.”

  “Even lovelier with you in it.” He glanced away as though surprised he’d given the thought voice, and Claire felt her guard rise.

  “Miss Laurent . . .” His smile was tentative. “Claire,” he said, question in his tone.

  She gave a single nod.

  “I realize that you must look upon me as quite the older man. Which I am, compared to your youthfulness. But I believe that age and youth can sometimes complement one another. And I believe they would . . . in our situation.”

  “Mr. Stanton, I . . .”

  “I would be honored if you would call me Andrew.”

  Biting the tip of her tongue, she nodded. “Andrew . . . I truly enjoy your company but”—she took a deep breath, recalling what she’d rehearsed—“at present, I’m not at all in a position to consider a relationship of the nature I believe you’re wanting. In fact, I . . .” She didn’t want to hurt him. “I think it would be best if we didn’t see one another again.”

  To her surprise, he smiled. “That was a carefully worded—and well-rehearsed—response, Claire.” Understanding softened his expression. “From the moment you misunderstood and thought I wanted you to get me a drink at the reception, you’ve been transparent with me. I appreciate that about you. And while I appreciate your friendship, it would be remiss of me to let you think that is all I feel for you. Or all that I hope you might one day feel for me.”

  The crackle of the fire ate up the silence, and the only word Claire could hear in her mind was transparent. That’s the last thing she’d been. With him. With Sutton. With everyone. But it’s what she now wanted to be more than anything in her life.

  “Andrew—”

  He held up a hand. “No need to say anything else tonight. I hadn’t planned on broaching this subject, although I am glad it came up.” In true gentlemanly form, he kissed her hand, then rose and called for the carriage. “I’ll see you back to Belmont.”

  Andrew helped her with her coat, and the weight in the pocket served as a reminder.

  She withdrew the book. “I appreciate it very much, but I can’t.” She laid it on a side table.

  He promptly handed it back. “It was a gift, Claire. Between friends. With no expectations beyond that.”

  Seeing his determination, she didn’t argue as he turned for his coat and gloves. The carriage ride back to Belmont was quiet, and when they rounded the corner and the moonlit silhouette of the darkened mansion came into view, Claire felt a homesickness inside her. One she hadn’t felt in a long time.

  Only it wasn’t for a place. It was for a pe
rson.

  The carriage stopped by the front steps just as Eli descended them, lantern in hand. He assisted her from the coach, and Andrew escorted her to the door. “Do you have any idea when Mrs. Acklen will be returning?”

  “In a couple of weeks, I believe. But no later than March, for the art auction.”

  “She told me you were planning on submitting an entry for the auction for new artists this year. I’m looking forward to seeing that. Mr. Monroe also sings your praises in that regard. And in every other as well.”

  Claire perked up. “Mr. Monroe commented to you about me?”

  Andrew’s expression grew timid. “Yes, though . . . I somewhat imposed myself upon him. I pulled him aside at the reception and told him I was interested in getting to know you better. And I inquired whether any gentleman had previous designs on your affections.”

  Claire’s heart skipped an odd beat. She remembered seeing them in the central parlor, speaking, shaking hands. “If it’s not too forward of me, what was Mr. Monroe’s response, exactly?”

  Andrew took a moment to answer. “He said that you were the finest young woman he’d ever met and that he knew of no firm reason why I shouldn’t pursue a friendship with you.” He studied her beneath the single portico lantern Eli had lit. “However . . . I can clearly see one. Right now. In your eyes.”

  Claire lowered her gaze, but he tilted her chin back up.

  A slow, somewhat resigned smile moved over his face. “Sutton Monroe is a very lucky man, Claire. Does he know?”

  “Know?” she whispered.

  “That you love him.”

  Tears tightened her throat. She shook her head, then shrugged.

  He said nothing for a moment, then brushed a chaste kiss on her forehead. “Thank you, Claire, for a beautiful evening. And for the gift of your friendship.”

  Claire stood inside the entrance hall, a hand raised in parting as Andrew’s carriage pulled away. She slipped her gloves into her empty pockets, the copy of Les Aventures de Télémaque safely tucked on the side table in Andrew’s foyer.

  Then she went straight to her room and wrote Sutton, and told him she and Mr. Stanton had “compared notes,” and that she wanted him to come home.

  And not just to come home, but to come home to her.

  Claire slipped through the doors of the church and made her way down the aisle toward Mrs. Acklen’s pew.

  “Greetings, church.” Reverend Bunting took his place behind the pulpit. “Let’s all rise for the opening prayer and the first hymn.”

  Claire scooted into the pew and retrieved a hymnal, not knowing the words to all the hymns yet. As the prayer ended and the organ music began to swell, she joined in singing with the other parishioners, missing Sutton’s rich tenor.

  She’d mailed her letter to him on Friday, the morning following her dinner with Andrew Stanton, so she knew he hadn’t received it yet. It took almost a week for letters to travel between them—sometimes longer, depending on the weather.

  “Please open your Bibles to the book of Jeremiah, chapter eighteen. And remain standing for the reading of God’s Holy Word.”

  Claire opened her Bible. Jeremiah came right after Isaiah, which she’d been studying, so she had no trouble finding the book.

  She followed along as Reverend Bunting read aloud.

  “ ‘Then I went down to the potter’s house, and behold, he wrought a work on the wheels. And the vessel that he made of clay was marred in the hand of the potter. So he made it again another vessel, as seemed good to the potter to make it.’ ”

  A vessel of clay? A potter? Her interest piqued, Claire continued to follow along.

  “Then the word of the Lord came to me, saying, ‘O house of Israel, cannot I do with you as this potter?’ saith the Lord. ‘Behold as the clay is in the potter’s hand, so are ye in mine hand, O house of Israel.’ ” Reverend Bunting paused. “Blessed be this reading of the Lord’s Word, and our adherence to it.”

  A hush of whispered amens filled the sanctuary as the congregation sat. Claire reviewed the passage as Reverend Bunting began to speak. This was something she understood. This struggle with the clay. Repeatedly in recent weeks, she’d tried to create something of worth. Something that would cause people to sit up and take notice. Like her Versailles surely would have done. She exhaled a slow breath.

  In a way, it was comforting to know the Lord understood her frustration. Only, she was the clay in this instance, she realized. And looking at it from that perspective made her slightly ill at ease.

  “You may be here this morning, pondering the Lord’s goodness in your life,” the reverend continued. “Or you may be wondering why He’s allowed the hard times that He has. When afflictions come—and they will—we should determine to accept them as being from the hand of God. For either God is sovereign, or He is not. He is either Lord of all, or He is not. There is no in between.”

  That same theme again . . . What Mrs. Acklen had said that afternoon in her bedroom weeks ago. But Claire was coming to believe that Mrs. Acklen and the reverend were right. Though it was hardly encouraging to think about a sovereign God intentionally bringing both joy—and pain. Something about it seemed false.

  When the reverend invited everyone to stand and sing, Claire was glad the song was one she knew by heart. She laid the hymnal aside and joined in. The pipe organ’s rich tones rose and swelled, and she closed her eyes, swept up in the music and lyrics.

  Would you paint if you knew you were painting only for me?

  Claire opened her eyes, certain she’d heard a whisper, only not knowing whether it came from the pew in front of her, or behind. The people seated in front of her weren’t looking her way, and neither were the people behind her—until she started looking at them. She quickly turned around, then casually glanced from side to side to see who was seeking her attention.

  But she saw no one.

  The organ music grew softer, and Reverend Bunting began to pray. Finally deciding she must have imagined it, she bowed her head and, in her mind’s eye, the image of a pot on a potter’s wheel came vividly into view.

  She could see the wheel spinning, and the artist’s hands—strong, and long-stained brownish-red—molding and shaping the clay pot as he saw fit.

  Would you paint if you knew you were painting only for me?

  Claire drew in a breath, hearing the infinite whisper with uncanny clarity this time. Only not with her ears but in her heart. Her scalp tingled, she gripped the pew in front of her, and yet she wasn’t afraid. On the contrary. She’d never felt such peace, or such love.

  She didn’t open her eyes. She didn’t have to. She only put a hand to her mouth to keep from saying aloud the name that was on her lips. . . .

  Jesus.

  Later that night in bed, she lay awake in the darkness, wishing Sutton were there, wishing she could talk to him, tell him what had happened that morning while the details were still fresh inside her.

  But she could tell him. . . .

  She climbed from the warmth of the covers, lit the oil lamp on the side table, and hurried to her desk for pen and paper. Then she scurried back, grateful for the thick rugs covering the wooden floor. Nestled beneath the bedcovers again, she pulled down the sleeves of her gown as far as they would go.

  And she wrote.

  She wrote until well after midnight, the words pouring from her like the rain splattering her windowsill outside. When the question had come the first time that morning, she’d missed it, not knowing what—or who—it was. His inaudible voice. But when she’d heard it the second time, she knew what He was asking. Even though a small part of her wished she didn’t.

  Because she wasn’t completely sure of her answer yet.

  When she finished writing Sutton, she’d filled seven pages. She stacked those aside and started on a fresh page, this time writing to Him. The one who had whispered. She wrote until her hand cramped and her neck and shoulder muscles burned. She wrote thoughts she’d never shared with anyone, and w
ould be embarrassed if others read. She asked questions about Maman. About her father. And about why—if God had given her this gift of painting, however slight—He wasn’t doing anything with it?

  When she extinguished the oil lamp at half past three, she pressed her cheek into the cool of the pillow, exhausted, clinging to the memory of His voice, and praying she would never forget what she’d felt that morning. Such perfect, boundless love. Beyond anything she’d ever known. And yet she still wondered at the implications of His question—would you paint if you knew you were painting only for me?

  Did that mean that her canvas for the auction—the painting she’d been working on and planned to enter—wouldn’t be well received? Or maybe wouldn’t be accepted at all? Did it mean her work would never achieve the acclaim she wanted? Or did it mean something else entirely? She didn’t know.

  She only knew that she wanted that love in her life. And that no matter what it cost her, the answer to Jesus’s inaudible question . . . was yes.

  47

  Monday morning, the rhythm of steel wheels over miles of iron ribbon companioned the steady tick-tick-tick of Sutton’s internal clock. He willed the train to travel faster. He’d left Angola Plantation within an hour of receiving Bartholomew Holbrook’s telegram on Saturday morning. Finally, a major stride in their case.

  Investigators had learned the name of an art dealer involved in the sale of two forged paintings they now had in their possession. And that man had been traced to Nashville. They didn’t have him in custody yet, and Holbrook hadn’t shared the man’s name in the telegram. But it didn’t matter. That they’d gotten this far was enough.

  If they could only win this case. . . .

  Holbrook was right—what doors it would open. And he needed an open door because it was becoming more and more likely that his days of working in a management capacity at Belmont were swiftly coming to an end. Dr. William Cheatham had visited Angola three times in the past two months, and the physician’s relationship with Adelicia had definitely taken a more personal turn.