A Lasting Impression

by Tamera Alexander

  She frowned, and looked so much like a little girl that if not for the intensity of her expression and the outcome of her interview, he might have been tempted to smile.

  “I thought you presented yourself to Mrs. Acklen with great decorum. Especially under the circumstances.” Although, he still doubted whether she would have told Adelicia the truth about where she’d stayed last night had she not suspected he was listening.

  “And may I assume you heard me explain about how we met?”

  “Yes, ma’am, you may.” He debated whether to be forthcoming about his doubts regarding the motivation behind her honesty. Force of habit told him yes, but considering their paths would likely not cross again—a thought that disappointed him more than he would have imagined—he decided to keep that observation to himself. “And let me assure you that despite a little good-natured fun on my part, I actually happened into the sanctuary toward the latter stages of your . . . public ablutions.”

  He watched her, hoping the words would coax a blush. He wasn’t disappointed.

  “Public ablutions?” A hint of pink crept into her cheeks. “That makes it sound even worse than it was.”

  “You’re right.” He eyed her. “Would female capers be more appropriate, Miss Laurent?”

  “Not mentioning it again would be more so, Mr. Monroe.” Her eyes brightened the littlest bit, like someone had struck a match deep inside her.

  And in a way Sutton couldn’t have explained if he’d tried, he felt honored to be on the receiving end of that light.

  Adelicia had made the right decision in saying no to her. Claire Laurent was not the best candidate for the position. He knew that, and his instincts rarely failed him in that regard. Yet, he would have liked the chance to get to know her better. Which, when considering his understanding with Cara Netta LeVert and the uncertainty of his own financial position, made that desire both untoward and unwise. And best dismissed.

  But he’d say one thing for Miss Laurent, for having appeared to want the position so badly, she was taking the rejection well. And he sought to encourage her in that regard. “As I’m sure you’re aware, Miss Laurent, there were many applicants for this position, so please don’t let it—”

  “Miss Laurent?”

  He turned. Miss Laurent did the same.

  Adelicia stood by the open front door, alone. She gestured. “As you can see, the Buntings are waiting for you.”

  Sutton looked outside, and sure enough, the reverend and his wife were already seated in their buggy. He hadn’t even heard them leave.

  Miss Laurent hurried to the door. “Mrs. Acklen, I . . .” Lips pressed together, she bowed her head. “I-I want you to know that . . .” She slowly looked up, as though meeting Adelicia’s gaze would be painful.

  Which, for her, Sutton guessed it would be.

  “Miss Laurent, I believe that you have already said everything to me that is required.” Adelicia glanced outside and returned Mrs. Bunting’s wave with a gracious smile. When she looked back, her smile had cooled. “And I’m quite certain I have made myself abundantly clear to you. Have I not?”

  Miss Laurent’s lower lip trembled. “Yes, ma’am,” she whispered, not looking up again. She curtsied and left without a backward glance.

  Adelicia closed the door before Miss Laurent even reached the bottom step, but Sutton could still make out the young woman’s form through the rose-colored glass of the side window. Eli assisted her into the buggy, and Reverend Bunting guided the horses down the lane.

  Adelicia turned in the direction of the study. “If you’ll join me, Mr. Monroe, I’m interested in hearing your thoughts.”

  Sutton didn’t move. He only stared at his employer, knowing he needed to take care with what he said next. He’d witnessed Adelicia’s occasional callousness before. Wealthy beyond what most people realized, much less could fathom, she was a woman accustomed to having her way. Willing to fight to get it, and to keep it.

  He recalled the journey they’d made to Louisiana during the latter part of the war, and a cool wind of realization blew through him. What that decision had almost cost her . . . cost them all.

  But in the end, it had paid off, as they said at the horse track. And paid off royally.

  He’d worked for her, or her late husband, in different capacities over the past eight years, and he’d known her and her family on a personal basis even longer. She had moments of generosity that left him speechless, but she could be critical of others when they didn’t meet her high standards. Even then he’d never seen her treat someone of lesser rank with such lack of feeling and in so offhanded a manner.

  She paused and looked back. “Is there a problem?”

  “Yes, ma’am. There is.”

  She took a step back in his direction. “You’re upset with my decision.”

  “No, ma’am. Not with your decision, but in the way you summarily dismissed her.”

  Adelicia held his gaze. Then slowly, a spark lit her eyes. “Dismissed her?”

  He nodded, not wishing to be manipulated the way he’d seen her manipulate others. She could be most persuasive when she put her mind to it, and so kind in the process that, often, the person being swayed didn’t realize that what they had agreed to wasn’t of their own choosing.

  She pursed her lips. “Am I to understand that you believe I acted rudely just now when saying good-bye to her?”

  “That’s just it, ma’am. You didn’t say good-bye. You simply . . . showed her the door. It’s not like you to treat someone like Miss Laurent with so little graciousness.”

  “Someone like Miss Laurent?” she repeated. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning someone of far lesser rank than yourself, Mrs. Acklen. And someone who, only moments earlier, shared some very personal—and painful—insights with you, ma’am.”

  “Ah . . .” The word came out slowly. “Thank you for clarifying that. Perhaps I should clarify something for you, Mr. Monroe.”

  Sutton caught the subtle steel in her voice and knew he’d touched a nerve. Something he didn’t do often with her, and with good reason. He waited.

  “I didn’t summarily dismiss Miss Laurent just now. I prevented her from thanking me again.”

  He gave a sharp laugh. “Thanking you? For what? Not hiring her? Demeaning her?” He sighed, wishing now that he’d never broached the subject. “I agree with your decision not to hire her, Mrs. Acklen. What I’m saying is that I would have appreciated—”

  “But I did hire her, Mr. Monroe.” Her eyes narrowed. “Miss Laurent didn’t inform you of that fact?”

  For a moment, none of what she’d said made sense. Then a sudden heat rose inside him. “You hired her? Without discussing it with me first?” As soon as he said it, Sutton realized he’d overstepped his bounds. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Acklen. What I should have said was—”

  “What you should say is never of interest to me, Mr. Monroe. I have enough people in my life who say what they think I want said. The reason I hired you, and one of the reasons you’re still here—after countless others have attempted to take your place—is because you say exactly what you believe. What you think is right. You always have.”

  Something akin to admiration softened her expression. “That’s something Colonel Acklen admired in you, God rest him . . . And I prize that quality too. The courage to speak aloud what resides in your heart.” She glanced past him toward the front door. “Miss Laurent possesses that quality as well, when coaxed. Though I dare say”—her focus centered back on him—“she lacks the skill for it that you have so masterfully acquired.”

  Hearing a trace of humor in her tone, Sutton let out the breath he’d been holding. “I’m guessing that’s because I’ve had considerable more practice at it, ma’am.”

  She laughed. “Touché, Mr. Monroe. Touché . . .”

  Tired and confused, he ran a hand along the back of his neck. Though he resisted admitting it, part of him felt almost hopeful at the prospect of seeing Miss Laurent again. But the gr
eater part of him, the part responsible for protecting Mrs. Acklen’s personal welfare and financial empire, did not. “Would you help me understand why you hired her, ma’am? We both know she’s not the most qualified. And”—he felt a pounding begin at the back of his head—“what I find especially frustrating is that we had an agreement—at your suggestion—that we would discuss the candidates before you made your decision.”

  “I’m fully aware of that, Mr. Monroe. But . . .” She shrugged. “She’s a most persuasive young woman. And I’m not a woman easily persuaded, as well you know.”

  He stared, knowing he didn’t need to respond.

  She moved to the window where the late-afternoon sun shone through the Venetian glass, casting a warm glow on the entrance hall. “The main reason I hired her is because she doesn’t know who I am.” She pressed her palm flat against the window and spread her fingers wide. “She’s the only applicant who didn’t look at me in judgment, and with veiled disdain. Because she’s not from here. . . . She doesn’t know what everyone else in town does.”

  The ache in Sutton’s head intensified. This again? He thought she’d moved beyond it. “The other candidates didn’t look at you in judgment, Mrs. Acklen. Granted, some were overeager to impress you and had their priorities misplaced, but I didn’t sense any disdain toward you.”

  “Nor would I expect you to.” She glanced back. “You’re a man, after all.” She returned her gaze to the gardens in bloom. “But it was there. I felt it. With everyone . . . except her.”

  Sutton rubbed the back of his neck again, wishing he were astride Truxton right now, flying across the open fields. He would never understand women. Especially this one.

  Adelicia faced him. “Anyone else in my position would have done what I did. You said the same yourself.”

  “And I still hold to that, ma’am. You made the right choice in going to Louisiana. It was a difficult decision and one that’s had its consequences. But—”

  “Consequences I underestimated.”

  “But they’re temporary, ma’am. Give it time. You’ve only recently returned from your trip abroad. This prevailing attitude will pass. You’ll see.”

  He could tell she was tired by the slight droop of her shoulders.

  At her core, Adelicia was a very private person, and the interviews had taxed her. As had the past two years. The clink and rattle of dishes from the family dining room announced the dinner hour, and his thoughts returned to the reason for their conversation.

  “One last question, ma’am. . . . Why, if Miss Laurent knew she had the job, did she look so ill at ease when she left?”

  Adelicia pursed her lips and looked off to one side, and he recognized the reaction. Something was afoot.

  She absently touched the pin on the bodice of her dress. “She was thrilled when I told her she would be my personal liaison. But our interview ended on somewhat of a . . . more somber note.”

  “Somber, ma’am?”

  “My agreement with Miss Laurent is on a trial basis.” Her chin took a slightly upward tilt. “I told her that if she fails at the task I give her, I will terminate her employment immediately and see to it that she’s never hired in Nashville or Tennessee again.”

  Sutton exhaled in disbelief. “You should try being more direct next time, ma’am. Put the fear of God into her.”

  Adelicia waved his comment away. “She already has a healthy respect for the Almighty, Mr. Monroe. It’s belief in herself that she lacks. She needs someone to nurture that quality. To push her, if necessary.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  “Because when I look at her”—she hesitated, a fleeting glimpse of vulnerability shadowing her ever-present confidence—“I see myself . . . another lifetime ago.”

  Sutton was so taken aback by her honesty, he could say nothing.

  She averted her gaze, and her attention moved to the statue delivered the previous evening. She stared at it, her expression growing reflective. After a moment, she cleared her throat. “Have you any idea when the next statue will arrive?”

  Hearing a definitive end to their discussion, Sutton knew better than to push. And frankly, he was ready to take his leave. He’d already excused himself from dinner with the family, eager for time away from everything and everyone. But the statue she inquired about—the last she’d purchased in Rome—held special meaning to her.

  “No, ma’am, I don’t. But it should be arriving soon. I’ll check again with the shipping company.”

  “Very good, Mr. Monroe. Thank you.”

  He sensed a truce in her smile, and returned it.

  She started toward the grand salon, then paused. “One last thing, Mr. Monroe. Watch Miss Laurent closely. I don’t know what it is, but she’s hiding something. Or from something. . . . I can feel it.”

  He nodded, neither surprised at her observation or her request. He sensed the same thing. “Yes, ma’am, I’ll do that. I’ll conduct the usual formalities that we do with everyone who’s hired here.”

  “Very good. But I’d like to go one step further with Miss Laurent. She said she’s from New Orleans. I want you to contact a colleague in that area to verify that what she told me in her interview is true. You were standing outside the door listening . . . were you not?”

  He gave a not-so-sheepish smile. “Yes, ma’am, I was. I’ll mail the query this week.”

  As Sutton made his way across the estate grounds to the stables, and as he saddled Truxton and urged the stallion into a canter toward the lower fields, he thought again of Mrs. Acklen’s request. She wanted him to observe Miss Laurent, who he wholeheartedly agreed was hiding something.

  He only hoped the young woman’s motivation for being at Belmont wouldn’t prove damaging to the estate, or to Adelicia. Because if it did, he would personally see to it that she paid the price in full. Not that Claire Laurent would have much of a reputation left once Adelicia Acklen was through with her.

  13

  Best watch them boots, Miss Laurent. With it rainin’ buckets like it is, you might wanna give them another good brushin’ ’fore you step inside here, ma’am. The Lady’s got some mighty nice carpet and rugs layin’ around.”

  Claire looked down and saw traces of mud still clinging to her heels, and quickly did as the Negro woman bade, her insides knotted tight. Just as they’d been since she left Belmont yesterday.

  She’d awakened in the Buntings’ guest room during the night and had broken out in a cold sweat, the realization of what she’d done hitting her full force. She heard again what Mrs. Acklen had said. “If you fail to meet my expectations, you’ll be terminated immediately.” But it was what Mrs. Acklen had said next—about seeing to it she would never work in Nashville or Tennessee again—that sent a shiver up Claire’s spine.

  Perhaps working for the richest woman in Nashville—or maybe Tennessee, for all she knew—wasn’t going to be the key to achieving her dreams after all. Yes, Mrs. Acklen prized art and had connections in that realm. But original pieces were what she, and everyone else, truly valued. What would Adelicia Acklen do to her if the woman ever discovered that her personal liaison was a forger? Or had been . . .

  Claire ran the soles of her boots across the boot brushes again, feeling her palms go sweaty. The woman who had answered the door—a cook, Claire guessed from the freshly starched apron she wore—had introduced herself just seconds earlier, and Claire knew she should remember her name. But with the tussle of nerves inside her, she’d already forgotten.

  She was just thankful it wasn’t Mrs. Routh. The head housekeeper scared her almost as much as Mrs. Acklen did.

  “You got yourself some tiny little feet there, Miss Laurent.”

  Claire managed a smile, liking the way the woman pronounced her last name—Lowrent—with a rich drawl that somehow drew the name into three syllables. Papa would have corrected the woman’s enunciation immediately. Which, oddly, made Claire determine never to do so.

  Certain that the bristles from th
e boot brushes were about to poke through to the bottoms of her feet, Claire checked the soles of her shoes again.

  “Looks like you done got it all this time, Miss Laurent.” The woman grinned. “We could just ’bout eat offa’ them now, I reckon. Now get your bag there, missy, and come on in outta the wet.”

  Claire retrieved her satchel, catching a last glimpse of Reverend Bunting’s buggy as he guided the team up the lane. She appreciated his and Mrs. Bunting’s kind offer of lodgings last night. Though she’d scarcely slept a wink.

  Stepping across the threshold of the mansion, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was stepping into an animal’s lair—of her own disastrous making. The opulent beauty of the mansion hadn’t changed overnight, but her realization of the seriousness of her predicament had. And she only had herself to blame.

  Despite her fears and the endless possibilities of what could go wrong whirling in her head, she was determined to make the most of her opportunity. But her first assigned duty—to plan a birthday celebration for Mrs. Acklen’s recently turned eleven-year-old son, William—was already challenging that intent.

  Not having met William, she’d tried to imagine what a boy of his age and upbringing would enjoy. She believed the ideas she’d prepared to present were rather creative, things she would have adored when she was his age. And she knew Mrs. Acklen could well afford the expenditures.

  Claire followed the woman through the entrance hall, taking in the ever lovely and stone-silent Ruth. The door to the library was closed, and she wondered if Mrs. Acklen was inside working. She hoped Mrs. Acklen wasn’t waiting on her.

  She was arriving much later than planned. The inclement weather and muddy roads hadn’t helped any, but it was a stop at the train station to check on the arrival of her trunks that had caused the delay.

  After a quick perusal of the ledger, the porter had said they had no record of her trunks arriving. But if they had, by chance, arrived, Claire knew they would have been delivered to Broderick Shipping and Freight, according to Antoine’s instructions. When the porter asked where to send her trunks, she’d nearly answered Belmont, then caught herself, not wanting to risk that Antoine would try to visit her there. She assured the porter she would stop back in a few days.