A Lasting Impression

by Tamera Alexander

  “As for me . . .” He sighed. “I also live with the outcome of my choices, however less favorable. I refused to sign the Oath of Allegiance and took up arms against the Union. My father . . .” The burning in his eyes intensified. “My father was willing to sign the oath to keep the peace, to sow the seeds of a new nation, but I . . .” He took a steadying breath, remembering that last conversation with his father. “I convinced him otherwise, telling him that to sign would be a betrayal to his family and friends. But most of all . . . to me. And in the end, he paid the price that I alone should have paid.”

  “Mr. Monroe, you are not responsi—”

  He held up a hand. “Don’t,” he whispered. “If you were in my place, you would feel the very same way.”

  Her expression sobered. She bowed her head.

  “And for what it’s worth, ma’am, in my eyes, God could have still burned that cotton even as you were fighting to save it, if that had been His desire. But He allowed you to salvage it, and to sell it. All for a divine purpose, I believe.”

  “And what purpose would that be, Mr. Monroe?”

  He shook his head, reaching for the door handle. “That, Mrs. Acklen, is between you and your Maker.”

  He closed the door behind him. And as he lay in bed a while later, alone in the guest quarters of the art gallery with nothing but priceless paintings and statues for companions in the opposite wing, he pushed every bruising thought from his mind, and grasped at the first pleasant one within his reach.

  Claire.

  It was natural for him to think about her, he told himself. They were colleagues, after all. And friends. He let the word friend settle inside him. It didn’t adequately describe his feelings for her, and he knew it. But picking at the thread of that thought would only lead to frayed ends.

  Cara Netta’s most recent letter lay on the bureau and he knew he needed to answer it. She would arrive soon, and he wasn’t nearly as enthusiastic over the prospect of seeing her again as he should have been. Not with where they supposedly were in their relationship. In fact, part of him was dreading her arrival, which prodded his guilt.

  He raised up, punched his pillow a couple of times, and tried to get more comfortable.

  “I had no idea you were so well-informed about the world of art.” Adelicia’s comment to Claire replayed in his mind. As did what Mrs. Routh had said to him.

  It wasn’t that Claire knew how to paint so well that bothered him, it was that she’d not mentioned anything about it. Not a word, that he could recall. And it seemed far too much of a stretch that someone so gifted at painting—and apparently “well-informed about the world of art”—would just so happen to end up working for the richest and, arguably, most influential person within the art community in Nashville, Tennessee.

  And possibly, the whole of Dixie.

  20

  Paintbrush in hand, Claire turned in her chair to check the clock on the mantel. If only she could make time stand still. The week had flown by far too quickly, and so much remained to be done. It was Friday evening. The party was tomorrow at one o’clock, precisely eighteen hours away, and she still had three joujou and four bombonnière left to paint, plus all the clues for the scavenger hunt to write and hide.

  Still, she was enjoying every minute of the preparation. Especially the painting. And Mrs. Acklen’s affirmation, which she prayed boded well for her retaining the liaison position. Mrs. Acklen had approved the theme, the party favors, the invitations, the menu—every last detail. Even William seemed excited about the plans for the day.

  Claire arched her back and blew a curl from her eye. The muscles in her right hand started to cramp, so she paused to flex her fingers, then painted an A on the next joujou, adding some elegant swirls for richer depth.

  Holding the toy by the edges, she carefully turned the joujou over and began painting the other side. Her eyes watered and she blinked to clear them, knowing the image of this mansion would be forever emblazoned on her memory now that she’d painted it dozens of times.

  Minutes later, a knock sounded on her bedroom door.

  “Captain Laurent?”

  She smiled. “Come in, Willister.”

  No response.

  Tempted to try and outwait him, she decided they didn’t have the time. “Come in, please, Sutton.”

  The door opened without delay. “Reporting for duty, Captain Laurent.” He came alongside her and offered a mock salute.

  She grinned. He’d bestowed the silly nickname after he’d heard her enlisting the help of numerous servants during the course of the week. “At ease, Corporal.”

  “Corporal? Yesterday I was a lieutenant.”

  “Yes, but yesterday you brought me a piece of pumpkin bread.” She peered up at him, waiting.

  Gleam in his eye, he gave her shoulder a friendly nudge. “You’re a spoiled officer.”

  Laughing, she turned back to her work. “A couple more minutes, and I’ll be ready.”

  He knelt beside her. “How long does it take you to paint one of those?”

  “Only about thirty minutes of actual painting time . . .” She completed the last tiny brushstrokes on the miniature mansion and set the joujou on its edge for the paint to set, careful to place it where it wouldn’t roll off the desk. “But I have to wait for it to dry before I can add the detail to the mansion.”

  “Hmmm . . . Time-consuming.”

  “Yes.” She placed her paintbrush in a cup of turpentine. “But worth it, I hope.”

  He straightened. “I have no doubt your party favors will be a huge success. As will everything else.” He glanced toward the window. “We’d better get started, though. From what you said last night, it sounds like we have a lot to do, and it’s getting dark earlier these days.”

  “Have they left yet?”

  He nodded. “The carriage just pulled away. Mrs. Acklen said she and the children will be gone until well after dark.”

  “Perfect! That should give us enough time, if we hurry. If you’ll get that basket there on the dresser, please.” She gestured. “And I’ll get these”—she grabbed the squares of oilcloth she’d cut earlier, along with blue and pink ribbons—“and then we’ll be ready.”

  He was more casually dressed than she’d ever seen him, sans coat and tie, and she liked the change. Very much. His white shirt fit snugly across his shoulders and chest, and rolled-up sleeves revealed muscular tanned forearms. Tailored gray trousers complemented his physique just as nicely—from the ever-so-brief glance she allowed herself. Twice.

  They’d seen each other throughout the week, but it was mainly at dinner and always with others around. He’d seemed somewhat preoccupied, and she’d wanted to ask him about it, wondering if it was due to something she’d said or done. Or whether it had more to do with the numerous closed-door meetings he’d had with Mrs. Acklen in the library throughout the week.

  Whatever it was, the appropriate opportunity to ask him had never presented itself. Until now . . .

  “I thought we’d start over there.” She pointed to the vine-laced gazebo closest to the house. “I really appreciate your help with this, Sutton. I know you’ve been busy this week. Lots of meetings, it seems.” She glanced over at him. “I hope everything’s all right. That . . . nothing bad has happened?”

  “Everything’s fine. And it’s my pleasure to help.” He gestured for her to enter the gazebo, then followed. “For not knowing what you were going to do for William’s party at the outset, you’ve certainly accomplished a great deal in a very short time, Claire.”

  Though his behavior seemed normal enough, she sensed he’d evaded her question, which made her even more curious about the purpose behind his meetings with Mrs. Acklen. As she set the pieces of oilcloth on the bench inside the gazebo, her curiosity made a random leap—and a sinking feeling set in.

  What if they’d been meeting about her? About whether or not she was going to get the job? Or worse, what if they’d learned something about her? Or about the gallery
in New Orleans? The very thought sent a shudder of dread through her. Aware of Sutton watching her, she cordoned off her fears as best she could. “Thank you, Sutton. I’ve had a lot of excellent help.”

  “You’ve had a lot of excellent ideas too. Mrs. Acklen is certainly impressed.” He looked over at her. “As am I.”

  She stilled. “Thank you. . . . That means a great deal coming from you.”

  His expression turned sheepish. “Why? Because I told you I didn’t think you were the most qualified for the job?”

  “No.” She reached for the basket of note cards he held. “Because I value your good opinion. And not to correct you, but”—she made herself look into his eyes, reliving the sting of his original comment—“what you said was that you didn’t think I was even among the most qualified.”

  A stricken look came over him, and he clutched his chest as though she’d plunged a dagger into his heart. He staggered back, agony replacing the shock on his face. Then he fell backward out of the gazebo and landed in the grass on his derrière.

  Eyes wide, she watched in disbelief, a hiccup of laughter bubbling up her throat. Shocked he’d done such a thing, she was also delighted. What he’d said to her that day had hurt her, and she’d wanted him to know it. And, oh . . . how good it felt to be able to say what she’d wanted to say, in the moment she’d wanted to say it. And to have it elicit such a reaction! It more than bolstered her courage.

  She peered down at him and lifted a haughty brow. “If you’re just going to sit and stare like that, this is going to take all night.”

  Grinning, he jumped up, dusted himself off, and bowed low. “Consider me at your service, mademoiselle. But first . . .” He joined her in the gazebo again. All traces of humor faded. “Please accept my apology. It was never my intention to hurt you, Claire. Honesty is something I value most highly. But . . . I realize that sometimes I can be too straightforward.”

  Claire studied him. And it was all she could do not to open up to him. To tell him about the forgeries and the gallery and her family’s business. Contrary to the morning when they’d first met in church, she wanted to confess everything. And part of her believed that if she did tell him the truth right now, he would understand and forgive her.

  But another part of her . . .

  Told her how foolish that notion was. Sutton Monroe was an attorney-at-law. Laws she had broken. If she told him anything, that would mean the end of everything. And she couldn’t risk that. Because she had nowhere else to go. And no one to go to.

  “Apology accepted,” she finally said, knowing she didn’t deserve it. Or his kindness. On a whim, she extended her hand. “Friends?”

  He stared for a moment, then slipped his hand—warm and strong—around hers, looking as if he wanted to say something else. And then came that smile. “Friends,” he repeatedly softly, and gave her hand a firm shake.

  Over the next two hours, they toured the estate and hid clues for each of the two teams for tomorrow’s activity, writing them as they went. Twenty-four clues in all. And Claire was certain that if the partygoers had half as much fun as she was having, the party would be a huge success.

  They wrapped each clue in oilcloth, then tied them with a pink or blue ribbon. Then they stuffed them into crevices of statuary, slid them into chinks of loose mortar at the top of the water tower, and sneaked them into the bear house, where the black bear slumbering behind bars never even stirred. They stuck clues in the ironwork of gazebos, in the craggy arms of ancient magnolias, and placed one in the mouth of a stone cobra coiled atop a fountain in the conservatory.

  In the chill of the icehouse, Sutton climbed up a rock wall and left the boys’ clue protruding from a crevice where they would easily see it. Claire first hid the girls’ behind a large block of ice in the corner, but then thinking better of it, she stood, with Sutton’s assistance, on a block of ice and shoved the clue into a crack between two rocks where it, too, would be seen.

  Sucking on slivers of ice he broke off with a pick, they left the icehouse with only two clues remaining to be hidden. Claire fell into step beside him as they headed back across the estate to their last destination.

  Almost giddy from the magnificence of the estate and the variety of buildings and architecture, she sighed. “How did Mrs. Acklen ever dream up all of this?” She looked back downhill toward the conservatory. “She has flowers and trees in there I’ve never even heard of before, much less seen. It feels like you’re in a foreign land.”

  Sutton gave a nod. “She likes rare things. Beautiful things too.”

  “Did you already know Mrs. Acklen when she built the estate?”

  “When she and her late husband built it,” he gently corrected. “And yes, I knew her. Though not as well, of course, as I do now. That was about . . . thirteen years ago. My father was the Acklen family’s physician for many years. Adelicia’s late husband, Joseph, and my father were close friends. Mr. Acklen was also my mentor when I began studying law.”

  They walked in silence together, Claire letting that information sink in. She’d suspected a closer relationship between them, and this explained it. It also explained Sutton’s devotion to Mrs. Acklen. Adelicia, as he’d called her before, wasn’t simply his employer. She was a longtime family friend.

  “Here we are!” Sutton climbed the stairs to the building that would house their last two clues. A building that, Claire felt sure, would be popular with the boys and girls tomorrow.

  When first exploring the grounds, she had wondered what this long, narrow building was, and now she grinned to herself, thinking of the clue she and Sutton had just written and hidden in the icehouse. A clue that would—hopefully—lead the children here. Sutton had insisted that some of the clues rhyme, saying it would make them more interesting. She’d argued it just made them harder to write. But they were memorable.

  “Approach with care,” she recited the first line of the clue in the icehouse, “your eye down the lane. . . .” She stepped through the open door as he held it for her.

  “Keep your aim steady,” he continued, following behind her, “your mark good and plain.”

  “Ten little pins”—she stood for a moment and let her eyes adjust to the dimmer light—“all set and ready . . .”

  “Awaiting the onslaught”—he came alongside her—“of a sphere strong and steady!” He finished on a deeper, more masculine note, like an actor in a play.

  Claire laughed at his antics. “A bowling alley.” Looking around, she shook her head. “Who would have guessed?”

  “If you have a bear house, you have to have a bowling alley.”

  “Oh, indeed. No question about it. Because we both know how much bears like to bowl.” Enjoying the sound of his laughter, she hid her clue in a finger hole of one of the smaller bowling balls, eager to get to the last stop on their tour—the building she’d been waiting to see since she’d first heard about it. The building she’d tried to slip into during the week but had found locked. She hoped Sutton hadn’t forgotten.

  He hid his clue, and once back outside, they found the sun dipping low in the west, swathed in a haze of pink. Ever the gentleman, Sutton offered his arm before they descended the steps, and Claire briefly slipped her hand through, half wishing she could leave it there when they reached the walkway. But she didn’t.

  Her thoughts returned to something he’d said before. “Your father . . . He’s a physician?”

  “Was a physician.” His voice mirrored the hush of approaching night. “He died during the war.”

  “Oh, Sutton . . . I’m so sorry.” She slowed her steps. But when his gait didn’t follow suit, she hurriedly matched his pace again. “Was he killed in battle?” she asked after a moment.

  He didn’t answer immediately. “No,” he whispered. “He was not.”

  She kept her focus ahead, waiting to see if he might say something more. “And . . . may I ask about your mother? Is she still living?”

  His sigh held the semblance of a smile. “Ye
s, my mother’s still living. But not here in Nashville. She lives with my aunt Lorena, her older sister, in North Carolina. She moved there after my father’s death. Remaining in Nashville was too difficult for her. My mother has always had more of a . . . delicate emotional nature. Which only became more so after my father’s passing.”

  Claire nodded, wondering about the “delicate emotional nature” comment, but believing she understood, at least to some extent, the part about his mother finding it difficult to remain after his father died. She couldn’t imagine still being in New Orleans right now, living above the art gallery, with both her father and Maman gone.

  Spotting the art gallery ahead, she smiled. He hadn’t forgotten.

  The two-story brick building loomed dark and stately, large enough to be a hotel, and certainly grand enough in appearance. At least on the outside. Darkness hid the precise definitions of the structure, but she already knew them by heart, having seen the building often enough since arriving at Belmont.

  Airy, elegant balconies reminiscent of European architecture accented the front of the building, and white columns framed the main entrance, drawing the eye upward to an observatory that crowned the splendid edifice. Sutton withdrew a key and slid it into the lock.

  “Your humble home,” she said quietly.

  “Hardly. Half of the building houses the art gallery. The rest comprises five guest suites for Belmont’s visitors, along with quarters for their servants.”

  “All of whom like to bowl, of course.”

  “But only with bears,” he countered, not missing a beat. He swung open the door. “After you, Captain.”

  Claire stepped inside, then paused, unable to see anything in the darkness. Windows lined the front of the building, but thick draperies—all drawn shut, she’d discovered earlier that week—blocked out the natural light. For the protection of the paintings, she knew. But the curtains also served double duty in stifling the curiosity of nosy onlookers. Like her.