A Lasting Impression

by Tamera Alexander

  Miss Cenas paused inside the doorway. “I’m very well, Mrs. Acklen, thank you. And so happy to be back at Belmont. Forgive my interruption, ma’am, but I wanted to remind you that the children and I will be away for the day. We’re venturing across town to see Joseph Jr. We’ll have lunch with him and see his new quarters at school.”

  “Very good, Miss Cenas. Please be sure and take the basket of goodies Cordina made up for him this morning. And I wrote him a long letter before going to bed last evening. It’s in the salon on the side table, unless Mrs. Routh has already tucked it . . .” Mrs. Acklen paused, and turned to Claire. “Excuse me for a moment, Miss Laurent. I need to make sure everything is as it should be for Joseph.”

  Mrs. Acklen swept from the room, intent on her mission. And with another quick dip of her head, Miss Cenas closed the door behind them. Claire welcomed the moment of quiet.

  Stretching her back and shoulders, she peered out the window and saw Belmont’s gardeners hard at work. The men toiled from dawn to dusk every day, it seemed. No wonder the gardens were always so pristine.

  She claimed a spot on the settee and flipped through a back issue of Godey’s Lady’s Book.

  Four out of the past five mornings, with the exception of Sunday, she and Mrs. Acklen had barricaded themselves in this room, Mrs. Acklen dictating, and her transcribing. Everything from letters to formal acquaintances, to responses to business owners, to list after list of projects to be completed, which included ordering fresh oysters from New Orleans for Christmas dinner.

  On Sunday morning, the entire family had attended church services, Claire included. Apparently now that she was a more permanent employee, Mrs. Acklen expected her to attend, which was fine. Claire had enjoyed the service, especially Reverend Bunting’s sermon, and though church meant going into town, church was also the last place Antoine DePaul would be.

  The only part of the experience she hadn’t been particularly fond of was when she’d discovered that the pew she’d spent the night on had been Mrs. Acklen’s personal pew. She grew warm again remembering Sutton’s hushed remark to her as they’d left the sanctuary. “I’ve never noticed before, but that pew is almost comfortable enough to sleep on.”

  She smiled to herself. The scoundrel . . .

  Though he’d more than made up for the comment the following day when she’d discovered a bouquet of wildflowers by her bedroom door along with a note—Congratulations on a job well done, Captain. Respectfully, Your Lowly Corporal.

  Not really reading the pages of Godey’s, she returned the magazine to the table and noticed a newspaper tucked beneath a Harper’s Weekly. The newspaper seemed vaguely familiar for some reason, and when she tugged it free of the magazine, she realized why.

  Mrs. Acklen subscribed to the New Orleans Picayune? Not that hard to believe, she realized, considering Mrs. Acklen had plantations in—

  A headline caught her eye, and her heart skipped a painful beat. MAN SLAIN IN ROBBERY ATTEMPT. Holding her breath, she scanned the article and—cruel though it seemed—she was relieved to discover it was about a man killed during an attempted robbery of a mercantile and wasn’t about her father, as she’d feared.

  Calming, she checked the date on the newspaper. September tenth. She counted back. The day she’d arrived in Nashville. Unable to resist scanning the rest of the paper, her gaze flew over the column headings on the front page. Then she moved to the second page, and the third. By the time she reached the back page, she was allowing herself to believe—

  A headline at the very bottom siphoned the breath from her lungs even as the miles between her and her old life disappeared. The last column, the last article on the right. And so few words. She could almost read them at a glance.

  GALLERY ROBBERY AND SLAYING

  As previously reported, thieves robbed the European Masters Art Gallery in the French Quarter and absconded with an extensive art collection of undisclosed worth. Art dealer and part-owner, Bernard Gustave Laurent, first reported as being stabbed in the robbery, died Friday evening following complications from his injury. Private interment held Saturday.

  Claire’s eyes burned, a dozen different emotions roiling inside her. The greatest being panic! What if Mrs. Acklen or Sutton were to read this and see her father’s name? Or what if they already had? Yet she knew if they’d read it, they would have said something to her by now. Neither were shy of confrontation. On the heels of panic came regret—that she hadn’t been there to bury her father.

  But what surprised her most was the pity she felt. This was her father’s legacy. This brief newspaper article. So succinct, so impersonal. Like a footnote or an afterthought.

  From nowhere, Antoine DePaul’s deceivingly handsome face appeared in her mind. Nothing within her ever wanted to see that man again. Not after tasting what life was like beyond his and Papa’s reach, beyond the walls of that gallery where she’d felt so—

  The sound of a door closing somewhere beyond the small study bulleted Claire off the settee. She had to hide the newspaper before Mrs. Acklen—

  The door to the small study opened.

  “As usual, Mrs. Routh had everything in order,” Mrs. Acklen said, turning to close the door behind her. “So Joseph will know with full assurance that his absence is greatly felt here at home. Now, where were we, Miss Laurent?”

  Standing by the settee, Claire laid the Godey’s Lady’s Book atop the pile of magazines where she’d hidden the newspaper, for the time being. “You were reviewing the dictation from this morning, ma’am.” She handed Mrs. Acklen the papers, her heart still pounding.

  But Mrs. Acklen didn’t start reading. “Miss Laurent, please do take extra care with where you place the fountain pen.”

  Claire quickly retrieved the pen from where she’d laid it on the desk.

  “I’m overly protective of this secretary, I realize. But it’s a treasured antique. A gift from my father.” Mrs. Acklen smoothed a hand over the flawless rich cherrywood. “The desk came over on the Mayflower. My father had it restored for me upon the occasion of my eighteenth birthday. Remarkable to think that when the desk came into my possession, it was already well over two hundred years old.”

  “It’s lovely,” Claire said, checking to make sure none of the ink had leaked out.

  “Yes, and I’d like to keep it that way.” Mrs. Acklen perused the notes, nodding as she did so. “Your handwriting is impeccable, Miss Laurent. But I do believe a course in shorthand would be prudent. The skill would serve you well, and would save you a good deal of soreness.”

  Only then did Claire realize she was rubbing her right hand. “I’m fine, Mrs. Acklen, honestly. But I’d be happy to learn it if you think it’s important.”

  “What I think, Miss Laurent . . .” With a sigh, Mrs. Acklen crossed the study and opened a window. A lusciously cool breeze wafted past the heavy brocade curtains. “I think we’ve been cooped up inside this room far too long this week. A taste of fall is in the air, and I’d very much like to take advantage of it.” She turned back, a glimmer of challenge in her eyes. “By any chance . . . do you ride?”

  Half an hour later—with the newspaper tucked in the bottom of the trash bin in the kitchen—Claire found herself seated sidesaddle on a beautiful little black mare named Athena. The spirited animal pranced beneath her, straining at the bit, but Claire managed to hold her steady.

  Armstead, Mrs. Acklen’s coachman, assisted Mrs. Acklen into the saddle of a magnificent bay stallion. The horse looked identical to one depicted in an oil painting in the central parlor, and also to a bronze replica in the small study. The painting was of Mrs. Acklen some years earlier, holding the reins of a stallion—a thoroughbred, she’d learned.

  Mrs. Acklen skillfully prodded the massive brute up beside the pretty mare, and Athena snorted and tossed her head, as though challenging his superior breeding. The stallion, standing a good three hands taller than Athena, merely glanced over with passing interest.

  Mrs. Acklen leaned forward and st
roked the thoroughbred’s neck. “How long has it been since you’ve ridden, Miss Laurent?”

  Claire had to think. “Over two years, I’d say. But when we first came to this country, we lived near a horse farm. The owner was gracious enough to let me ride in the afternoons in exchange for giving his young daughters art lessons. So . . .” She dared let a touch of confidence slip through. “I’m a fairly good rider. Or at least I was.”

  “Is that so?” Mrs. Acklen’s gaze moved over her as though she were evaluating Claire’s equestrian skills. “Don’t let Athena’s size mislead you, Miss Laurent. She’s a spirited little thing who flies across these meadows. But I’m afraid she can get rather ornery when she loses to Bucephalus.”

  Loses to Bucephalus? Who had said anything about racing? Claire ran her fingers through Athena’s mane, debating whether or not to say what she was about to say. Prudence advised that she not, but friendly competitiveness won out. “In my limited experience, Mrs. Acklen, I’ve noticed that sometimes the horse who’s least favored ends up finishing first.”

  Athena whinnied as though in agreement, and Claire leaned forward to reward the mare with a quick rub behind the ears.

  Unmistakable challenge brightened Mrs. Acklen’s eyes. “Hmmm . . . look at that. I think she likes you.”

  “You sound surprised, ma’am.”

  “No, no. Not surprised.” Mrs. Acklen’s smile turned sugary sweet. “It’s just that Athena usually prefers men. She threw her last two female riders. Shall we be off?” Without waiting for a response, she flicked the reins and Bucephalus started forward.

  Staring slack-jawed, Claire felt the powerful ripple of Athena’s rib muscles beneath her. She gave the mare a gentle prod, and Athena shot off at a trot.

  Mrs. Acklen set a steady pace down through the meadow and across the creek to the valley beyond. Claire rode beside her, doing her best not to allow Athena to pass Bucephalus, which the mare seemed intent on doing. Claire wondered whether she should try to make conversation, but after listening to dictation for hours on end, she preferred the quiet and the rustle of the wind through the meadow grasses and figured Mrs. Acklen did too.

  A touch of crimson edged the maples—the same ones Sutton had pointed out from her bedroom window. But that slightest hint of color was enough to prime her imagination. Mrs. Acklen had already paid her her first wages, more than Claire had expected to earn. So she planned on buying canvases and paints later in the week, and would be ready to capture nature’s masterpiece when it was at its height.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Mrs. Acklen said, her focus trained ahead.

  Claire knew the question wasn’t really a question, but neither was it rhetorical. “Belmont is one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen. The first time I saw it, I thought of it as a miniature American Versailles.”

  Mrs. Acklen laughed. “Having experienced the beauty of Versailles firsthand, as I’m assuming you have as well . . .”

  Claire nodded.

  “. . . I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “As it was intended, ma’am.”

  Athena quickened her pace again, and Claire tugged the reins to keep the mare in step. Mrs. Acklen was right. The mare seemed bent on putting Bucephalus in his place.

  Mrs. Acklen nudged Bucephalus to a faster trot, giving Athena a passing sideways glance. If Claire didn’t know better, she might think Mrs. Acklen was taunting the animal. And her!

  “Are you finding time for painting these days, Miss Laurent?”

  Claire heard far more than simple inquiry in Mrs. Acklen’s question. “No, ma’am, not yet. But I hope to in coming weeks.”

  Sutton had informed Mrs. Acklen about her desire to paint professionally, Claire felt certain, and about her reaction to learning of the auction for new artists come spring. He would have viewed the advisement as part of his job, which she understood. “I give you my word, Mrs. Acklen, my aspirations in that area won’t interfere with my responsibilities to you.”

  “Thank you for that assurance, Miss Laurent. I’ll be sure to hold you to it.” Mrs. Acklen looked over at her. “And while I would venture to say that you do possess talent, it takes years of practice to perfect the expertise needed to garner any level of recognition at the new artists auction. I would hate for you to set your hopes too high.”

  Well, that answered the question of whether Sutton had told her. Feeling adequately warned, and humbled, Claire let the subject die.

  As they rode on, she sneaked a look at Mrs. Acklen. Adelicia Acklen carried herself with such poise and confidence. Had the woman always possessed those attributes? While Claire still felt every bit the employee—as well she should—she’d also come to feel a certain intimacy with Mrs. Acklen, privy as she was to the woman’s thoughts and preferences.

  The amount of correspondence Mrs. Acklen received, and responded to, was dizzying. The woman’s mind never seemed to stop. She’d set dates for dinners and afternoon teas for the next three months, rattling off guest lists and menus and verbiage for invitations, including what color stationery she preferred, and whether she wanted roses on the table because they were so-and-so’s favorite, or whether gardenias or orchids. And the birthday party favors had been so well received, she wondered whether Claire would paint another set of the candy boxes for her next ladies’ tea. And come spring, she wanted to host a ball “the likes of which Nashville has never seen.”

  Claire took a deep breath and tilted her face toward the sun, letting the warmth soothe her overfull mind. If a boy’s birthday party had taken that much time and planning, she could only imagine the work it would take to orchestrate a ball. It was months away, of course, but there was another event quickly approaching.

  The LeVert family’s visit. Barely over a week away. She’d all but forgotten about it in the blur of party planning.

  While Mrs. Acklen hadn’t assigned her any official duties in regard to the LeVerts’ upcoming visit, she had commented that Madame LeVert would have need of transcription. Claire had no idea how long the mother and daughters would stay. But according to Cordina, who knew everything, they had stayed a full two months on their last visit to Belmont. Cordina spoke very highly of the entire family, but it was Cara Netta—the young woman who had shared the onion soup with Sutton in Paris, per Mrs. Acklen—who Claire looked forward to meeting most.

  And least, at the same time.

  Mrs. Acklen guided Bucephalus left toward a treelined path, and the stallion snorted and sidestepped as though eager to be given free rein. But Mrs. Acklen held him on course. Claire admired her handling of the spirited stallion, just as she admired the stallion itself. Magnificent creature. Fit for a king. Or a queen, in this instance.

  The trail grew narrower, and Claire guided Athena to fall in behind. The mare whinnied, apparently taking offense at being made to follow. “Bucephalus is a beautiful animal, Mrs. Acklen.”

  “He is, isn’t he? I named him after Alexander the Great’s horse. My father first read me the story of young Alexander when I was but seven years old. Even then, I found myself inspired. You’re familiar with the account, I’m sure.”

  Claire’s face heated, and she sat straighter in the saddle, glad Mrs. Acklen couldn’t see her. “No, ma’am. I’m not.”

  “Oh . . . well, we’ll have to rectify that. My father saw to it that I was schooled in the classics. He read them to me every night. He was such a gifted storyteller. After all these years, I can still remember how his voice sounded as I rested my head against his chest, curled up in his lap, listening as he read. His voice was so rich and deep. He captured all the characters so perfectly.”

  Mrs. Acklen’s description painted a vivid picture, and Claire felt a disquieting envy creep up inside her. The narrow path opened into a vast meadow awash in golden rays, and Claire started to prod Athena into step beside Bucephalus again, but the mare needed no urging.

  “Look! There!” Mrs. Acklen pointed.

  On the horizon, far in the distance, Claire
spotted the horse and rider, and she knew instantly who it was. Such fluid grace . . . “It looks like they’re flying.”

  “Mr. Monroe is a fine horseman. And Truxton, his thoroughbred, is nearly Bucephalus’s equal.”

  They watched until Sutton disappeared over the crest of a hill before continuing on.

  Memories Mrs. Acklen had shared of her own father churned up memories of Claire’s. She’d thought about Papa more in recent days, and almost wished for the harried stress of planning a party again. Sometimes the memories brought a sadness that moved her to tears. But most of the time, especially late at night, when the house was still and everyone else was asleep, the memories filled her with a regret that brought a different kind of sadness. One that left her tearless and guilt-ridden—and wondering if she’d tried harder with her father, if maybe, just maybe, they could have had the relationship she’d always wanted.

  “I’m certain you hold fond memories of your father as well, Miss Laurent. God rest his soul . . .”

  Gentle invitation colored Mrs. Acklen’s tone, yet Claire wasn’t about to admit that her relationship with her own father had been nothing like what Mrs. Acklen had experienced, especially after appearing so disadvantaged by her lack of training in the classics. “I’m sure you’ll understand, Mrs. Acklen, but I find it . . . difficult to speak of my father at present.” She’d tried to say it kindly, but even Claire heard the bitterness in her own voice.

  And apparently, so had Mrs. Acklen, judging by her wary expression. “Yes, I do understand, Miss Laurent.” Her voice held compassion. She reined in, and Claire followed suit. “But if you’ll allow me a word intended to comfort . . . The passing of time does help. It eases the pain, however little solace that may offer at the moment.”