A Lasting Impression

by Tamera Alexander

  Claire spotted the LeVerts’ carriage coming down the street. She could hardly miss it. The Clarence had a circular front with glass—very stylish, and no doubt very expensive, even leased. She made a dash for the carriage and climbed in with Armstead’s assistance, not surprised to see ribboned boxes stacked on the seat beside her.

  Diddie and Cara Netta occupied the seat encased by glass, which suited her fine. Whoever sat there was on display, something she preferred not to be. Aware of Cara Netta watching, Claire brushed drops of rain from her skirt and willed a cheerful tone to her voice. “Did you two have a successful shopping trip?”

  “Yes, we did.” Cara Netta’s smile looked mildly convincing. “Though not as successful as yours, I wager.”

  Diddie shot her younger sister a look, then checked the gold ladies’ watch pinned to her own bodice. “It’s a quarter ’til one. Shall we see if Sutton is still at the law office? I told him we might stop by.”

  Cara Netta nodded, but Claire looked between the two sisters. “We’re not going back to Belmont?”

  “Soon,” Diddie said, tapping on the window. Armstead appeared and she gave him instructions, then leaned back again. “We won’t be long, Miss Laurent. I promise. And I feel certain, after seeing how much Mrs. Acklen appreciates you, she won’t begrudge you an hour or two more.”

  “Oh!” Cara Netta perked up. “We could visit that wonderful little pie shop where Sutton took us last time. They have the most divine coconut cream.”

  Diddie agreed, and the two sisters began talking, finishing each other sentences as they usually did.

  Resigned, Claire eased back in the seat. And as the carriage rumbled past shops and office buildings, she began to get a familiar feeling. When the driver stopped in front of a redbrick building with a brass placard reading Holbrook and Wickliffe Law Offices, she realized why.

  She looked out, remembering the older man she’d seen at Broderick Shipping and Freight, and then again, entering this building. “This is where Sutton works?”

  Diddie nodded. “Holbrook and Wickliffe is the most prestigious law firm in town. Sutton was employed here exclusively . . . before Mr. Acklen passed away. Following that he moved to Belmont to help Mrs. Acklen manage things there.”

  “I’d have thought you would’ve known that,” Cara Netta said, “since you and Sutton are such . . . good friends.”

  Claire didn’t quite know how to respond to that. It was the first time Cara Netta had said anything directly to her about Sutton. Much less about her and Sutton. And the tone she’d used . . . as if she questioned whether they were only good friends.

  “I knew Sutton worked at a law firm here in town . . .” Claire glanced back at the building to see Sutton exiting the front door. The rain had let up, and the hope of sunlight was peeking through the clouds. “I simply didn’t realize he was connected with this law office.” And with that older gentleman she’d met.

  “Mrs. Acklen told Mother he’ll be a full partner one day.” Possessiveness colored Cara Netta’s voice. “One day not far off, I’m guessing.”

  Diddie’s soft smile held agreement. “Mr. Acklen thought very highly of him, as do the current partners in the firm.”

  Claire watched Sutton jog down the front steps, leather satchel in hand, and she felt a stir of desire for him. A lock of dark hair fell across his forehead, and even this early in the day, the shadow of tomorrow’s beard and a smile that could melt snow in winter gave him an almost roguish quality.

  He appeared every bit the future young law partner—and deserved a wife equal to that status. Claire glanced again at Cara Netta and the word thoroughbred came to mind. Sutton appreciated the finer things in life, and he deserved them too.

  At the last minute, Diddie deftly stood and switched to sit on Claire’s side of the carriage, scooting the boxes to one side and leaving the space beside Cara Netta available for Sutton. It was a calculated move but not meanly meant, Claire knew. It was simply what one did when knowing the heart of a beloved sister. Just as summer followed spring, and winter followed fall, it was understood that Sutton and Cara Netta belonged together. Anyone looking on would know that.

  Claire felt a telling tug of jealousy. So why was she having such a hard time accepting that fact?

  “Hello, ladies . . .” Sutton opened the door and started to climb in. “Miss Laurent!” He paused, and Claire would’ve sworn she saw a light come into his eyes. “I didn’t realize you would be shopping with the LeVerts today.”

  “Actually, I didn’t either.” Claire stole a look at Cara Netta, who was looking back at her—not in a happy way. “Mrs. Acklen asked me to come into town this morning on an errand, and the LeVerts were kind enough to let me share their carriage.”

  Sutton claimed the seat next to Cara Netta, and seconds later the carriage lurched forward. He raised one of the windows and Claire welcomed the breeze in the close quarters. With no prompting, Diddie and Cara Netta proceeded to give him a full accounting of everything they’d purchased that morning.

  The carriage stopped briefly at a thoroughfare, and Claire noticed passersby looking their way. No doubt, looking at the Clarence. Or at the handsome couple seated behind its glass partition.

  The carriage continued on, and Diddie and Cara Netta showered Sutton with questions about his day. Claire listened with interest as he responded. But when the conversation turned to the pie shop, she focused out the window at the steady stream of pedestrians.

  Businessmen hurrying to their next appointments, women clutching infants while Negro nannies followed, baskets and toddlers draped over their arms. Negro men swept front porches and hefted crates of dry goods into wagon beds, their muscular forearms rippling and glistening in the sun. Boys squared off on street corners, hawking newspapers and soggy sacks of boiled peanuts, while still others dogged the heels of suited men, begging to shine their shoes for a penny.

  And yet here she sat in a fine carriage because of her position as Mrs. Adelicia Acklen’s liaison, with new dresses enough to fill a wardrobe, and with her dreams of painting on the horizon. Life didn’t seem fair sometimes, all the sudden twists and turns it could take. Even when those turns were working in her favor. Especially then . . .

  Because she knew she wasn’t deserving.

  The carriage slowed again, and she leaned forward to catch a bit of breeze. A man crossing the street caught her eye. His clothes so stylish, the manner in which he carried himself so proper. His back was to her, but he paused and turned in her direction, and stilled.

  His face suddenly registered, and Claire felt herself falling forward, even as she pressed her body back against the cushioned seat.

  32

  Antoine DePaul! Heart in her throat, Claire told herself to breathe. She could hear Diddie talking beside her but couldn’t make out the words over the roar in her own ears. Sutton was focused on Cara Netta, who was focused on him, all while her own world spiraled downward.

  Please, God, please . . . Don’t let him approach the carriage. She gritted her teeth and willed the carriage to move. Just move! She didn’t dare look out the window again. She just kept praying, over and over—pulse racing—that Antoine hadn’t seen her.

  “Miss Laurent?”

  Claire turned to see Diddie staring. As were Sutton and Cara Netta.

  A keenness slipped into Sutton’s expression. “Are you unwell, Miss Laurent?”

  She heard the question but couldn’t respond. Because at any second, the life she’d found at Belmont would be over. Antoine DePaul would see to that with swift and vicious resolve.

  Just as Sutton leaned toward her, the carriage moved forward, and the viselike grip on Claire’s throat lessened its hold.

  She took a breath. “I’m . . . fine, Mr. Monroe. Thank you.” Beyond the window, storefronts and pedestrians swept blissfully by. “I simply . . . grew a little warm, I think.”

  “Miss Laurent,” Diddie said, casting her sister a look, “if you’d rather go on home, we can. I know
for a fact that Cordina was baking tea cakes earlier.”

  Claire could have hugged her. “I would prefer that, Miss LeVert. If it’s all right.”

  More than once on the way back to Belmont, Claire discreetly glanced behind them to make certain no one was following. The image of Antoine DePaul was locked in her mind, as was the reality of how swiftly her circumstances could change. She told herself that perhaps Antoine had only been looking at the Clarence. After all, his tastes ran toward the most expensive and extravagant. Belmont was the last place he would ever think of to look for her. She was safe there. She was certain of it.

  Now if she could only convince the tremor inside her.

  When they arrived at Belmont, Claire sought out Mrs. Acklen and conveyed her gratitude for the generous gift of the dresses. Then at dinner in the formal dining room, she tried to be attentive as Diddie and Cara Netta regaled everyone with the day’s events.

  She smiled on cue and commented when necessary, but inwardly she kept reliving the moment she’d seen Antoine—when he’d turned on the street and had gone so very still. She shuddered again just thinking about it.

  Mrs. Acklen rose from the head of the table. “Shall we move all this gaiety to the grand salon?” She tilted her head in Cara Netta’s direction. “After much persuasion, Miss LeVert has graciously agreed to play for us again.”

  Cara Netta dipped her head as though acquiescing to her hostess’s wishes.

  Claire stood, aware of Sutton looking her way. He silently mouthed, “Are you all right?” She smiled, but only a little, and nodded once, then looked away, wary of Cara Netta’s misinterpretation of the exchange should she notice.

  But that Sutton cared enough to inquire meant everything.

  Cara Netta played beautifully, as usual, her fingers flying over the ivories, even at the most difficult parts. Claire longed to paint like Cara Netta played. She wanted to create something that would resonate with people. That would make them stop and take notice of the portrait or landscape, a scene that would so capture their emotions they would pause and search the lower right-hand corner of the canvas and say, “Ah, yes . . . Claire Elise Laurent.”

  Claire studied the remnants of coffee in her china cup, thinking of her Versailles and wondering where the painting was. Even more, she wished she could see it again. See her mother standing there at the edge of the garden path, half hidden behind the lilacs. Maman . . . I miss you. So very much.

  “Do you have a request, Miss Laurent?”

  Claire blinked and raised her head. Mrs. Acklen was looking at her, as was everyone else. “I-I’m sorry, ma’am?”

  “Do you have a particular piece you’d like for Cara Netta to play?”

  “She’s taking requests,” Diddie added. “And we’re doing our best to stump her!”

  One composition immediately came to Claire’s mind, and the title was out of her mouth before she’d thought it through.

  “ ‘Moonlight Sonata’?” Cara Netta repeated, eyeing Claire over her shoulder. “By that I presume you mean the first movement of Beethoven’s Sonata in C-sharp Minor. A beautiful piece, to be sure. But . . . it’s hardly a challenge, Miss Laurent.”

  “No, I suppose not,” Claire said softly, feeling stares from around the room. “But perhaps the true test of a pianist’s ability lies not only in mastering the difficult, but the simpler as well.”

  Cara Netta chuckled. “And why would that be, Miss Laurent?”

  Claire weighed her response. “Simpler music can prove as complex, perhaps more so, because one must work harder to capture the intended emotion. After all, as Beethoven said, ‘Playing without passion—’ ”

  “ ‘Is inexcusable,’ ” Cara Netta finished for her, her expression inscrutable. Then with a look, she turned and began playing. Softly at first, then building, each arpeggio so sweet, the melancholic chords so perfectly succinct. And the tempo . . . masterful. Claire closed her eyes and let the music—and the memories the music summoned—wash over her. Tears slipped down her cheeks, and she did nothing to stop them. Cara Netta finished and the last chord hung, somber and still, sustained in the silence like a prayer.

  The final note faded and quiet blanketed the room.

  “That piece,” Mrs. Acklen finally said, “holds special meaning to you, Miss Laurent.”

  Claire nodded. “Yes, ma’am,” she whispered, wiping her cheeks. “It was my mother’s favorite.” Claire looked back at Cara Netta and with far less effort than she would have imagined in recent days, she formed a smile, one not the least bit false. “Thank you, Miss LeVert. That was exquisite.”

  For a long moment, Cara Netta held her gaze, then inclined her head. “My pleasure, Miss Laurent. Thank you for requesting it. It’s long been a favorite of mine as well. Simple though it is.”

  Seconds passed.

  Cara Netta cleared her throat, an obvious attempt to lighten the mood. “And now,” she said, addressing everyone, “it’s my turn to see if I can stump you!” She turned back to the piano and began playing again. A lighter tune with a livelier tempo.

  Claude jumped up from the settee, followed by his younger sister. “That’s easy!” he said. “ ‘Wait for the Wagon!’ Miss Cenas plays that one!” Claude and Pauline crowded around the piano bench along with Diddie. Even William sidled up to listen.

  Seizing the opportunity, Claire rose as well. The evening was young, and it was still light out. She needed a walk. Maybe she would take a pad of paper along and do some sketching. The idea held appeal.

  Madame LeVert bid everyone good evening, and Claire thanked Mrs. Acklen again for the dresses, aware of Sutton coming alongside her.

  “Your generosity is overwhelming, Mrs. Acklen. The dresses are the most beautiful I’ve ever owned, ma’am. I’m very grateful to you.”

  “And you’re most welcome, Miss Laurent.” Mrs. Acklen seemed genuinely pleased. “As my personal liaison, you are now an extension of me. Therefore, there are certain . . . expectations that accompany that role, as I’m sure you’re aware. Since William’s birthday party, when people see you, they also see me.”

  Claire hadn’t thought of herself in that light before. As an employee, yes. But as an extension of Adelicia Acklen? She was honored by the comment. And terrified.

  “When you were in town recently,” Mrs. Acklen continued, “and you were ordering painting supplies . . .”

  Claire fished back through her memory, wondering if she should be worried.

  “. . . Mrs. Worthington overheard your conversation with the clerk and commented to me and Madame LeVert at tea last week how very kind and polite you were to the young girl. Even when the girl had difficulty taking your order and then proceeded to charge you the wrong amount.”

  Claire hadn’t even known Mrs. Worthington was in the store, much less listening.

  “Not many people will correct a clerk’s miscalculation when the error is in the customer’s favor.”

  Claire studied the black-and-white-checked floor beneath her feet, uncomfortable with the integrity their comments assigned her. “It was the girl’s first day. She was flustered and nervous and—”

  “Yes, yes, I’m sure she was.” Mrs. Acklen tented her hands. “The point is, I appreciate your honesty and the decorum with which you conduct yourself, Miss Laurent. Your behavior, your decisions, your slightest comment all reflect greatly upon me. Upon the whole of Belmont.”

  Claire could barely manage a nod as the far-reaching implications of Mrs. Acklen’s words took hold. Especially in light of what had nearly happened that afternoon. Needing that walk now just to calm her nerves, she bid everyone good night, excused herself, and headed to her room to retrieve her shawl.

  Footsteps sounded in the hallway behind her.

  “Claire?”

  She turned at Sutton’s voice, surprised he’d followed. But even more surprised by the somber set of his features.

  His steps slowed as he came toward her. “Be careful, Miss Laurent. You’re treading on very dang
erous ground here.”

  Nerves cording tighter, Claire tried to think of something to say, a question to ask that would give her some idea of what he—

  A slow smile tipped one side of his mouth. “Because I don’t think I’ve ever seen Adelicia Acklen so pleased with anyone before. Which means you’re setting the bar awfully high for the rest of us.”

  Wanting to smack him and hug him at the same time, Claire settled for replenishing the air in her lungs. “Well, I’m pleased that she’s pleased.”

  “She informed me she’ll be hosting a ball in the spring.” His brow rose. “I’m assuming she’s discussed that with you?”

  She nodded. “We’ve been discussing May of next year, maybe even June. So that gives me at least seven months. Plenty of time to prepare, which I’ll need. She’s thinking of inviting as many as five hundred people!”

  He smiled. “Her guest lists can be extensive.”

  The piano music coming from the grand salon faded, and they both turned and looked down the hallway. The music started again and they turned back to each other. Claire wondered if he was thinking the same thing she was—that it was safe to keep talking as long as Cara Netta was playing. As observant as he was, surely he’d noticed her and Cara Netta’s truncated exchanges.

  “What happened this afternoon, Claire? In town . . .”

  His question caught her off guard. But only a little. She was growing more accustomed to his direct nature and also—much to her discomfort—to creatively circumventing his questions. “I think perhaps it was a combination of things. Trying on dress after dress, then the warmth of the carriage . . .”

  “You’re sure? Because you seemed . . . flustered.”

  “For I am a man of unclean lips . . .” Claire glanced to the side. Telling him about Antoine DePaul was out of the question. That would be like lying down in front of an oncoming train. Yet how could she answer him and still be honest? And then it came. How often had she witnessed Mrs. Acklen use the tactic . . . “You’re right, Sutton. I was flustered about something. At the time.” She met his gaze full on. “But I’m fine now. Thank you for asking.”