A Lasting Impression

by Tamera Alexander

  “I want you to take this first jump”—he pointed to the shortest stack of logs, barely a foot high—“at an easy canter. Head out over there, like I showed you, and then come around. And remember to—”

  “I know, Sutton. I was listening.” With a tiny flick of the reins, she prompted Truxton to sidestep, then laughed. “He’s so smart!”

  Sutton gripped the reins. “If you want me to teach you, Claire, then you’re going to have to listen.”

  She looked down, the tiniest smirk on her face. “Yes, sir . . . Corporal.”

  Sutton wanted to yank her down and . . . He sighed. And do what, he didn’t know. He just couldn’t erase the image of her being thrown. He released the reins. “I simply don’t want you to get hurt again.”

  “I know,” she said softly. “I’ll be careful. Now”—she smiled, the morning sun at her back setting her hair to shining—“what else did you want to tell me?”

  “Just before you jump, make sure you give him as much rein as possible. Grab his mane or the neck strap if you need to. And keep your shoulders open. Don’t lean down his neck.” He looked back. “And never rein in, Claire. If you do, he’ll stop short and you’ll go flying. That’s what happened with Athena.”

  She nodded, her expression attentive.

  “And this may sound simple”—he smiled in hopes of lightening the mood—“but remember to breathe. Always look ahead. Never look down or to the side. That ruins your balance. Fix your gaze on something past the jump, not on it. Push your heels in hard too, just before he takes off. You’ll feel the timing, I know you will.” He ran a hand over Truxton’s sinewy withers, willing his trusted mount to carry this lady well.

  “Is there anything else?” Claire tossed him a flirty little gaze.

  “Yes, ma’am, there is.” He smacked Truxton solidly on the rump. “Enjoy the ride!”

  With a grin, Claire flicked the reins and Truxton took off. Sutton watched as she circled wide just as he’d told her.

  On Sunday following church, he’d overheard a group of ladies talking about “Miss Laurent.” Claire was becoming quite the popular topic of discussion among the social elite. At least half a dozen women among Adelicia’s peers had now hired their own personal liaisons. And at least that many men—all Adelicia’s age, or older—had made discreet inquiries about Claire to Adelicia, having seen Claire in church or “having heard about her through various sources.”

  And whether he liked it or not—and he most certainly did not—the upcoming reception for Madame LeVert would be an unofficial coming out, as it were, for Claire. Her first introduction to Nashville’s society. And though he knew she would shy away from the attention, if aware of it, he also had no doubt that she would shine.

  Claire made the turn and leaned slightly forward, lining up with the jump, then urged Truxton to a canter.

  “Keep your heels down,” he whispered, feeling himself tense. Eyes forward, straight ahead . . . One of the hardest things about jumping was learning the horse’s rhythm. Sometimes the jump came up faster than you thought.

  Twelve feet away, eight . . .

  Good girl . . .

  Claire’s hand disappeared into the mane, her body in perfect line.

  Now give him the reins—

  The second Sutton thought it, the reins went slack in Claire’s hand, just as he’d taught her, and she and Truxton flew over the jump, clearing its height by a good two feet. Sutton heard Claire’s laughter from where he stood.

  “I did it!” She squealed as she rode up, her eyes sparkling.

  He laughed. “Yes, you did. I’m so proud of you. You did everything perfectly.” The sparkle in her eyes deepened, and it took him a few seconds to realize she was tearing up. “Claire . . .” He reached up and took her hand. “Is something wrong?”

  “No . . . nothing’s wrong. Everything’s”—her fingers tightened around his—“very right.” She exhaled a quick breath, her exuberance reviving. “May I try it again?”

  “Will I be able to stop you?”

  Her cloud of dust told him no.

  Following dinner two evenings later, Sutton knocked on the door of the winter parlor. “Mrs. Acklen?”

  “Please come in.”

  Seeing her seated on one of the two settees pulled him back to the day he’d entered the room to find her interviewing Claire. The memory brought a smile, as did thinking of what Claire had waiting for Mrs. Acklen in the entrance hall. “May I join you for a moment, ma’am?”

  “Please do, Mr. Monroe.” Adelicia laid aside the book she’d been reading. “I’ve been . . . reflecting.”

  He took a seat on the settee opposite her. “On?”

  “Life, Mr. Monroe, and how it all fits together. And on why things happen the way they do. Or don’t.”

  Sutton looked over at her, wondering if she’d heard about the review board’s decision. Doubtful, seeing as he’d only discussed it with Bartholomew Holbrook, who had received the board’s written notification yesterday. Sutton knew the senior attorney wouldn’t reveal its contents until he gave the go-ahead.

  He leaned back, trying to appear comfortable. “As soon as you piece it all together, Mrs. Acklen, would you please explain it to me?”

  Her laughter was immediate. “You, and everyone else in the world.”

  He smiled, satisfied that she didn’t know, yet knowing he needed to tell her. Soon. His losing his family’s land wouldn’t change her opinion of him or endanger his position at Belmont, however temporary that position may be should she decide to marry again. He also wasn’t concerned about her offering him the money to start a thoroughbred farm. In the past two years, he’d helped Adelicia develop a method of weeding out which investments were sound and which were not. And according to his own criteria, his would definitely fall in the “were not” category.

  Besides, he wanted, needed, to achieve his dream on his own.

  The crackle of the fire in the hearth filled the silence. West-facing windows invited the last vestiges of a waning November sun peering around the corners of the art gallery. Fall had been ushered in, and Christmas and the New Year would arrive in a breath.

  He rose. “Would you do me the honor, Mrs. Acklen, of accompanying me into the entrance hall?”

  Her eyes narrowed, but she rose and slipped her hand into the crook of his arm.

  Sutton paused in the grand salon, just before they reached the staircase. “The statue you’ve been waiting for arrived two days ago.”

  Question marked her expression. “It fared the journey well, I hope?”

  “It did, ma’am.” He glanced toward the entrance hall. “Miss Laurent was with me when I opened it.” He covered Adelicia’s hand on his arm. “Her response at first seeing it,” he whispered, remembering, “was identical to your own.”

  Adelicia briefly closed her eyes, as though she were back in the sculptor’s studio, halfway around the world. “Seeing that statue for the first time is a moment I’ll never forget, Mr. Monroe. It felt as though God himself had carved it especially for me. Like a gift . . .” She sighed. “A tender reminder that He’s holding my precious children . . . until I can hold them again too.”

  Sutton smiled, grateful Claire had insisted they wait until after dinner, when the house was quiet and the children were upstairs for the night. He led Adelicia into the entrance hall, where Claire stood waiting, and though Claire had shared with him what she intended to do, seeing her handiwork had a powerful effect.

  The moment was perfect.

  Gas flames flickered overhead in the bronze chandelier, and fading daylight shone through the ruby-red Venetian glass of the front door and side windows to cast the room in a rosy hue. Nestled beneath the portrait of Adelicia and Emma, the Sleeping Children lay perched on a pedestal artfully draped in forest-green velvet, the white marble almost glowing in the soft light.

  “Oh . . .” With a barely audible cry, Adelicia released his arm and moved closer. “It’s more beautiful than I remembered.” She
ran a hand over the marble blanket covering the children. “I shall go to them, but they shall not return to me,” she whispered, her voice fragile.

  Sutton recognized the Scripture she paraphrased—words King David had uttered upon the loss of his own son, and he admired how Adelicia had made the verse her own.

  Adelicia looked over. “Thank you, Mr. Monroe. The placement, the display . . . I couldn’t have done better my—”

  Sutton shook his head. “It was all Miss Laurent’s doing, ma’am. Not mine. She gave Eli the measurements for the stand and made the table skirt herself.”

  Adelicia turned to Claire, her tears falling freely, just as Claire’s were. “With all my heart, Miss Laurent . . . thank you. As long as I am at Belmont, I shall never move it from this place.”

  39

  Claire had finished adding the column in the ledger book when a knock sounded on the library door. She quickly made note of the final tally, not at all confident in the number. “Come in . . .”

  “Good afternoon, Miss Laurent.”

  Recognizing Eli’s voice, she glanced up, and a shooting pain burned the back of her neck. It took her a moment to focus. Too many hours spent poring over figures and sums, along with late nights of planning with Mrs. Acklen, working on Madame LeVert’s memory book, arranging for not only a brass ensemble, but an orchestra as well, along with omnibuses to transport guests to and from the reception, and painting party favors—one hundred fourteen Belmont bombonnières for Mrs. Acklen’s most honored guests, filled with assorted sugar candies this time—along with myriad other tasks on the ever-growing list.

  Recent days were a blur, and she had no idea how she would get everything done in time.

  Rubbing her neck, Claire lifted her gaze. “Good afternoon, Mr. Eli.”

  He held up a cotton sack. “More responses for the reception came in the mail, ma’am.”

  “Thank you.” She gestured to a table in the corner. “Would you set them over there, please?” Five weeks ago, she’d addressed and mailed five hundred seven invitations, the majority to couples. As of yesterday, the twenty-ninth of November, eight hundred forty-six guests had sent acceptances.

  Eyeing the sack in Eli’s hand, she somehow knew that not a single one of those envelopes would contain a declination. Which pleased her, for Mrs. Acklen. But it puzzled her too.

  Without exception, the women who had declined Mrs. Acklen’s invitation to tea earlier in the month had swiftly accepted the invitation to the LeVert reception. And Claire wondered why they’d said no then but yes now. It seemed too much of a coincidence that their calendars would have all been full that day. Could it be that Madame LeVert’s presence was the swaying factor? And if that were true, did Mrs. Acklen realize it?

  Claire knew that if the answer to the first question was yes, the answer to the second had to be as well. Because Adelicia Acklen was as intelligent and discerning an individual as she’d ever met. Yet to think that Mrs. Acklen was intentionally hosting this reception for Madame LeVert only to ingratiate herself to her peers seemed beneath the woman. Furthermore, it felt . . . self-serving.

  No sooner came that thought than Claire felt as though she were looking into a mirror, and she didn’t like what she saw. But her situation was different—at least that’s what she told herself—yet she still didn’t like the comparisons her conscience was drawing.

  “Excuse me, Miss Laurent, I don’t mean to take you from your work”—Eli laid a copy of the Banner on the desk and pointed—“but Mrs. Acklen’s party got another mention today, ma’am.”

  Welcoming the interruption, Claire picked up the paper. “Thank you, Eli.” An article had appeared in this same newspaper four weeks earlier announcing the “By Invitation Only” event being coordinated by “Mrs. Acklen’s personal liaison.” At first, Claire had been a little miffed that the newspaper hadn’t included her by name—she would have enjoyed seeing her name in print.

  Then thoughts of Antoine swiftly resurfaced, and she was grateful for the journalist’s oversight.

  Eli paused by the desk. “Is there anything I can get you, Miss Laurent?”

  Claire glanced at the ledger book, then massaged her forehead, sighing. “Another pair of eyes to check these numbers, perhaps?” As soon as the words were out, she wished she could recall them. Eli was well spoken and could read and write, which was uncommon enough for a Negro, illegal as it was, or had been. But she had no idea about the extent of his education. And the thought of offending the dear man made her want to—

  “I’d be obliged to work the sums for you, if you’d like, Miss Laurent.” Claire nudged the ledger book toward him, and in a fraction of the time it had taken her to add the numbers, Eli reached for the pencil and made a correction. “You can check me, ma’am, but I’m fairly sure this is right.”

  Claire counted the column again, aware of her lips moving as she did and of the slow ticktock-ticktock of the clock on the mantel. She finally peered up. “Thank you, Eli. And you did it so quickly.”

  He smiled and offered a bow.

  “Have you always been gifted with numbers?”

  He shrugged. “I guess you could say that. It comes naturally to me.”

  She looked at the columns and rows of figures. “I wish it came naturally to me.”

  “I’d be happy to work those sums for you later, Miss Laurent. If you wish.”

  Claire lifted her head. “Truly? You wouldn’t mind?”

  A smile spread across his face. “No, ma’am. I wouldn’t mind at all. I used to keep the office records for Mr. Franklin over in Gallatin. But that was a long time ago.”

  “Mr. Franklin,” Claire said. “Mrs. Acklen’s first husband?”

  Eli nodded.

  “I didn’t realize you’d been with Mrs. Acklen that long.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Her first husband bought me before they were married.”

  Bought me . . . The very term made her cringe.

  “Miss Laurent?”

  Claire turned to see Sutton in the doorway. “Mr. Monroe, come in.” She stood and smoothed a hand over her skirt.

  “Am I interrupting something?”

  “Of course not. Eli and I were just talking.”

  “If you’ll excuse me, ma’am,” Eli said, “I think I’ll take myself on downstairs and see if Cordina needs my help.”

  “Yes, that’s fine. And thank you, Eli, for volunteering to work these sums for me. I appreciate your help.”

  “Work these sums?” Sutton asked.

  Eli stopped in his tracks.

  “Yes.” Claire gestured, detecting censure in Sutton’s brief question. “Eli volunteered to help me with my expense records for the reception. I’m not sure if you’re aware, Mr. Monroe, but Eli once kept the office records for the late Mr. Franklin.”

  Sutton looked at Eli, whose gaze was considerably lowered. “I didn’t realize you performed that task for Mr. Franklin, Eli.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Monroe.” He peered up. “For the better part of eight years, sir.”

  Surprise heightened Sutton’s expression, followed by a flicker of admiration. Eli must have glimpsed it too, because the man’s chin lifted ever so slightly.

  Sutton looked at Claire as though seeking to explain. “I audited the Gallatin records when I first came to work for Mrs. Acklen. Those records . . .” The words seemed to stick in his throat. “Those records were the best organized and most accurate I’ve ever seen.”

  Eli’s chin raised another good inch. “Thank you, Mr. Monroe. I appreciate that, sir.”

  A moment passed before Sutton looked at the man beside him, and finally he answered. “You’re welcome, Eli.”

  With a dip of his head, Eli left, and Sutton closed the door behind him. Hand on the door latch, Sutton stared at her.

  “What is it?” Claire asked.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten your next appointment.”

  She glanced at the clock, scanning her memory, then shook her head. “I’m sorry but�
�”

  He walked to the desk, picked up the leather portfolio Mrs. Acklen had given her at Thanksgiving, and opened it. “November thirtieth.” He peered over the book as if the date should have special meaning.

  “I know what day it is, Sutton. But I—”

  “At twelve thirty sharp.”

  She knew full well there was nothing written on her calendar for twelve thirty today. Her next appointment was at half past one with a company specializing in decorative lanterns and other illumination devices for gardens. But still, she played along. “And what, pray tell, does this twelve-thirty appointment involve?”

  “Lunch, Miss Laurent.” He snapped the portfolio shut. “With me.”

  Claire walked with him outside to the gazebo nearest the house, the one he’d “fallen” out of. Inside was a patchwork quilt, spread on the floor, and a basket set off to one side. Filled with picnic food, she guessed by the loaf of fresh bread peeking out. What she noticed next warmed her heart. Dotting the blanket were red and orangey-yellow maple leaves.

  “You haven’t had much time to paint,” he said. “Not like you’ve wanted to. So I thought I’d bring some remnants of fall color to you. I caught a glimpse of the paintings in your room.” He got a shy look about him. “I came looking for you the other day, but you weren’t there and your door was open. The one of the hillside all ablaze is especially beautiful.”

  Claire shook her head, knowing it was far from her best work. “Thank you, Sutton, but . . . it didn’t turn out as I’d hoped.”

  The painting of the hillside lacked something. As did the ones of the rose garden and the statues she’d painted in the garden. Maybe it had been the flat afternoon light—early morning was better, but her mornings had all been scheduled. Maybe it was her texturing or color choice. She wasn’t sure. She only knew she wasn’t pleased. With any of them. And none of them would garner serious interest at the auction, much less make a name for her.