“Joseph Mozier, an American. And as he explained to me,” Mrs. Acklen continued, “the angel is standing at the gates of Paradise. In her right hand she holds the tears of the penitent sinner—”
Claire looked closer at the angel’s right hand resting at her side, palm extended outward. And true to Mrs. Acklen’s word, three tears lay tucked in the heart of the angel’s palm.
“—and in her left hand, she holds one of the bowls found on the shore of the lake from which the redeemed penitent drinks.”
The angel cradled the bowl close to her heart. “Beautiful,” Claire whispered, marveling at the emotion the sculpture evoked. She’d never even heard of Joseph Mozier, and yet, he had created this.
“Yes . . . she is that.” Mrs. Acklen’s eyes were moist with emotion. “I especially liked the inscription on the back of the pedestal.”
Claire bent to read it. “ ‘Joy, joy forever, my task is done. The gates are passed, and heaven is won.’ ”
“Isn’t that an encouraging thought?” Mrs. Acklen smoothed a hand over the tears in the angel’s palm. “No more sadness or loss, only joy.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Claire whispered. And while she did find that thought lovely, she found her focus centered on the bowl the angel held. “One of the bowls found on the shore of the lake from which the redeemed penitent drinks . . .”
In her morning readings, she’d come across a passage about a woman who was thirsty and who was coming to draw water from a well. Jesus had been resting there, and He told the woman that He could give her living water. Claire swallowed, wondering if the water Jesus had offered the woman back then was the same water represented in the angel’s cup.
And if it was, how she could get some.
The next night, Claire climbed into bed, hardly believing the day of the reception had almost arrived. In less than twenty-four hours “the grandest party Nashville has ever seen”—according to the newspaper’s account—would be under way, and all the weeks of preparation and work would come to fruition.
It wasn’t late, only a little past nine, but everyone had retired early in anticipation of the party. Shivering between the cool sheets, Claire pulled the covers up to her chin, her eyes so heavy she could barely keep them open.
A knock sounded on the door.
Chilled in the bed but knowing she’d be even more so out of it, she debated, then called out, “Yes?”
“It’s Mrs. Acklen. May I have a word with you, Miss Laurent?”
Claire shot out of bed. A fire burned low in the hearth, but the wooden floor, absent of rugs except for a thin one by the fireplace, held the December chill. Goose bumps rose on her arms as she grabbed her coat and draped it around her shoulders.
She opened the door to see Mrs. Acklen dressed in her wrapper, standing off to the side, oil lamp in hand.
“I’m sorry, Miss Laurent. Were you already in bed?”
“No. I mean . . . yes, ma’am, I was. But I wasn’t asleep.”
“May I come in, please?”
“Of course.” Claire opened the door wider. “Is something wrong, ma’am?” Only then did she see the dress bag draped over Mrs. Acklen’s arm.
Mrs. Acklen entered and looked about. She scrunched her shoulders. “It’s chilly in here, Miss Laurent. Why didn’t you say something? See that rugs are ordered and installed by the end of the week.”
Claire started to say that wasn’t necessary, then realized she could hardly feel her toes. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.”
“What do you plan to wear to the reception, Miss Laurent?”
The question was unexpected. Claire crossed to the small wardrobe and withdrew one of her new dresses. A dark gray one that Sutton had complimented her on more than once. “I brushed it earlier this evening and shined my boots, so I’m all ready.” She presented the dress for inspection, knowing what a stickler Mrs. Acklen was for being well groomed.
“While that’s very nice, Miss Laurent, I think I have something that might suit you—and the event—a little better. But first . . .” Mrs. Acklen draped the dress bag across the bed. “I want to remind you that I’m a stickler for adhering to propriety. You know that.”
Claire nodded.
“However, there are times in life when I believe that conforming to society’s expectations can be . . . confining. Even suffocating. And unnecessary.”
Though tempted to nod, Claire wasn’t sure what she would be agreeing to, so she raised her eyebrows instead and tilted her head slightly. A gesture she’d learned from Mrs. Acklen. One indicating attentiveness without committing to agreement.
Mrs. Acklen chuckled. “You have mastered that response quite well, Miss Laurent.” She ran a finger along the edge of the dress bag. “Allow me to speak in plainer terms. I’ve spent the greater part of my life dressed in black. And as I face my latter years, I’ve begun to wonder if the length of time associated with this tradition is ill-conceived. When I’m gone, do I want Pauline to be draped in the memory of my passing for a full year? Or two? Do I want her to continually focus on the fact that I’m no longer with her? Or would I prefer for her to mourn me, yes, but then to move on with her life and live—and dress—in such a way that would celebrate my eternal inheritance?”
Claire sensed the question was rhetorical. But if she’d had to give answer, she would have easily chosen the latter.
“By no means, Miss Laurent, are you under obligation to wear this dress to the reception. But I think it would be stunning on you.” She withdrew the garment from the bag. “And I sincerely hope you will.”
42
Rest assured, Mr. Monroe, we’ll make certain everything is kept safe. The guests won’t even know we’re here.”
“Thank you, Matthews.” Sutton gripped the man’s hand and took a last look around the art gallery. All doors were locked except for the main entrance, through which a steady tide of reception guests were already coming and going. A recent theft from a home in town, and during a social gathering no less, prompted Sutton to be more vigilant than usual. “I’ll check back with you later this evening.”
“Very good, sir.”
Sutton stepped out into the brisk December evening and felt as though he’d walked into a fairy-tale world. Belmont was awash in a cascade of twinkling lights, and the chilly night air thrummed with anticipation. He’d been at the estate while the luminary company had installed hundreds of oil lanterns and candlelit contraptions all across the grounds—hanging them throughout the gardens, over trellises, and lining the pathways, starting at the gated entrance to Belmont and leading all the way to the front step—but the sight of them lit was overwhelming.
It was nothing short of magical. Otherworldly.
He made his way toward the mansion, dodging the carriages and omnibuses as they deposited guests along the front circular drive. Nashville’s finest in all their finery. He was careful where he stepped. The animals were leaving deposits faster than Zeke and the other stable hands could collect them.
Huge cast-iron sugar kettles dotted the grounds, nestling fires to coddle guests in warmth while they strolled the garden paths or awaited entrance into the main house. Or, later, to warm them when they traded the crowded rooms and hallways of the mansion for a moment of cool night air. He took it all in. Claire Laurent was brilliant. And Adelicia Acklen would be the talk of the town for months—if not years—to come. Whatever walls she’d erected between her and her peers in the past, tonight would go far in tearing them down.
Just as Claire had instructed, every window in the main house was awash in candlelight, and the stately harmonies of a brass ensemble—the lead trumpet’s trills clear and strong, not missing a beat—drifted toward him.
He’d last seen her a couple of hours ago, relatively calm and making certain everything was carried out to the last detail. When she’d excused herself to get ready, she’d looked as excited as Adelicia and the LeVerts, who had been holed up in the second-floor bedrooms of the mansion all afternoon.
He’d seen Cara Netta briefly last night at dinner, after their arrival, and relations between the two of them had been strained. Even Madame LeVert and Diddie had acted a little cool toward him. He understood, but he still held that he’d made the right decision.
For everyone.
Seeing Claire’s handiwork at every turn, he thought again of his conversation with her in the library, and of what her father had said to her. He had trouble believing it. He believed her. His difficulty came in understanding how a father could say such a thing to his daughter. And judging from the pain in Claire’s eyes, he would wager that Gustave Laurent’s words had hurt her more often than not.
In light of that discovery, he’d decided not to tell her about the report on her background. All of his questions had been answered, and his concerns—like Mrs. Acklen’s—were laid to rest.
“Monroe!”
Sutton turned and spotted Mr. Holbrook strolling up the drive with his wife, Mildred, on his arm. “Good evening, sir, Mrs. Holbrook.” He fell into step beside them.
Mildred’s eyes twinkled in the golden glow of lantern light. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful in all my life. Mrs. Acklen has truly outdone herself this time. None of us will ever dare throw a party in Nashville again!”
Sutton felt a swell of pride. “Mrs. Acklen’s personal liaison, Miss Claire Laurent, arranged everything this evening, down to the last detail. I’ll be sure to pass along your compliments to her, Mrs. Holbrook.”
“I’d appreciate a personal introduction to this Miss Laurent, if that’s possible. To tell her myself.”
Sutton nodded. “I believe I can arrange that.”
“Any word from your dear mother recently?” Holbrook asked.
“I received a letter two days ago.” Sutton heard his name across the way and nodded a greeting to arriving guests. “She’s doing well. And, at least for now”—he gave them a look, knowing they understood his mother’s eccentric nature—“she says she’s contented there with her sister and won’t contemplate a visit to Nashville until next fall.” To his immense relief.
The entrance to the mansion was crowded, but they eventually made their way inside, and as the music from the brass ensemble on the front lawn fell away, the sweet strains of the stringed orchestra in the grand salon reached out to greet them.
Cinnamon sachets and pillows adorned the tables and chairs, lending a homey scent. Potted camellias and confectionary centerpieces accented the tables, and poinsettias added splashes of color to every room.
Guests clustered around Ruth Gleaning, their murmurs and raised eyebrows abounding. Mr. and Mrs. Holbrook stopped to admire the Sleeping Children, but Sutton continued on. He caught a glimpse of Adelicia and Mrs. LeVert on a raised dais on one end of the grand salon, where they greeted guests. Beside them, Diddie and Cara Netta did likewise. Adelicia looked radiant in the dress she’d worn when presented at Napoleon’s court.
The women looked like royalty, which, in Nashville society, he guessed they almost were. They were engulfed by guests, and he was pleased to notice the number of men already pressing for Cara Netta’s attention.
Pausing, he peered over the crowd, searching for Claire. Then like the parting of the Red Sea, the crush of guests dispersed into various other rooms, emptying the hallway. And there she stood—
At the entry to the grand salon, dressed in an opalescent blue dress, looking back at him over her shoulder. Her bare shoulder.
Sutton’s breath seeped from his lungs. For as long as he lived—and at the moment he prayed that would be a very, very long time—he would never forget how beautiful she looked tonight. And that inviting look on her face . . . Playful, enticing, as if she had a secret she shouldn’t tell, but would—with coaxing—to him.
In six long strides, he was beside her, wishing he could nuzzle the soft column of her neck or the creamy curves of her shoulders. As it was, he lifted her hand to his mouth. “You . . . are . . . radiant,” he whispered, and bestowed a soft kiss.
A blush crept into her cheeks. “And you . . . are right on time.” She lowered her voice. “I’m scared to death. I don’t know anyone in this room.”
“Sure you do. You know me.”
She tilted her head to one side and smiled, but he sensed her nervousness. He offered his arm and she accepted, moving to stand closer beside him.
He made a show of looking at her. “That dress is stunning on you.”
She swayed from side to side, causing the beaded tassels on her bodice and sleeves to dance. “Isn’t it pretty? It was a gift from Mrs. Acklen last night.”
Sutton did his best not to stare where he shouldn’t. He’d seen a woman’s bare shoulders before. The grand salon was full of them. But he’d never seen Claire’s. Not with her being in mourning. It surprised him a little that Adelicia would encourage her to wear such a dress. Then again, he doubted anyone outside this household knew about her parents’ deaths, and no one inside would begrudge her this night, and this dress. Not after all she’d done since coming to Belmont.
He leaned closer and caught a whiff of lilac in her hair. She’d gathered up her curls for the most part, but some hung loose, framing her face and falling down her back. The effect was intoxicating.
“Mr. Monroe?”
He turned. “Mrs. Holbrook . . .” He quickly made introductions between her and Claire, wondering where her husband had drifted off to. He wanted to introduce him to Claire as well.
Claire curtsied. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Holbrook.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Miss Laurent. When Mr. Monroe told us you were responsible for all of this, I knew I needed to meet you. I’m in charge of the Nashville Women’s League, and we’re having our annual spring tea this coming—”
“Mrs. Holbrook.” Sutton shook his head, halfway curbing a grin. “How often have you reprimanded your husband and me for conducting business at these events? And here you go—”
“I was simply making a connection, Mr. Monroe.” Mrs. Holbrook batted her eyes. “So just you never mind and let us ladies talk for a minute. Go find my husband and keep him out of mischief.”
“I’ll do that, ma’am. But first, may I have a private word with Miss Laurent?” At her consenting nod, he drew Claire off to the side. “Would you give me the honor of saving the first dance for me, mademoiselle?”
“Oh . . .” Claire pouted. “I’m sorry, monsieur.” Then she smiled. “I saved you the first two.”
This woman . . . “Do you know the meaning of the word throttle, Claire?”
“I do. It’s what I’d like to do to you nearly every other day, Willister.”
Sutton delivered her back to Mrs. Holbrook and walked away with a grin.
Cup of cider in hand, Sutton found Bartholomew Holbrook occupying a prime corner in the grand salon—a raised stair that provided a perfect view of the dance floor. The man had a glass of champagne in one hand and two of Cordina’s tea cakes in the other. Lemon, from the looks of them.
Mr. Holbrook sipped the champagne, his attention on the guests. “You haven’t told Mrs. Acklen yet, have you?” His deep voice was a whisper.
“No, I haven’t.” Sutton didn’t have to ask what he meant, and he, too, kept his focus on the room, mindful of who was standing within earshot.
Holbrook lifted his glass in silent greeting to a gentleman walking by. “The review board’s decision will be public record soon, Mr. Monroe. Possibly as early as next week. And as we both know, news travels fast.”
“I’ll tell her soon. I didn’t want anything to spoil this evening for her.” Or for Claire, he thought, dreading having to tell her the news even more than telling Adelicia. He hoped it wouldn’t make him appear lesser in her eyes, as it did in his own.
Mr. Holbrook looked over at him. “Forgive my wife for wading into the pool of gossip, and me for splashing in her puddles, but she told me she learned that you and Miss Henrietta Caroline LeVert have dissolved your understanding.”
; Sutton nodded, not surprised that word had spread. “It was for the best.”
“Would that acknowledgment be shared by both parties?”
Coming from anyone else, the question would have seemed like prying. But this man was as close to a father as Sutton had. “Yes, sir. Or it will be, given time.”
Holbrook merely nodded, swirling the champagne in his glass. “Any news on the cotton fiasco?”
Sutton took a sip of the cider, tasting something a little stronger than spice in the brew. “We should know something by March. I’m traveling to New Orleans at the first of the year to check on things.”
“If you need assistance, I’m available. I always enjoy a warm beignet.” With a grin, Holbrook bit into a tea cake.
Sutton smiled and looked about for Claire. He spotted her across the room, and his senses heightened. So much for her being nervous about not knowing anyone. Five—no, make that six—men swarmed around her, their infatuated grins better suited to a schoolyard than a grand salon. Claire said something, and all the men laughed. She shook her head at one of them in particular, then glanced in Sutton’s direction, and Sutton gathered the man had asked for either her first—or second—dance.
He didn’t want to admit it, but he was jealous. All but one of the men was old enough to be her father, yet he knew that didn’t matter in the least. Two of them were widowers. And all of them, without exception, were wealthy.
He spotted Lucius Polk speaking with Adelicia, and though he hadn’t planned on broaching this subject with Holbrook tonight, he decided the timing was right. Because should Adelicia marry again, his managerial position at Belmont would come to a swift end. “Sir, a while back you mentioned you were fairly certain you could make a position for me at the law offices. Do you think that opportunity might still be available . . . sometime in the near future?”
A Lasting Impression Page 37