Mrs. Holbrook rejoined them, coat buttoned up and with her husband’s black hat in hand. “I’m ready to go, dear, if you are.”
Mr. Holbrook donned his hat. “Perhaps we’ll see one another again soon, Miss Laurent.” He turned to follow his wife, then looked back and gave her a grandfatherly wink. “Say, perhaps, if we both have something to ship.”
Claire’s heart dropped to her stomach. She laughed and forced a smile as the couple left, but any question in her mind about the man remembering—or about the sharpness of his mind—vanished.
She made her way toward the entrance hall, bidding guests good night. Through the open doorway into the central parlor, she spotted Sutton, and moved slightly to the left so she could see whom he was speaking with.
Mr. Stanton.
Sutton glanced in her direction, and Claire quickly looked away. But she looked back again in time to see the two men shaking hands. Sutton returned to her side, but something was different about him.
“You look as if you’re planning your escape,” he whispered.
“And you look as if you’re upset about something.”
He shook his head. “I’m fine.”
Across the salon, Cara Netta was surrounded by a host of admirers, as she’d been all evening, and she didn’t look the least bit tired. Spotting Mrs. Acklen, Claire nudged Sutton. “Who is that gentleman with Mrs. Acklen? She danced at least three times with him this evening.”
He looked over. “That’s Dr. William Cheatham. He and Adelicia have been acquaintances for years. He’s a physician in town . . . and a widower. Much like your Mr. Stanton.”
Claire caught the off note in his tone. “My Mr. Stanton? You’re quite the humorist, Willister.” Her use of his first name didn’t earn her the smile it usually did.
“You shouldn’t be surprised at the attention, Claire. You’re a vivacious, beautiful young woman. Men would have to be blind not to notice.”
She knew he meant it as a compliment, but it didn’t sound like one.
As dawn splashed pink across the eastern horizon, the remaining guests climbed into carriages and omnibuses, and Claire could hardly wait to fall into bed.
Sutton gestured. “I believe one—or both—of us is being summoned to the helm.”
She turned to see Mrs. Acklen making her way toward them.
“I’m glad to find you together.” Mrs. Acklen motioned them to a private corner. “Madame LeVert and I have been speaking, and I have the most wonderful news. It simply won’t wait!”
Claire felt a dread. If her wonderful news involved planning another reception anytime soon . . .
“I’ve decided to take us all to New Orleans!” Mrs. Acklen clasped her hands at her bodice. “The entire family. It will be the first time we’ve all been there since before the war. And I desire for you to come too, of course, Miss Laurent. We’ll have much work to do there. The LeVerts are leaving Belmont day after tomorrow, but Octavia informs me that they would love nothing more than to join us while we’re there. We’ll stay at the St. Charles Hotel and enjoy the delights of the city before retiring to the plantation for a few weeks. Does that not sound divine?”
Claire actually thought she might cry. Right there. In front of Sutton, the orchestra members packing up their instruments, and the servants gathering soiled dishes. Yet she knew she couldn’t. Feeling the keen awareness of Mrs. Acklen’s watchful gaze, she knew she’d best choose her next words with care.
44
Claire worked to keep the disappointment from her voice. “When do you think we would leave, Mrs. Acklen? Not straightaway, I hope.”
“No, no, Miss Laurent. Not straightaway. We’ll enjoy a quiet Christmas at Belmont before we leave. And we’ll be back no later than mid-March.”
Claire could feel the blood pooling in her feet. “But . . . that’s a long time.”
Mrs. Acklen’s smile drained of pleasure. “New Orleans was your home, Miss Laurent. The Café du Monde, the French Quarter . . . I would think you would be pleased to visit again. And grateful for the opportunity.”
Claire smarted at the reprimand. Still, she’d worked so hard for the reception tonight. Going without sleep, working to live up to Mrs. Acklen’s stringent expectations. She needed time to paint! Hadn’t she earned that much? She had scarcely three months until the artists’ auction in March. Never mind the fact that she didn’t welcome returning to the French Quarter, where ghosts of her past loitered around each corner.
“I am grateful to you, Mrs. Acklen. Truly. Please don’t hear my hesitance as a sign of ingratitude. It’s simply that—”
“Miss Laurent is being modest, Adelicia.”
Claire glanced at Sutton beside her.
“What she’s not telling you”—he cast a gently scolding look in her direction—“is that Mrs. Holbrook has requested that she organize the annual spring tea for the Nashville Women’s League in early March. Isn’t that right, Miss Laurent?”
Feeling Mrs. Acklen’s scrutiny, Claire wondered whether Sutton was trying to help her, or get her summarily dismissed. “Yes, it’s true, Mrs. Holbrook did ask me to meet with her to discuss that possibility. But I told her that I would need to seek your permission first, Mrs. Acklen. I would never undertake such an obligation without your consent.”
Sutton nodded. “And you know how grateful the Nashville Women’s League would be for your lending Claire to them. The women would be greatly indebted to you, in a manner of speaking.”
Mrs. Acklen and Sutton exchanged a look.
“Also, ma’am,” Sutton continued, “if you were to decide for Miss Laurent to stay here, she could catalog all of the art pieces. I’ve been after you for years to have that done. Not only for insurance purposes, but for posterity’s sake.”
Watching Mrs. Acklen’s expression, Claire felt her decision being swayed. “If I were to stay, ma’am, that would also give me time to get all of your files in order. And to finish going through all those boxes of newspaper clippings and family mementoes. I could even make a memory book for you!”
Mrs. Acklen started nodding. “Madame LeVert has asked me to write an article for Queens of American Society, a book being published next year. It seems the author would like to include a chapter on me. A biography, of sorts.”
Claire smiled. “Congratulations, Mrs. Acklen. I could write the first draft for you, if you’d like. Then I could post it to you for your review.”
Mrs. Acklen paused, eyeing them both. “Don’t think that I don’t realize what you’re both doing—because I do.”
Claire swallowed. Sutton laughed beneath his breath.
“You, Miss Laurent, have your heart set on entering the auction for new artists. And you, Mr. Monroe, seem bent on helping her to do just that. And while I am the first person to encourage someone to pursue their aspirations, I don’t relish the thought of one of my employees being made the object of others’ criticism and judgment. Especially someone who works so closely with me.”
Mrs. Acklen honed her focus on Claire. “The world of art, with which you’re somewhat familiar, Miss Laurent, is fickle and subjective, and oftentimes cruel. One need only listen to my guests’ overloud whispers tonight to realize that. And while you do have talent, I would loathe to see you set your sights on so high an ambition, only to have your dreams dashed.”
Claire didn’t know how the woman did it. In the same breath, she built up and tore down. “I assure you, M—”
Mrs. Acklen held up a hand. “I’ll take everything into consideration and will let you know my decision by Christmas.”
From habit, Claire curtsied. “Thank you, Mrs. Acklen.”
Sutton bowed, a smile ghosting his lips. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Mrs. Acklen strode down the hallway.
“Thank you, Sutton,” Claire whispered. “She always heeds your advice.”
“Not always.”
“She would have said no to me outright.”
He looked down. “That’s because s
he doesn’t want you to get hurt.” Tenderness filled his eyes. “Something I don’t relish happening either.”
Claire shook the box. “Do you want to go first, or should I?”
Sutton eyed her over the rim of the café au lait she’d made him. “Ladies first. As always.”
Grinning, she gave the beribboned package a shake, then tore into the wrapping. He was glad they’d waited to exchange Christmas presents until after everyone else had retired for the evening. They’d moved into the small study, where a fragrant evergreen swag hung from the mantel, and a fire burning in the hearth gave the room a cozy feel.
Kris Kringle, as Acklen family tradition called him, had visited the children that morning, and while Adelicia had been all smiles through the presents, then the dinner of fresh oysters, fish, and fruits shipped from New Orleans, he knew she was eager for the day to be over. As was he. For some reason, memories of departed loved ones always pressed closer on Christmas Day.
The holiday itself had been enjoyable and the house quiet, but it was nice to finally be alone with Claire. Especially since their days together were numbered.
Adelicia had said yes that morning to Claire staying behind, much to Claire’s delight. And while he was happy for her, he wasn’t for himself. He’d planned on going down to New Orleans for two weeks on business anyway, but he’d come to the decision that it would be best if he stayed there for a while. To give Claire time to paint, to document the art, to accomplish the growing list of projects Adelicia was continually dreaming up . . .
And also to give her the time and the freedom she needed . . . to choose.
Since the reception a week ago, a deluge of gentleman admirers had sent her flowers, confections, and notes. Just as he’d known they would. Almost daily something new arrived. He merely had to look over his shoulder—which he refused to do—to see the flowers Mr. Stanton had sent that morning.
Stanton had pulled him aside the night of the reception and inquired, most confidentially, whether he knew if any gentleman had previous designs on Miss Laurent’s affections. Andrew Stanton was a gentleman and a senior officer he’d served with in the war, and Sutton knew him well enough to know that Stanton would never have pursued Claire if he’d simply answered, “Why, yes, sir. I happen to love the young woman myself. More than I care to admit. So if you don’t mind, would you take your stellar reputation, fine estate, all your money, and your family’s good name and just trot on along. . . .”
But of course he hadn’t said that. He couldn’t. He didn’t feel at liberty to close such a door for Claire. That door was hers to close, not his.
And no matter how he tried, he couldn’t stop comparing Andrew Stanton and Claire . . . to Isaac Franklin and Adelicia. A similar age difference, both men successful and wealthy. And from what little Adelicia had said of Isaac Franklin through the years—and the picture she kept of him in her bedroom, even after all this time—theirs had been a marriage of the heart.
“Oh, Sutton!” Claire stood and held up the painting smock against her. “It’s perfect! Thank you!” She leaned down and kissed his cheek—lingering long enough for him to get other ideas—then she slipped the smock on. He’d had it made especially for her. Mrs. Perry at the dress shop had helped him with the sizing. “I’ll wear it every time I paint.” She sashayed to the center of the small study and struck a pose.
He knew the image would stay with him. “I wish you could paint me a picture of that.”
They both laughed, and she sat back down beside him.
She nudged the present at his feet closer. “Now it’s your turn.”
He picked up the box, acting as if he might buckle beneath the weight. “I already know what it is.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“It’s a twenty-four-volume set on how to cheat at checkers.”
She giggled, her gaze moving from his face to the package, then back again.
He removed the wrapping and lifted the lid from the box—and couldn’t believe it. He looked at her, then back down. It was a coat, but not just any coat. He stood and pulled the long leather duster from the box. He held it up to him, staring at it, feeling like a little boy again. The duster was exactly what he and Mark used to pretend they were wearing when they played at fighting wild Indians.
“If you’re going to run a thoroughbred farm, Sutton, I thought you should have the right coat.”
Embarrassed at the tightening in his throat and wishing he’d told Andrew Stanton that Claire’s heart was spoken for, he shook his head. “Claire, this is too much.”
“Try it on!” She jumped up and held it for him as he slipped his arms inside. “Now turn around.” He did, and she backed up a step. Her gaze moved over him. “Oh, Sutton . . .” She pressed a hand to her mouth. “I knew it would look good on you, but . . .” Her expression turned decidedly more intimate, in a most approving way.
With his left arm hanging loose at his side, he edged the duster back on his right, acting as if he wore a gun belt slung low around his hips, the way he and Mark used to make believe.
He rested his hand on his imaginary Colt revolver, narrowed his eyes, and reached for his deepest western drawl. “Howdy, ma’am.” He tugged the rim of an imaginary Stetson. “I’m sheriff of these parts, and I can see you’re new in town.”
They laughed together, and he sank back down on the settee beside her, grateful for once that the furniture in the room was so compact.
He smoothed a hand over the fine leather, not wanting to think about how much this coat had cost her. Much more than his gift to her. With the future of his job and earnings so unknown, he’d gone a more conservative route on her gift. Now he wished he hadn’t. “This is the best Christmas present I’ve had in twenty years . . . since my buddy and I both got wooden rifles.” He remembered as if it were yesterday.
Of all the material possessions he’d lost when the Federals burned his family home, that toy rifle was at the top of the list of things he wished he still had.
“Let me guess,” she said. “You used to play cowboys and Indians.”
“Sometimes. Mostly Mark and I took turns being either the sheriff or the outlaw. It was more fun to be the outlaw, though.”
“But the sheriff was always a better shot.”
He peered over at her. “You’ve played before?”
“No, but I’ve read enough dime novels to know what happens.”
He leaned his head back on the settee. “Mark and I used to read those over and over again, then we’d grab our rifles and head outside. We had a friend, Danny Ranslett, who used to play with us. Except Danny got a real rifle when he was about seven or so, and”—he whistled low—“could that boy ever shoot.”
“Do you all still see each other?”
“Daniel moved out west shortly after the war. And Mark . . .” Sutton let his eyes drift shut. “He died not far from here, at the battle in Franklin. Daniel lost his youngest brother that night too. Not far from where Mark fell.”
She rested her head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Is that when you were wounded?”
He nodded. “I took a minié ball in the shoulder.” He reached up instinctively. “I didn’t even feel it at first. I was holding Mark . . . trying to stop the blood, trying to hear what he was telling me. But . . .” He took a shaky breath. “I couldn’t. It felt like the whole world was coming apart.” Emotion cinched a knot in his throat. He didn’t want to talk about it. Not on Christmas night.
She wove her arm through his and scooted closer. He wiped his eyes, glad she couldn’t see his face. The fire in the hearth burned low, casting a mesmerizing cadence of shadows on the walls.
She traced a forefinger over his open palm. It tickled, but he didn’t want her to stop.
He waited until he was sure his voice would hold. “You met Mark’s mother the other night at the reception. Mrs. Holbrook. Did you ever meet her husband?”
Her finger stilled on his hand. “Yes, I did. Briefly.”
“Really? You’re that close?”
He nodded. “He and I are working on a case together right now. I’m learning so much from him. Don’t let that grandfatherly exterior fool you. He’s a fine attorney. And relentless when it comes to getting at the truth.”
She said nothing. After a moment, she leaned forward. “Sutton . . . there’s something I need to tell you. Something . . . I overheard. About you.”
She looked over at him, and he saw it in her face. The disappointment he felt in himself was magnified. “How long have you known?”
She bowed her head. “I heard some people talking—the night of the reception. And Sutton, I’ve come close to telling you so many times, but then I put myself in your place and I feel—”
“Sorry for me?” He stood and shrugged off the duster. “You should have told me you knew, Claire.”
She rose. “I know I should have. But I knew it would hurt you for me to know.” She stepped closer. “It doesn’t matter to me, Sutton . . . what the review board decided. It makes no difference whether you have land or don’t.”
“It does to me.”
Her sigh held understanding. She reached for his hand and brought it to her face. Closing her eyes, she pressed her cheek into his palm, then pressed a kiss where her cheek had been. Fire raced through his veins and only gained momentum when she looked up at him. He struggled to hold his desires in check.
She was radiant. Captivating. Intelligent. Witty. And good, in every way that mattered. No wonder she’d captured the attention of Adelicia’s wealthy male counterparts. All of whom were rich beyond what he could ever hope to be—even if his land had been returned. Claire deserved all the grand things that a man of means could give her.
Everything he . . . could not. He’d been given the chance to make his choice between marrying for wealth or marrying from the heart. He’d made his decision and had no regrets, and Claire deserved the opportunity to do the same.
A Lasting Impression Page 39