A Lasting Impression

by Tamera Alexander

  The match wasn’t a surprise to him—the two had been friends for years—and Dr. Cheatham certainly seemed capable of assuming the managerial aspects of the estate. To Sutton’s great relief, Adelicia had agreed that should she and William decide to marry, she would protect her financial interests with a premarriage contract, as she’d done with Joseph Acklen.

  Sutton would continue to serve as her personal attorney, but there’d be no need for him to live at Belmont anymore. So where would he live? He had no family land. No home of his own. And while he had some money saved, the amount seemed inconsequential compared to what he needed to properly establish himself again.

  But if they were to win this lawsuit . . .

  He checked his pocket watch, already knowing the minute hand would read about ten minutes later than the last time he checked. The train was about a half hour or so from Nashville—he recognized the terrain—and he was itching to get back. To work on their case, but also . . .

  To see Claire.

  Nearly two months he’d been gone, and she’d mentioned Andrew Stanton only twice in their exchange of letters, and then only in passing. He’d tried to read between the lines of those mentions, wondering if Stanton had managed to make an impression on her or not.

  As fine a man as Stanton was, Sutton prayed he hadn’t.

  Because after having only her letters to look forward to, he’d decided that he’d been a fool to leave her the way he did. Yes, she’d needed time, he knew, to learn her own heart. But he’d had time to learn his too, and his heart wanted her.

  Now if he could only find a way to provide for her. If love were enough, he was convinced he had a lifetime of that to lavish upon her. But she was worthy of far more, and he wanted to give her everything she deserved.

  He rested a hand on the artist’s case he’d made for her in recent weeks. Nothing fancy. Just something she could store her canvases in as she trekked back and forth to paint. He hadn’t worked with wood like that in years, and he’d enjoyed every minute of it. Just as he enjoyed anticipating the look on her face when he gave it to her.

  The train whistle blew, signaling their approach into Nashville. But it couldn’t come fast enough for him.

  Satchel slung over her shoulder, and easel and white umbrella tucked under her arm, Claire started back down the ridge with the still-wet canvas in her grip. Perhaps it was the sun’s brilliance overhead or the unexpected hint of spring, but she couldn’t deny the sense of possibility filling her.

  Or the fact that she was perspiring beneath her chemise.

  At the foot of the ridge she paused and took off her coat, then lifted her hair from her neck. Oh, the breeze felt heavenly. And this after it had snowed only days earlier. Tennessee weather . . .

  Since she’d gone to bed so late last night, staying up to write, she’d thought she might sleep later than she had. But she’d awakened at a quarter past seven, refreshed and eager to paint. Wishing she had a glass of Cordina’s sweet iced lemonade, she heard something that sounded almost as refreshing.

  Shouldering her load again, she gripped the canvas by its edge and started across the meadow for the creek.

  Atop the ridge that morning, she’d stood staring out over the meadow at the Belmont estate and had felt her gaze being drawn to the hill in the distance where Sutton’s family home had once stood. It was then she’d finally realized what view she wanted to capture and she’d painted it. An umbrella had helped to diffuse the bright sunlight and show the paint’s true colors, but she looked forward to painting the view again, until she got it right.

  She glanced down at the canvas, mindful to keep the winter grasses from brushing the oils still tacky to the touch. And with growing certainty, she heard the response inside her gaining strength. I’ll paint as if I’m painting only for You.

  She expected Sutton would receive her letter in a few days, and she prayed her plea would spur him to come home. She pictured him again at the LeVert reception, speaking with Andrew Stanton, and while she thought she understood the motivation behind what he’d done, she still wanted to shake the man senseless.

  Yet she could hardly wait to be with him again.

  Seeing the slab of limestone jutting out from the hillside, she felt as if she were seeing an old friend. She set the canvas in a protected cleft of the rock and deposited her belongings beside it. Then she knelt by the creek and dipped her hand in. The icy chill felt like a touch of heaven, and she drank until she’d slaked her thirst.

  On a whim, she removed her boots and stockings and slid her feet in. She leaned back, face tilted toward the sun, and let out a sigh—one that felt as if it had been building inside her for months, if not years. As she lay there, her mother’s face came to mind. She wished she still had her mother’s locket watch, yet even without it, she could still picture her maman’s smile.

  Knowing the day was slipping by and that work awaited, Claire rose and reached for her boots and stockings but paused when she saw the deep pool of water downstream. She glanced behind her, then around. The spot was secluded. She was alone.

  By the time she reached the edge of the creek, she’d unbuttoned the front of her dress. Laying it aside, next came her crinoline and underskirts, until she stood in only her chemise and pantalets. She waded in, sucking in a breath as the water swirled around her ankles, then, as she got closer to the deeper pool, around her calves and waist. By the time the water reached her chest, she knew she couldn’t—and wouldn’t—turn back, but oh . . . it was cold.

  Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and submerged herself beneath the surface, and for a few brief seconds, the world above faded from view. It was the desire to be clean, and the longing to bury her old life in exchange for the promise of a new one that permeated every corner of her heart, that crowded out every last doubt.

  She didn’t know how to go about reshaping this world she’d created without destroying it completely, but she trusted the Potter to know, to show her, and to mold her. Into whatever He wanted her to be.

  Belmont came into view and Sutton reined in, as much to give the mare from the livery in town a chance to rest, as to give himself a moment to rehearse, again, what he was going to say to Claire when he saw her. Forgive me for being such a fool didn’t seem like enough, yet that’s the first thing that came to him.

  In nearly every letter she’d written, she’d asked when he would be returning, so he felt sure she’d missed him. But being back now, coming in unannounced, and not knowing what the situation was between her and Andrew Stanton, he suddenly felt out of place, and it wasn’t a comfortable feeling.

  The mare pranced beneath him, and he urged her on uphill toward the mansion. He’d stopped briefly by the law office in town to speak to Holbrook, but he had been out on an appointment. Sutton hadn’t been too disappointed. The person he really wanted to see was at Belmont. Or he hoped she was.

  He spotted Eli on the front portico. Already the old man had an arm raised in greeting.

  Eli met him at the front steps. “Welcome back, Mr. Monroe. We didn’t know you were returning today, sir. I would have sent a carriage into town for you.”

  Sutton dismounted and handed him the reins. “Hello, Eli. And it’s no bother. I left Angola sooner than planned.”

  “Nothing’s amiss, I hope? Mrs. Acklen and the children are all right?”

  “Everything’s fine, and the Acklens are well. I simply had business to tend to. My trunks should be arriving from the station soon.”

  “I’ll see to them, sir.”

  Sutton started toward the house. “Is Miss Laurent inside?”

  “No, sir. She left earlier this morning. I’m sure she’s fine, but I was about to send Zeke out to make sure she was all right.”

  “All right? Where did she go?”

  Eli motioned. “Out across the meadow, sir, toward the creek, like she usually does. She had all of her painting things with her, sir. She’s usually back by now for lunch, that’s all.”

  Su
tton reclaimed the mare’s reins. “I’ll ride out and find her.” Astride the mare, he glanced down. “If she shows up without me, tell her I’m back and that I need to speak with her.”

  A hint of a smile tipped the old man’s mouth. “Yes, sir, Mr. Monroe. I’ll do that. And, sir . . . ?”

  Sutton held the mare steady as Eli stepped closer.

  “If I might be permitted to say something to you, sir . . .”

  Sutton nodded but got the distinct feeling the older man was set on saying it either way.

  “Your father was among the finest of men, Mr. Monroe. It doesn’t matter what others might say about him now—or write about him, sir. Those of us at Belmont who knew Dr. Monroe still hold him in great honor. I hold him in great honor, sir.” Eli’s head dipped the slightest bit. “Just as I do his son.”

  Sutton looked away. Obviously Eli had read the article in the Banner. But why this man’s opinion of his father—and of him—should move him to such a degree made no sense. Sutton worked to loosen the tightness in his throat. “Thank you, Eli. I appreciate that.”

  The old man held up his right hand and pointed to a raised scar that extended from the base of his thumb clear across the top of his wrist to the other side. “I would’ve lost my hand years ago, sir, had your father not doctored me. He came back every day for a month, then every week for several months after. He was out here the day before he—” Eli bowed his head. “Before they killed him, sir. He told me then, like he always did, how proud he was of you. And he’d be proud of you now too, sir, with how you’re handling all this.”

  Sutton knew better than to try to speak again. It was all he could do to nod an acknowledgment. He rode out toward the creek, the breeze cool on his cheeks. Since the day his father had been killed, he’d carried the memory of the man close to his heart, as he had his own regret.

  He’d always been proud to be Dr. Stephen Monroe’s son. But never more so than in that moment. And what he couldn’t explain, but knew without question, was that somehow, his father knew that too.

  Sutton checked the meadow first, then looked up toward the ridge, but he doubted Claire would have gone that far on foot. He followed the path down toward the creek, and that’s when he heard it. Singing.

  He recognized her voice from having stood beside her in church, and it was a pretty sound. Prettier now after not having heard it for so long. He dismounted, looped the mare’s reins around a pine branch, and followed the sound of her voice.

  He saw her a split instant before she saw him, and his eyes went wide. She squealed and ducked behind a rock.

  He couldn’t keep from laughing, appreciating what he’d seen but not understanding why she was running around in her undergarments. And wet, no less. “What are you doing down here?”

  “What are you doing back?”

  He held his ground, still laughing. Especially when she peered up at him over the rock. “It’s a little early yet to go swimming, Claire.”

  “I wasn’t going swimming, Sutton. I was . . .” She smiled at him then, but held up a hand. “Do not come any closer.”

  He started forward just to see what she would do.

  “Sutton!” She ducked back down, but he could hear her giggling.

  “I’m only joking with you. I won’t come any closer. Unless . . . I can help with something.”

  “You could have helped by letting me know you were coming home.”

  “It was kind of an . . . impromptu decision.” She was adorable, peeking over the rock at him like that. “Seriously, Claire, what can I do to help you?”

  “You can turn around and wait for me back over the hill.”

  He turned to go, then couldn’t resist one last nudge. “I sure was looking forward to a hug.”

  “Sutton!”

  Laughing, he retreated and did as he was told.

  Minutes later she appeared over the hill. Seeing all that she was carrying, he hurried to help. He took the satchel and easel and tried to take the canvas, catching a quick glimpse of it. “Claire, that’s absolutely—”

  She turned the painting so he couldn’t see it. “I can do better. I know I can.”

  “From what I saw, I’m impressed.” And he was. But still she kept a firm grip on it, so he didn’t force the issue.

  A shyness came over her. “I’d rather you wait and see it when I’m finished, if you don’t mind.”

  “Fair enough.” He laid her belongings by a rock. “But would you mind propping it over there for a second?” He pointed, pleased when she complied without question. When she turned back around, he closed the distance between them and framed her face with his hands. Her pert look gave him hope. She laid her hand over his heart, and Sutton felt a rightness inside he’d never felt before. If Andrew Stanton had made any headway with her, it sure wasn’t showing.

  “Hello, Claire,” he whispered.

  Her eyes bright, her lower lip trembled with a smile. “Hello, Sutton.”

  He lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her, slowly, taking his time, just as he’d contemplated doing far too many times over the past two months. He savored the way she moved closer to him and tilted her head so her lips met his more fully.

  “I’m sorry for staying away for so long,” he whispered against her mouth, drawing back slightly. “I know I need to explain. And I will, more fully, later. But please know that I was simply trying to give you—”

  “I know what you were doing . . . you silly, foolish man.”

  He stared.

  “Mr. Stanton told me about your conversation the night of the reception.” She ran a teasing forefinger along his jawline. Then over his lips. “I take it you didn’t get my letter?”

  “No, no letter.” He kissed her again, not nearly so gently, but when she wove her fingers through his hair, he broke the kiss, trembling.

  “I’ve missed you,” she whispered.

  “And I you.” He reached up and tugged a damp curl, a weak effort to lighten the moment. He motioned back toward the creek. “What were you doing down there?”

  “I was praying . . . and listening. Or trying to.” Smiling, she searched his gaze, then lowered her head. When she finally looked up again, her eyes were moist but her expression was resolute. “I’ve done things in my life, especially in recent years, Sutton, that I’m not proud of.”

  He waited, weighing the earnestness in her gaze. “There’s not a person living who hasn’t done something they regret, Claire.”

  “I know. But I want to bury those things, put them behind me, once and for all.” She part laughed, part sighed. “If that makes any sense.”

  He reached up and touched her face, the blue of her eyes drawing him in. “It does,” he whispered, having felt that same need so many times. “I often come here to pray, and to work things through.”

  Her eyes lit as a tear slipped down her cheek.

  He wiped it with his thumb. “Of course, I usually wear clothes.”

  Laughing together, they walked back to the mansion, and she talked the entire way. She told him how she was nearly finished cataloging Mrs. Acklen’s art, how much she’d been painting, and how she wasn’t sure if she had anything good enough for the art auction—which he knew wasn’t true.

  He drank in every last detail. Just like he’d read her letters over and over again before going to sleep.

  “Speaking of the art auction,” he slipped in as she took a breath, “you’ve already been approved by the committee to submit a canvas. ”

  “Thank you, Sutton, for arranging that for me.”

  He shook his head. “You only have yourself to thank. Members of the committee were at the LeVert reception, and your party favors alone convinced them of your talent.” He decided not to say anything about the fee to enter. He’d filled out the application and paid the entry fee on her behalf. “There will be sessions occurring all week long, including the two auctions—the auction for the newer talent, and then a separate auction later in the week for the established artists.
”

  She nodded, stealthily keeping the canvas turned away from him. “I get nervous just thinking about it.”

  “You’ll do well, Claire. I have no doubt whatsoever.” Another thought occurred to him, something he hadn’t wanted to share with her in a letter. Not considering what had happened there. “While we were in New Orleans, I visited the art gallery that your parents owned and . . . where you used to live.”

  Her steps slowed as they approached the mansion. “You did?”

  “I hope you don’t mind. I’d been to the Café du Monde one afternoon, and my curiosity got the best of me.”

  Eli wasn’t out front, so Sutton tied the mare to a hitching post and followed Claire inside. They got as far as the grand salon when she turned, that same resolute look on her face.

  “Sutton, could we . . . talk for a while?”

  He reached over and squeezed her hand. “I thought that’s what we’ve been doing.”

  “I know but . . . there are some things I’d like to say to you. That I . . . need to say.”

  He kissed the worried lines of her forehead, lingering just long enough to catch the scent of lavender in her hair. “Of course we can talk. Why don’t we tell Cordina to serve us dinner in the—”

  “Sutton,” she whispered and, with a brief nod, indicated the staircase behind him.

  He turned.

  “Willister? Is that you?”

  The voice registered with him the instant before he recognized her descending the stairs. “Mother?”

  48

  Sutton met his mother at the bottom of the staircase and hugged her, still not believing she was standing in front of him. And that she was as thin as she was. “Mother, what are you doing here?”

  She kissed his cheek and patted it softly. “Look at you, Willister. Handsome, as always.” Emotion pooled in her pale blue eyes. “Just like your precious father—God rest him.” Her gaze moved decidedly beyond him, and her expression gained a keen quality Sutton knew only too well. “And I might well guess who this lovely young lady is. . . .” She gave him an exaggerated grin and swept past him.