A Lasting Impression

by Tamera Alexander

  Seeing where things were headed, Sutton followed. “Mother, you don’t underst—”

  “You must be Cara Netta.” His mother captured Claire in a tight embrace.

  Wide-eyed, Claire said nothing, but Sutton sensed her waiting for him to explain.

  “Oh, my darling”—his mother stepped back to look at her—“you . . . are . . . stunning. Let me take a good long look at my future daughter-in-law.” She made a twirling gesture with her hand, and Claire obediently turned in a circle, her gaze connecting with Sutton’s as she rotated his way.

  “Mother,” he said more forcefully. “This isn’t—”

  “You are absolutely breathtaking, my dear. And I’ve learned from my son’s letters that you’re quite an accomplished pianist as well. And so well traveled. And your mother, Madame LeVert! I can hardly wait to make her acquaintance. So fine a family my son is marrying into. I’m sure your mother and I will be the very best of friends, just as Adelicia and I have shared a close connection for so many—”

  Gently, but firmly, Sutton took hold of his mother’s hand. “This isn’t Cara Netta, Mother. This is Miss Claire Laurent. She’s Mrs. Acklen’s personal liaison, and she’s my”—he stumbled over what to call her—“very dear friend. More than that, actually. Far more,” he added, seeing the tiniest light in Claire’s eyes, which vanished when his mother looked at her with suspicion.

  Claire offered a brief curtsy. “Mrs. Monroe, it’s indeed a pleasure, ma’am, to make—”

  “She’s not Cara Netta?”

  “No, Mother,” Sutton answered, struggling to keep the frustration from his voice. The doctors had said normalcy and lack of agitation were best for her tenuous emotional state. But he’d forgotten how stubborn-minded she could be.

  “But . . . I saw you kissing her.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “But what are you doing kissing her when you’re engaged to Cara Netta?”

  “Sutton, perhaps I should excuse myself and—”

  “Why, young woman, do you address my son, Mr. Willister Sutton Monroe, in so informal a manner?” His mother turned to him. “Did you not say she was Mrs. Acklen’s liaison? Therefore an employee of this household? Her rank demands that she—”

  “Mother! Your behavior is out of line.” Sutton saw the telling tremble in her chin and regretted the harshness in his voice.

  “Well . . .” She pressed a hand to her bodice. “I’m sorry my presence brings such displeasure to you, son.”

  “I didn’t say that. It’s good to see you again.” And he meant it, for the most part. But in another . . . “I was simply surprised. I would have thought you might have written to inform me you were coming.”

  “I did write you, son. I told you that if your aunt Lorena ever looked at me in that haughty manner again, I was leaving.” She squared her frail shoulders. “So I did. I packed up my things, bought my train ticket, and came home. For good.”

  “For good?” he repeated.

  “Yes.” She looked in Claire’s direction, scowled, and promptly dismissed her presence with a turn of her head. “And now that you’re here, Willister, I’d like to know when you’ll be taking me to my home. I know you’ve been busy, as I read in your letters, but I’m sure you’ve rebuilt the family house by now.”

  Sutton didn’t know where to begin to answer that question, and he certainly didn’t want to do so in front of Claire. Even though she already knew the story. “We can talk about all this later, Mother. For now, let me help you get settled into a guest room.”

  “I’m happily ensconced in a room upstairs. Thank you, son.” She started toward the staircase, then turned an austere look at Claire. “I’d like a pot of tea brought to my room, along with something to eat, please.”

  “Mother, Miss Laur—”

  “It would be my pleasure, Mrs. Monroe,” Claire said, her voice sweet.

  Sutton waited until his mother’s footsteps sounded on the second- floor gallery. “Claire . . .” He sighed, knowing he needed to check on his mother, but he also couldn’t leave Claire without an explanation. “I don’t know what to say. I apologize for all of that. I had no idea she was coming.”

  “That’s all right, Sutton. Honestly. I understand.”

  But he could see that she didn’t. “I think I told you before that my mother has a delicate emotional nature. But she also has a rather eccentric side to her as well.” He glanced toward the stairs. “One that has apparently worsened. She does fairly well when everything goes according to her expectations. But she doesn’t do well with change.”

  “Or”—Claire smiled—“with servants of lesser ranking taking liberties with her son.”

  He smiled in return, knowing she wasn’t serious. But what had just happened wasn’t the least bit humorous to him. “I didn’t tell my mother about the change in my relationship with Cara Netta because I knew it would upset her. And I honestly didn’t think it mattered—for the short term. Because she wasn’t here. But . . .” He exhaled. “She is now. And if my guess is right, she’s just ensconced herself in Adelicia Acklen’s personal quarters.”

  Claire balanced the tray as she started up the stairs from the kitchen. Mrs. Monroe had been here for a week and the woman had yet to say anything other than “Yes, please,” or “No, thank you” to her, unless she was asking for something. And then—Claire smiled to herself—Eugenia Monroe’s vocabulary increased significantly.

  Sutton felt terrible about the situation, but she really didn’t mind that much. Mrs. Monroe could be demanding, even harsh at times, and the woman obviously didn’t like her. But Claire sensed that the woman’s dislike stemmed more from Mrs. Monroe’s disapproval of her relationship with Willister than from a personal aversion.

  Once Claire reached the main level, she headed toward the guest room at the end of the hallway, passing the formal dining room. She sensed a loneliness from Mrs. Monroe, and knowing all she’d been through, felt compassion for her. Just as hundreds of brushstrokes comprised a finished canvas, people were made up of a lifetime of experiences, both good and bad. And without knowing what someone had endured, it was impossible to truly know them—and accept them—for who they were.

  That took time. And patience. And a forgiving heart, which she prayed Sutton would have with her once she told him the truth. Which she was going to do. Tonight. But she knew only too well that you could forgive someone and still decide you didn’t want to be with them.

  She’d forgiven Antoine DePaul everything, yet prayed she would never see the man again.

  She didn’t know what Sutton had planned for their evening tonight. He wouldn’t tell her. He’d only instructed her to be ready by five thirty and to wear the dress she’d worn to the LeVert reception—which had been enough of a hint to have her flying high for the past five days.

  Balancing the tray, she knocked on the guest room door.

  “Enter.”

  She turned the knob, and saw Mrs. Monroe standing by the window. “Good afternoon, ma’am. Cordina made her famous chicken and dumplings for lunch. Would you like the tray on the table?”

  “Yes, please.” Mrs. Monroe’s gaze stayed fixed on some point beyond the glass pane.

  “Are you certain you wouldn’t like to enjoy your meal on one of the front porches? It’s lovely outside.”

  “No, thank you.”

  Claire arranged the tray on the table, sneaking glances. Sutton’s mother was her height but much thinner, frailer, with hair the color of spun gold. And she bore an elegance about her that bespoke breeding and a manner accustomed to the finer things of life.

  “Will there be anything else, Mrs. Monroe?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Claire curtsied. “Good day, then.” She picked up the breakfast tray she’d brought earlier that morning and smiled as she closed the door.

  “What is it that you do when you leave here in the mornings, Miss Laurent?”

  Claire stuck her hand out to stop the door from closing and n
early dropped the tray, shocked at hearing more than three words in a row from the woman. “I paint, ma’am. Landscapes. Oil on canvas.” She righted an empty china cup on the tray. “Sometimes I go to the gardens out front. Sometimes to the meadow. Other times, like this morning, I walk to the ridge.” She nodded in the direction of the conservatory on the opposite side of the estate. “There’s a beautiful view from that hill.” She decided not to add that a person could see the Monroe family land from that vantage point.

  “Do you possess any talent?”

  Claire smiled, knowing she shouldn’t be surprised at the woman’s bluntness. “It depends on whom you ask, ma’am. Some people find beauty in what I paint and seem to enjoy it.”

  “Given we are out of time, it will have to do . . .” Her smile faded as her father’s criticism returned. Would his judgment always be a mere thought away? “But I’m certain there are others whose opinions would differ. I simply try to paint the very best that I can.” And paint as if I’m painting only for Him, she wanted to add aloud but didn’t.

  Mrs. Monroe said nothing.

  Claire thought of Mrs. Broderick, the elderly woman at the shipping company, and of her frailty and forgetfulness. But this seemed different. Mrs. Monroe wasn’t that far along in years. Assuming their conversation was over, she turned to go.

  “I used to draw,” Mrs. Monroe said quietly, still staring outside. “I was quite good, actually. My husband told me so . . . many times. I lost all of my drawings in the fire.”

  Unprepared for such honesty, Claire didn’t know how to respond at first. But she knew how much losing her Versailles had hurt. “Perhaps, Mrs. Monroe, when your schedule allows . . . you might consider going with me one morning.”

  Eugenia Monroe turned a doubtful eye in her direction.

  “I would welcome your company, ma’am. And the perspective of a fellow artist.”

  Mrs. Monroe didn’t so much as bat an eyelash as she turned back to the window. “Good day, Miss Laurent. Thank you for lunch.”

  Claire felt as though she were living in a fairy tale.

  She peered across the white-clothed table at Sutton—so handsome in his black cutaway coat and white tie—then around the elegant Creole restaurant where they’d enjoyed dinner. Their table overlooked the Cumberland River, and as the sun sank lower, it left a golden trail of light rippling across the water’s surface.

  She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “I’m afraid this is too expensive.”

  He mimicked her posture. “And I’m afraid that’s none of your concern,” he whispered back.

  She smiled, but at the same time she felt a nervous knot in the pit of her stomach. The same knot she felt each time she thought about what his reaction would be when she told him the truth about her parents’ art gallery, and how she’d forged the paintings. She would need to confess everything to Mrs. Acklen too, and planned on asking Sutton to accompany her, if he would.

  When the maître d’ presented the dessert menu, she almost declined, until she saw their house specialty. “Beignets, please.”

  “The same for me,” Sutton said.

  She waited for the server to leave. “This has been such a wonderful evening, Sutton. And such a nice surprise. Thank you.”

  He winked and sipped his water. “Only two days until the auction.”

  She made a panicked face, then grinned. She was disappointed that Mrs. Acklen hadn’t returned from Angola yet and therefore wouldn’t be bidding on her painting—a silly dream she’d somehow allowed herself to entertain. “Even if nothing comes from this opportunity for me, Sutton, I want you to know how much I appreciate your belief in me. And in my painting. How much I appreciate everything you’ve done for me while I’ve been here.”

  His eyes narrowed playfully. “Are you planning on going somewhere?”

  “No.” She laughed softly, that nervous knot twisting a half turn.

  A server poured their after-dinner coffee, and Claire sipped hers slowly, savoring the rich chicory taste. So like Café du Monde.

  “I don’t typically discuss business over dinner, but . . .” Sutton pulled an envelope from his pocket and handed it to her. “I received this today.”

  Claire pulled a single sheet of stationery from the envelope. A legal document with the heading, The State of Louisiana v. Mrs. Adelicia Franklin Acklen. She didn’t comprehend all of the legal terminology, but she caught words here and there, and when she reached the final paragraph, she began to smile. She kept her voice soft, mindful of patrons at nearby tables. “You won the cotton case!” She raised her coffee cup in salute. “Congratulations, Counselor.”

  He touched his cup to hers. “We won for now, at least. I’m sure the plaintiff will appeal. But . . . thank you for celebrating with me.”

  Watching him, she saw in his eyes at least a portion of what she was already thinking. That while he was very good at what he did, practicing law wasn’t what he most wanted to do with his life, and she prayed again that God would open a door for Sutton to have his dream.

  She slid the envelope back to him, wanting to ask some questions about the case. But not in the middle of the restaurant, with listening ears close by.

  The server returned with dessert and Claire enjoyed every bite, resisting the urge to lick the powdered sugar from her fingers. Outside the restaurant, they discovered that Armstead hadn’t returned with the carriage yet.

  Sutton checked his pocket watch, then offered his arm. “Shall we walk for a while? Armstead will find us.”

  Claire accepted and fell into step beside him. “About the case you won, something I’ve wondered since reading about it in a newspaper article Mrs. Acklen saved . . .” She looked over at him. “Were you there with her? In Louisiana?”

  His smile came slowly. “I was, for some of it, and the woman was a sight to behold. After seeing her manage those negotiations . . .” He shook his head. “It wasn’t an easy time in her life either. She’d just lost Mr. Acklen. And at the time he died, she hadn’t seen him in over a year and a half.”

  “Why so long?” Claire nodded to a couple who strolled past.

  “The war. When Fort Donelson fell, we all knew it was only a matter of time before Nashville would fall too. Adelicia encouraged him to leave before that happened. She thought he was needed more at their Louisiana plantations and that he’d be safer there. Sure enough, a week after he left, the Federals occupied Nashville, and they began identifying hearty secessionists.” He said it with a note of bitterness, and Claire understood why. “Adelicia was named, and most certainly Joseph would have been as well. Like my father was.”

  Claire slowed her pace to match his.

  “The last letter she received from Joseph was in late summer of sixty-three. He wrote telling her that the Confederates had confiscated all the mules and horses, and that he was afraid they were going to burn almost three thousand bales of cotton to keep it from falling into enemy hands. Joseph died about a month later from malaria, which left Adelicia in Nashville with a fortune in cotton about to be burned in Louisiana.”

  They reached the corner and he headed toward the right.

  Claire glanced back in the direction they’d come. “Are you sure Armstead will be able to find us? Maybe we ought to head back.”

  “I told him we might go for a walk.” He checked his pocket watch again. “We have some time yet.”

  They resumed their pace, and Claire found herself picturing Mrs. Acklen hearing the news about her second husband’s death, after everyone else she’d already lost. “So you escorted her to Louisiana?”

  He nodded. “I got special leave from my unit and took her and her cousin Sarah to the plantation, where Adelicia somehow convinced the Confederates to guard the cotton for her. She promised them she was going to ship it to England and sell it there, which she did. But she needed a way to transport it to New Orleans, and the Confederates didn’t have any wagons. So—in the middle of a war, mind you—she managed to persuade some Federal officers
to loan her their teams and wagons to move the cotton to the river.”

  “Where the cotton”—Claire continued for him—“was then loaded and sent to Europe and sold for a small fortune.” She leaned close. “I read that part in the newspaper article.”

  They walked for a while, his hand covering hers on his arm, until finally they came to a corner. He stopped and turned to her. “I know this past week hasn’t been an easy one for you . . . with my mother here. I want to thank you for how patient you’ve been with her.”

  “You don’t have to keep saying that, Sutton. She’s your mother, and I’m happy to do it.”

  He touched a curl at her forehead. “She told me you invited her to join you one morning, when you paint.”

  “She said she used to draw. I thought she might enjoy doing it again.”

  “I think I was still a boy the last time I saw her sketch. She drew the framed pictures you saw on my bedside table.”

  “Really? I’m impressed.” She had confessed to him about visiting his room more than just that once while he was gone to Louisiana. At which time he had confessed to taking the joujou on the mantel in her bedroom the morning he left. She hadn’t even noticed it missing.

  “Thank you for having dinner with me tonight, Claire, and I’m sorry I made you walk all the way here, but . . .” He led her around the corner and gestured down the street. “I wanted you to be surprised.”

  Seeing what lay ahead, Claire let out a little squeal and threw her arms around his neck.

  49

  Opera patrons lined the walkway leading into the Adelphi Theater, and Claire couldn’t have been more proud to be escorted by Sutton. Though she didn’t remember most of the couples’ names, she recognized many of them from the LeVert reception and nodded a silent greeting when they looked her way.