Adelicia stood behind the desk. “And just where, may I ask, do you think you’re going, Miss Laurent?”
Claire stopped and looked back, her hand on the doorknob. “My belongings are packed, and”—she gestured to Sutton—“Mr. Monroe has offered to drive me into town. Reverend and Mrs. Bunting have opened a room to me in their home, until the trial is over.”
“That’s going to be most inconvenient for me, Miss Laurent. Because with my being gone to Angola, and you having apparently stayed here to traipse over hill and dale painting the countryside, we have much work to do.”
Claire took in a quick breath. “But . . . I was under the impression that—”
“That I was dismissing you from your duties?”
Claire nodded, eyes watchful.
“Then your impression was false, Miss Laurent.” Adelicia said nothing for a moment, and the words hung in the silence, rife with meaning. “Which, I trust, is—and henceforth will be—no longer the case.”
Claire hiccupped a sob, fresh tears coming. Sutton looked between the two women, not just a little surprised, and felt his own chest tighten.
“Th-thank you, Mrs. Acklen. I . . . don’t know how to tell you how much—”
“Yes, yes.” Mrs. Acklen made a dismissive gesture. “You can thank me after I tell you—both of you—that come June the twenty-seventh there’s going to be a wedding reception here at Belmont. Mine and Dr. Cheatham’s.”
Sutton raised his brow, though not surprised at the news. “Best wishes on your engagement, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Mr. Monroe. You and I have a fair amount of work to do before then as well. But for you, Miss Laurent, I’ve already compiled the guest list.” Adelicia smiled her sweetest and handed Claire a notebook. “We’re planning to invite two thousand of our closest friends. Give or take.”
Claire studied the notebook for a moment, then wiped her tears. “It will be my extreme pleasure to plan your reception, Mrs. Acklen. And almost three months away”—she managed a tremulous smile—“whatever shall I do with all that time?”
“I expect a good portion of it will be spent in court. I do hope you have a good attorney, Miss Laurent.”
Claire nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Mr. Holbrook will be representing me.”
Sutton felt Adelicia’s stare. “Actually, Miss Laurent . . . there’s been a change of counsel in your case.”
Claire looked up at him, fragile hope in her eyes.
“Well . . .” Adelicia looked at them both. “It seems your fate is in very capable hands, Miss Laurent.”
“Yes,” Claire whispered. “It is.”
Sutton and Claire were nearly out the door when he heard the all-too-familiar words.
“One more thing, Miss Laurent.” Seated at her desk, Adelicia peered up. “Forgiveness may be an attribute of the strong, but this is one issue upon which I do not wish my strength to be tested again. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly, ma’am.”
Sutton closed the door behind them, not missing the tiniest smile on Adelicia’s face.
Epilogue
Thursday, June 27, 1867
The Belmont Estate
Claire peered through a front window of the art gallery at the hundreds of clothed tables situated around the gardens, then at the endless array of twinkling lights strung from every tree and shrub and trellis and gazebo. “I hope it doesn’t rain.”
“Rain?” Sutton said behind her. “On the night of Mrs. Adelicia Hayes Franklin Acklen Cheatham’s wedding reception? After you’ve planned everything to perfection? The heavens wouldn’t dare.”
She turned back only to find he wasn’t looking at her. But seeing the focus of his attention warmed her.
He’d hung An American Versailles in the art gallery, but the placard beside the framed canvas clearly stated his ownership.
AN AMERICAN VERSAILLES
OIL ON CANVAS, 1867
CLAIRE ELISE LAURENT, ARTIST
ON LOAN TO BELMONT ART GALLERY
BY WILLISTER SUTTON MONROE
Willister. He’d used his full name just to get a smile from her. And it had worked.
He stood before the canvas and she came alongside him. The past three months had flown by in one sense, yet had crawled by in another. Due in part to the trial, then to planning Dr. and Mrs. Cheatham’s wedding reception, but mostly because of her and Sutton having to find their way with each other again.
It hadn’t been easy. Her failure to be forthcoming had been as much of a disappointment to him as she’d imagined it would be. But she held on to hope that, in time, the affection he’d felt for her—that she still felt for him, more than ever—might return.
He pointed to An American Versailles, to a tree she’d painted just beyond the Belmont mansion where a boy knelt in the dirt. “How did you know I was burying those things for Zeke?”
“Because I saw you one night from my bedroom window.”
He laughed. “You little sneak. You hid things for Zeke too . . . while I was gone to Angola.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because when I got back, he showed me everything he’d found that I hadn’t hidden. And I never hid silver dollars.”
Claire curbed a grin. “Those could have been there for years.”
“Not likely, Miss Laurent.” He reached for her hand and wove his fingers through hers. “Next time, if you want something to look like it’s been there for years”—he brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it—“try dirtying it up a little before you bury it.” His breath was warm, his lips soft. “And choose coins that weren’t minted last year.”
Claire laughed, but her eyes burned, her focus on their hands. He hadn’t touched her like this since the night of the auction. “Thank you again, Sutton,” she whispered. “For representing me in court.”
He turned her hand palm up in his and traced feather-soft paths across her fingers. “Thank you for being the perfect witness. Your testimony in the fraud case made all the difference.”
Evidence had revealed that the robbery of the gallery in New Orleans had been staged. Whether her father had been in on that part of the plan, she didn’t know. Antoine had taken out insurance on the art—listing himself as primary owner—and had collected nearly twenty thousand dollars from the insurance company. Of course, most of the art had been forged, unbeknownst to the insurance company.
The trials had spanned ten weeks and had held Nashville—and every newspaper east of the Mississippi—spellbound. The juries—in each separate trial—had decided unanimously for the multiple plaintiffs. Antoine DePaul had been tried and found innocent of her father’s murder due to lack of evidence. But he was later convicted on multiple counts of fraud—as was another art dealer from Perrault Galleries—and both men awaited their separate sentence hearings. As did Samuel Broderick the second who had been convicted of lesser counts of fraud.
Claire had no trouble imagining Antoine DePaul as the swindler that he was, but she did still find it difficult to believe that he might be capable of murder. That he might have killed her father was something she couldn’t fathom, and was a question she guessed would never be answered.
She had testified against Antoine in court, and that was the last time she’d seen him. Or ever cared to again.
Shortly following the trial, Holbrook and Wickliffe had become Holbrook, Wickliffe, and Monroe. A surprising turn of events made possible by Sutton’s contribution to the case. The name had a nice sound to it. Though Claire knew it wasn’t what Sutton wanted to do with his life, it was a step, and every step changed the view. Who knew what God would bring next?
The jury for her trial had been generously lenient. Her “punishment” for the next year seemed anything but. Three times a week she held classes at the Worthington Art Center for any child who wanted to learn how to paint. The first day, thirty-six children had shown up.
She’d managed to make “quiet mention” to Mrs. Worthington about Mrs. Monroe’s exemplary drawi
ng skills, and Mrs. Worthington had wasted no time in extending a formal invitation to Eugenia Monroe to teach at the art center as well. Claire knew Mrs. Monroe still preferred Cara Netta LeVert for her son, but she was determined to win her over—
As soon as she’d won Sutton’s heart again.
Sutton pointed to one of the gazebos in the painting. “I didn’t see this at first.”
She knew he wasn’t talking about the gazebo but about the two people who stood inside. The images were faint, only shadows really, and one of them was about to fall out backward, in her mind, anyway.
“They’re like hidden treasures,” he whispered. “All the little facets you’ve put into this painting. Just like the party you planned for William.”
She hadn’t thought of that before. Hidden treasures. Like everything God had taught her in recent months.
Following the trial, all of the fraudulent art that had served as evidence had been auctioned off. At her request, Sutton had checked several times but there was no record of her Versailles. It was as if it had never existed.
But in a way, that was as it should be, she decided. Because that painting had never been hers. Not really.
God had given the gift and vision of that painting to François-Narcisse Brissaud. Not to her. She had simply taken it. Not only had she stolen from Brissaud, and from the patron who bought the canvas thinking it was authentic, she’d stolen from God, the Giver of all gifts. She’d also robbed herself. Because she’d cheated herself of the blessing of having to listen for God’s inaudible voice, of waiting on His lead to show her what to create with the gift He’d given her.
Her gaze settled on the top portion of the canvas, the part that had taken her the longest to complete. And she recalled every painstaking brushstroke, every morning she’d arisen before dawn to be on that ridge, awaiting the sun’s return, and for those precious fleeting moments she’d had to capture the beauty of the sunrise over the hill where Sutton’s family home had once stood.
But it was the image within the sunrise she loved most, and that was barely visible. Even she had to look to really see it—a throne, high and lifted up, among the clouds.
Sutton reached for his coat on a nearby chair. “We’d better get on over there. Or the Lady will be sending for us.”
With twilight nearing, they walked arm in arm the short distance to the mansion. Lanterns cast a shimmering spell over the gardens and a stringed orchestra tuned their instruments on the front lawn. When Claire and Sutton reached the top step of the portico, they turned and saw the first carriage.
Followed by another and another . . .
From all over the country, an endless stream of guests arriving for the wedding reception of Dr. and Mrs. William Cheatham, married just over a week ago by Reverend Bunting in a private gathering in the mansion.
Sutton sighed beside her. “Two thousand guests invited this time.”
She laughed and shook her head. “And nearly every one of them accepted.”
The front door opened behind them, and Eli stepped out in black coat and tails. “Good evening, Mr. Monroe, Miss Laurent.”
Claire curtsied. “You look so handsome, Eli.”
He bowed at the waist. “Why, thank you, ma’am. You look lovely, as always. And Mr. Monroe . . . how are you this evening, sir?”
“I’m well, Eli. Thank you.”
Claire continued on inside but paused when she noticed Sutton wasn’t following. She looked back.
“Eli, I’d like to . . .” Sutton briefly looked down. “I’d like to thank you for what you said about my father a while back. And also what . . .” Sutton lifted his gaze. “What you shared with me that he said. That meant more to me than you’ll ever know.” Slowly, he extended his hand, and Eli accepted.
Claire sensed significance to the moment and asked Sutton about it when they stepped inside.
But he just smiled. “I’ll tell you about it later.”
“Miss Laurent . . .”
Claire turned to see Mrs. Cheatham in a dress of flowing white silk, a veil of Brussels point lace floating about her shoulders. In true queenly form, a diamond tiara—a wedding gift from the Emperor and Empress of France, who had been invited to the reception but who had to politely decline—adorned her head. “You look radiant, Mrs. Cheatham.”
“I concur completely, ma’am,” Sutton added.
“I appreciate that.” Smiling, Mrs. Cheatham turned to Eli, who now stood by Ruth Gleaning as well as an easel covered in a black drape. “I also appreciate this,” Mrs. Cheatham added, then gestured. Eli removed the cloth with a flourish.
Claire couldn’t believe her eyes. Her Versailles, with her maman. “Where did you get this?” But as soon as she looked at Sutton, she knew, and she loved him all the more for it. When she drew closer, she saw it. Her name in the bottom right-hand corner. And for a brief second, she was back in her bedroom above the gallery, looking out over the French Quarter, dreaming of her name someday being on a masterpiece.
“And to be clear, Miss Laurent . . .” Mrs. Cheatham stepped closer. “The painting is mine now. But you may view it anytime you like.”
“What my dear wife probably hasn’t told you,” Dr. Cheatham said, joining them with Pauline and Claude in tow, as well as his own teenage children, Mattie and Richard, “is that she and Mrs. Worthington about came to blows in the bidding.”
Mrs. Cheatham shushed him.
But Sutton laughed. “I wish I could have seen that.”
Wishing she could have too, Claire felt Sutton’s hand on the small of her back.
“So much for your talent not being unique,” he whispered.
Mattie Cheatham sidled up beside her new mother, younger Pauline in hand, and Claire could see a close bond had already formed between them. Joseph was home from school now, and he and William, along with Claude, were already luring Richard Cheatham into their pranks on the girls. A full household indeed.
“Mr. Monroe”—Dr. Cheatham gave Sutton’s shoulder a good-natured grip—“Adelicia tells me you’re quite gifted with horses. I’ve recently purchased two thoroughbreds and would be obliged if you’d consider training them for me. As time permits, of course. I’ll either compensate you outright or legally assign you a portion of their future winnings. Your choice.”
A smile that did Claire’s heart good broke over Sutton’s face. “I’d be honored, sir. Thank you.”
Prominently displayed on a side table was Adelicia Cheatham’s copy of Queens of American Society opened to the page that bore Mrs. Cheatham’s picture, along with the memory book Claire had made her. But a second copy of Queens of American Society also adorned the table, opened to a different page. Claire stepped closer.
“Have you had opportunity to read Mrs. Cheatham’s portion yet, Miss Laurent?”
Claire turned to see Mrs. Routh beside her, the woman’s spectacles resting midway down her nose. “Ah . . . yes, Mrs. Routh, actually, I have read it.” She wasn’t about to admit that she’d written practically every word. Only Mrs. Cheatham knew that. “She’s lived a very full and meaningful life.”
“That she has.” Mrs. Routh smoothed a hand over the opened page, her forefinger lingering on the last paragraph. “It was most gracious of Mrs. Cheatham to include such kind remarks about me.”
Claire nodded, knowing full well what the paragraph said, and getting the sneaking suspicion that Mrs. Routh knew their employer hadn’t written it. “Mrs. Cheatham thinks most highly of you, ma’am. As do many other people. But then . . .” She met the woman’s gaze. “I hope you would know that by now.”
Mrs. Routh closed the book and held it to her chest. “I do,” she whispered. “Just as I hope those ‘other people’ know that I think the same of them.”
A while later, after toasts had been made to the new bride and groom and a waltz had ended, Claire spotted Mrs. Cheatham gesturing to her. Claire made her way across the grand salon and past The Peri. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Miss Laurent, why isn
’t the cupola lit and ready for our guests? I am quite certain I put that on your list.”
“No, ma’am,” Claire said gently. “We discussed the cupola earlier this week. With the redecorating you’re doing upstairs, you expressly told me that you preferred our guests not—”
“Apparently one of us was not listening well enough, Miss Laurent. The servants are all disposed. Would you please take care of this personally? And straightaway.”
Claire tilted her head. “Most happily, Mrs. Cheatham.” Knowing she hadn’t misunderstood but recalling everything the woman had done for her, Claire ascended the staircase, looking for Sutton, thinking he could help her with the task. She’d seen him dancing with his mother earlier, but he was nowhere in sight now. She’d lit the lanterns up there before. She could do it again.
On the second-floor landing, she retrieved an oil lamp and matches and continued up the stairs. She opened the door to the cupola and stepped inside.
“It’s about time. . . .”
She jumped at the voice, then saw him. And the smile Sutton wore told her she’d been hoodwinked. Very happily so. “Why isn’t the cupola lit and ready for our guests?” she mimicked her employer. “I am quite certain I put that on your list.”
He laughed as he took the lamp and matches from her and set them on a table that wasn’t usually there. Same for the bottle of champagne chilling on ice and two glasses. “She was most cooperative when I told her my intentions toward you.”
Claire raised an eyebrow. “You have intentions toward me, Mr. Monroe?”
He pulled her close. “I do indeed.” He leaned down and kissed her soft on the mouth. “And most of them are honorable.”
She smiled, even as his expression sobered.
“I needed some time, Claire, to sort things through. But mainly for us both to get the trial behind us.” He fingered a curl at her temple. “I’ve loved you since we hid all those silly clues together. And it took everything I had not to kiss you that night in the art gallery. I wanted to . . . so badly.”
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