A Lasting Impression (10 page)

If only he’d been there the afternoon it happened . . .

He briefly closed his eyes. His mother had recounted every excruciating detail. The Federal officer riding up to the house, escorted by full military detail. His father meeting the officer at the top of the porch steps, hand outstretched in greeting. His mother said accusations ensued, followed by threats—and a final ultimatum. Then the captain drew his gun and fired point-blank.

Almost two years had passed, yet still it seemed surreal.

And now the government was alleging that his father had been the first to draw a firearm. His father—a pacifist, a physician committed to saving lives. His father who had never owned a gun in his life, at least that Sutton could remember. As a boy, he’d learned to shoot from his grandfather because his father refused to teach him, something Sutton had never understood, and guessed he never would.

If only he could speak with one of those board members. Make a personal appeal. Closing arguments were his greatest strength as an attorney, or so Mr. Holbrook had told him, time and time again.

Forcing the last lingering image of his father from his thoughts, Sutton urged the stallion forward and fell into step beside Holbrook’s mare. Side by side, he and Holbrook rode in silence down the cedar-canopied drive to the main road, then on toward town.

Church bells tolled some distance away, traveling over the rooftops and drawing Sutton’s attention to a much closer steeple, two streets over.
Mademoiselle Claire Elise Laurent.
A name, and woman, not easily forgotten. He welcomed the pleasant intrusion in his thoughts, especially one so captivating, but knew he probably shouldn’t in light of his relationship with Cara Netta.

Still, he wished he’d had the time to spare earlier that morning. He’d wanted to help Miss Laurent more than he had. Then again, Reverend Bunting was the person the young woman had truly needed to see. For many reasons.

He felt the tug of a smile. The look on her face as he’d turned to leave . . .

Like she’d wanted to skin him alive.

She was feisty, for sure. But he’d detected a shyness about her too. An almost frightened quality. Which was understandable if she’d arrived in town only to find herself with nowhere to go. No place to stay. But what lady traveled unescorted and with no confirmed destination?

“Mildred received a letter from your mother yesterday.”

Pulled from his reverie, Sutton glanced beside him, and tried to read Mr. Holbrook’s expression. His mother had written him too, three months earlier. He’d answered her letter promptly but hadn’t received a response. A wider gap than usual in their correspondence, but no cause for worry. At least he hadn’t thought so.

His mother had always had spells, when she found it difficult to be at rest within herself and when she wrestled to get her thoughts onto the page, but those spells had worsened after his father’s death.

“Mildred permitted me to read the letter, feeling certain it wouldn’t break a confidence. And it didn’t.” Holbrook seemed to choose his next words more carefully. “Your mother sounds . . . some better.”

Sutton returned his attention to the road. “Which, when interpreted, means she still doesn’t appear to be well. At least not well enough to return.”

Holbrook’s silence was answer enough. “She mentioned returning, someday, perhaps. But coming back to Nashville is going to be difficult for her, no matter how much time passes. I believe—and Mildred agrees—that encouraging a few more months of rest would be prudent. Judging from what your mother wrote, staying with your aunt is pleasant and like a good tonic.”

Sutton started to comment, then nodded instead. If his mother wanted to present her relationship with Aunt Lorena as pleasant and like a good tonic—he could hear her using those exact words—so be it. But he knew better. Still, he missed her.

But her return to Nashville would be far more difficult now. For them both.

When he and Holbrook reached the crossroad where they were to part ways, Sutton started on ahead, then reined in when Holbrook spoke his name.

The elder attorney fingered the rim of his black hat, his expression growing sober. “Don’t attempt to contact the review board directly, Sutton. You’ll not only be going up against some very powerful men, you’ll be challenging an edict from the United States government.”

Sutton nudged his thoroughbred closer. “A government that murdered my father, robbed him of his honor, and burned his home to the ground. And that now aims to destroy his name and everything he spent his life working for. That’s not the government of a more perfect union, sir.”

“No,” Holbrook said. “But it is
de lege lata.
”

Sutton sighed, familiar with the Latin phrase.
What the law is.
“And what about
de lege ferenda.
” W
hat the law ought to be.

Holbrook’s gaze was unyielding. “It takes time to heal a nation. Especially when the hearts of its people are still wounded and bleeding. On both sides.” He leaned forward. “As I remind myself every morning . . . ‘Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.’ That same Lord ordains that we obey the laws of the land and submit to our rulers. And the—”

“But when our rulers are bent on—”

Holbrook held up a hand. “May I please finish, Mr. Monroe?”

Stung by the gentle rebuke and mindful of what Bartholomew Holbrook meant to him, Sutton nodded. “Yes, sir. My apologies.”

A telling gleam lit Holbrook’s eyes. The old man enjoyed arguing a case as much as he did.

“As I was saying, the Lord calls His people to be just, flawed beings though we are.” A bushy eyebrow rose. “But government, in and of itself, can no more be fair and just than any one of these businesses here.” He indicated the storefronts lining the street. “Justice does not reside in institutions, Mr. Monroe. But in the hearts of men.
If
those men seek Him with all their hearts.” His eyes narrowed. “And that, my promising young friend, is what I am petitioning the Lord for on your behalf. That the review board will seek God’s face, and that they’ll rule on this issue justly. But I’m also praying that
you
would seek justice within your own heart as well, and make peace with the past, whether justice comes in the guise you expect, or not.”

As always, Bartholomew Holbrook spoke eloquently, but Sutton still found himself wanting to argue. Yet from years of experience—and having heard the church bell toll three times, meaning he was going to be late for his next appointment if he didn’t hurry—he knew it would be pointless.

Today, anyway.

He dipped his head forward. “I’ll take your counsel under strictest consideration, sir.”

A sad smile crept over Holbrook’s face. “You’re like a son to me, Sutton. You’re bright and talented, more capable than I ever dreamed of being at twenty-seven. And no matter what it feels like now, you
will
recover from this loss. Don’t allow yourself to be consumed with the same hatred that prompted those men to kill your father. If that happens, they will have won for a second time.”

Hearing the faint and cherished voice of his father in the man’s counsel, Sutton had to look away. He tugged at the edge of his collar.

Holbrook reached over and gripped Sutton’s forearm. “I know your legal plate is rather full right now with work for your esteemed employer, but I have a proposition for you. One I believe you’ll find most intriguing. And likewise, at least I hope, most difficult to turn down.”

Sutton waited, his interest mildly piqued.

“It’s a case that, if I were younger, I wouldn’t dare share. Not even with you, dear boy.”

Sutton smiled, his interest holding steady. He was familiar with Holbrook’s persuasive powers.

“It will involve a great deal of work and long hours. That’s why I’m offering to bring you in. I need your youth and stamina, your tenacity.”

“What’s the case about, sir?”

Holbrook held up a hand. “If we were to win this case, Mr. Monroe, your name would be on the front page of every newspaper in the country and at the top of every law firm’s hire list. Your financial future would be set.”

“What is the case about . . . counselor?” Sutton repeated again, his interest having edged up several notches due to that last comment alone.

Holbrook chuckled. “The usual—theft, greed, and deceit. Qualities that make humanity such a fascinating—and tragic—study.” Holbrook leaned closer. “A long-standing client of the firm purchased an original Raphael from a gallery in New York, only to discover upon having the painting insured . . . that while it was indeed an original, the painting’s certificate of authenticity had been forged, for some reason. Which then led our client to question the validity of another
original
he’d purchased from the same gallery two years earlier. That painting, as it turns out, was a forgery. The gallery denies having known that, though evidence indicates otherwise. But in preparing to go to trial, we’ve uncovered yet another layer to this sordid affair.”

“And what layer would that be, sir?”

Zeal punctuated Holbrook’s expression. “Our client has what you might call a rather sizeable investment in art, as do his peers. He’s hired investigators, and their reports indicate that these dealings could be more widespread than originally thought. Our client wants to sue this gallery for financial damages, of course. But he also wants whoever is at the top to answer for this as well. And he’s willing to pay us, quite handsomely, to work with the investigators to ensure that happens.”

Sutton nodded, his appetite more than a little whetted.

When first considering studying the law, the choice to become an attorney had been the means to an end for him—to what he really wanted to do with his life. But over time, and influenced by Bartholomew Holbrook’s mentoring, the law had come alive and instilled within him a passion for its truth. But as much as he loved the law, he loved something else equally well, if not more.

He fingered Truxton’s reins, remembering how many years he’d saved to buy this thoroughbred, as well as the others the North had confiscated during the war. His childhood dream had about as much chance of coming to fruition now as he did of receiving a fair rendering from the review board.

Mr. Holbrook knew about his other aspiration, and Sutton wondered if offering a part in this case was the old man’s way of helping him pick up the pieces of that dream the war had shattered.

“Consider my offer, Sutton, and when you’ve made your decision, let me know. One stipulation . . . Under no circumstances—whether you accept my proposal or not—can you inform anyone that the firm is working on this case. If news of our client’s investigation were to get out, I fear the evidence we’re seeking, and that we need, would be buried before it sees the light of day.”

“I understand, sir. And I appreciate your trust.” Sutton reached for Holbrook’s hand and appreciated the man’s still-firm grip. “I’ll have an answer for you within the week.”

“And when I get word of the board’s decision,” Holbrook continued, “I’ll inform you straight away.”

Sutton nodded. “Thank you, sir. For . . . everything.”

Holbrook made to go, then paused. A memory-laden smile eased the tracks of time and loss etched in his face. “Sometimes, Sutton . . . when I look at you, I can still see him. He loved you, you know. Like a brother.”

Sutton felt a wash of yesteryear move through him. “I loved him too, sir, and carry him with me every day.”

Seconds passed unhindered, and finally, Holbrook adjusted the brim of his hat. “Well—” He inhaled sharply. “Wish me luck. I’m off to meet with an investigator. I haven’t done this in years. Makes me feel like a first-year attorney again. Never mind that I’ll be reaching for my rheumatism medicine by noon.”

They parted ways, and Sutton rode on through town. When he reached his turnoff, he headed south, urging Truxton to a canter. He knew Holbrook didn’t agree with his petitioning the military board to review the case surrounding his father’s death. The man didn’t consider it wrong—just pointless, under the circumstances.

Yet he also knew that Bartholomew Holbrook understood.

Because Mr. Holbrook had lost his only son on a battlefield not fifteen miles south of town, just a handful of days after Dr. Stephen Monroe had been shot point-blank on his porch in front of his wife. Sutton had been the one to tell Holbrook about his son, because he’d cradled Mark Holbrook—his best friend since the age of six—as death snatched Mark’s life away mere seconds after the minié ball had blasted a hole in his chest.

Sutton urged the stallion to a canter, then a gallop, then gave the thoroughbred his head. Vengeance belonged to the Lord—he knew that. But sometimes the Lord seemed slow in meting out justice.

Too slow for the thirst that ached inside him.

8

H
ow much farther to Mrs. Acklen’s estate, Reverend?” Nerves edging out her eagerness, Claire leaned forward on the buggy seat and peered past
Saint
Chrissinda to Reverend Bunting, who gripped the reins.

“The turnoff’s just ahead.” He tossed her a reticent smile. “I told you it was on the outskirts of town.”

Two miles from Nashville proper, the Reverend had said, just before insisting that he and Mrs. Bunting accompany her. Claire was grateful for the companionship, and the ride.

The farther they got from town, the more beautiful the views. Stalwart pines stood shoulder to shoulder with lush-leafed oaks and maples to flank the sunbaked dirt road. Every so often, the timber soldiers would break rank and part to reveal sweeping views of the rolling countryside. Even with the numerous stumps of mighty felled trees—a result of the war, no doubt—she would never have guessed the area surrounding Nashville to be so lovely. Especially after what she’d seen in town.

She could have traveled the distance on foot—she was accustomed to walking much farther—but the afternoon heat and humidity were enough to bear, even riding in the buggy. And the dusty roads would have ruined the elegant emerald dress and matching jacket Mrs. Bunting had loaned her.