A Lasting Impression (14 page)

And being at Belmont held another advantage. . . .

If the right people saw her work, people who moved in Mrs. Acklen’s social circle, perhaps they would recognize her talent, and—Claire felt her desperation narrow to a single point of focus—that would enable her to gain the recognition she sought, that she could almost taste. Then like Randolph Rogers and his
Ruth Gleaning,
she would create something that would inspire. That would affirm her talent. Something with
her
name on it that would earn her the respect and attention of critics.

She took a breath and released it with practiced ease. But how to get Mrs. Acklen to change her mind? And then it occurred to her. It was almost too simple and had been right in front of her the entire time.

She lifted her gaze. Only seconds had passed, but it felt like much longer. “Mrs. Acklen, you’re right. I apologize for coming here today so ill-prepared for our interview. I need to confess something to you, but before I do, I ask that whatever opinion you form of me, you will not hold Reverend or Mrs. Bunting responsible for my failure to make a favorable impression.”

Mrs. Acklen studied her with a glimmer of renewed interest. “Very well, Miss Laurent. You have my assurance. After all, it’s only proper that one take responsibility for her own shortcomings.”

The razor-edged comment cut, but sensing the sand pouring through the hourglass, Claire plunged ahead. “I arrived to Nashville only yesterday. And through a series of unfortunate events, late last night I found myself at a chur—”

She jumped at the sharp knock on the door behind her.

Looking equally surprised, and bothered, Mrs. Acklen glanced in that direction. “Yes, come in.”

The smooth glide of recently oiled hinges announced someone’s entry.

“Mrs. Acklen,” a man said, “I need to speak with you about—oh, my apologies for interrupting, ma’am. I didn’t realize you were entertaining a guest.”

Recognizing his voice, Claire didn’t move—except to turn her head slightly away so that Sutton Monroe wouldn’t see her face.

11

C
laire sat absolutely still, feeling as though she’d been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Any second now, Sutton Monroe would recognize her, and her chance to win Mrs. Acklen’s trust would be lost. If that chance had ever been hers to begin with.

Mrs. Acklen looked past her and smiled with a sweetness heretofore unseen. “That’s quite all right, Mr. Monroe. You’re never an interruption. I’ll be finished here shortly. Can you wait?”

“Certainly, ma’am. I’ll be in the study.”

“Very well.” Mrs. Acklen nodded. “Thank you.”

Hearing Monroe’s retreating steps, Claire took a much needed breath. How had he not recognized her? Yet considering she’d been sitting with her back to him, and remembering how she’d looked that morning at the church building, no wonder he hadn’t—

“Oh! And Mr. Monroe?”

Claire tensed again.

Mrs. Acklen gestured to the side table directly to Claire’s left. “While you’re waiting, would you mind reviewing a document for me? Mr. Olensby had the file delivered today while you were away. He’s requesting an answer no later than tomorrow morning, and I assured him we’d have one for him by then.”

Hearing Mr. Monroe draw closer, Claire bowed her head and pretended to be distracted by a thread at the edge of her sleeve. She could see his hand as he reached for the folder.

“I’ll review it immediately, Mrs. Acklen,” he said. “And again, please accept my regrets for interrupting your visit.”

Mrs. Acklen waved as though dismissing his apology. “It’s an interview, Mr. Monroe. Not a personal visit. And we’re nearly finished. I’ll join you in a moment.”

Claire silently counted Monroe’s steps to the door as the niggling thread magically fixed itself.

Mrs. Acklen’s attention returned to her. “Now, Miss Laurent . . . you were saying?”

Monroe’s footsteps halted. And Claire cringed, feeling the lid to the cookie jar clamp viselike on her hand. And on her future.

Mrs. Acklen glanced past her again. “Is something wrong, Mr. Monroe?”

Claire heard him approach a second time and knew there was no use trying to hide her face as she’d done before.

“Miss
Laurent
?” Disbelief weighed his tone.

Her heart pounding so hard she felt breathless, Claire attempted a pleasant countenance as she lifted her gaze. “Mr. Monroe . . .”

Mrs. Acklen leaned forward. “You two
know
one another?”

Calculation and suspicion darkened Monroe’s features, and Claire quickly realized he was leaving Mrs. Acklen’s question for her to answer. “N-no, ma’am. We don’t know one another. Not formally, anyway. But our paths
did
cross briefly this morning at the . . . First Presbyterian Church.”

Claire waited for him to say more. But he didn’t. He only stared.

“I see . . .” Mrs. Acklen looked between them, curiosity evident in her gaze. “Then allow me to make the proper introductions.” She rose and Claire did likewise. “Mr. Monroe, may I present Miss Claire Laurent, who is interviewing for the position of my liaison. Miss Laurent, this fine gentleman is Mr. Willister Sutton Monroe, the most promising young attorney in the state of Tennessee. Mr. Monroe is responsible for managing interests pertaining to Belmont, as well as my other business holdings. I could not do without him.”

Claire curtsied, encouraged by Mrs. Acklen’s use of the present tense
“is interviewing.”
Meaning, perhaps there was still hope. But as she lifted her gaze and met that of
Willister
Sutton Monroe, she read the very opposite in his eyes. “It’s my pleasure to make your
formal
acquaintance, Mr. Monroe.”

He offered a stiff bow. “On the contrary, Miss Laurent. The pleasure is all mine.”

The way he said it, his voice velvet smooth, made Claire tremble. But not in a good way. Reluctantly adhering to custom, she offered her hand and he kissed it briefly, just as he’d done that morning. But this time, as he drew back, he squeezed her fingers the slightest bit and gave her a smile heavy with meaning. Without knowing exactly how she knew, Claire understood that he intended to have words with her. Words she would not welcome.

“I’ll leave you two ladies to finish your interview.” Folder in hand, he turned. But he paused at the door. “It’s slightly stuffy in here, Mrs. Acklen. Would you prefer that I left this open?”

Mrs. Acklen nodded. “Yes, please do, Mr. Monroe. Thank you for your attentiveness.”

Claire didn’t miss the look Mr. Monroe threw in her direction as he left. Which confirmed what she already knew.
Attentiveness
was the last thing on the man’s mind. He wanted to hear their conversation. Not that she could blame him.

Mrs. Acklen reclaimed her seat on the settee and indicated that Claire do the same. “Miss Laurent, in the interest of time, I must be frank with you.”

“Please, Mrs. Acklen, if you’ll only allow me to—”

That same silencing forefinger rose. “I’m an excellent judge of character, Miss Laurent. And while I appreciate your interest in the position and the courage you’ve shown in coming here today”—a sly little smile tipped her mouth—“as well as the manner in which you conducted yourself in the face of grave embarrassment,
and
accepted responsibility for your lack of readiness . . . I fear the nature of this position and its strenuous demands—especially when considering upcoming events—would stretch you beyond your current abilities. You’re a young woman yet, Miss Laurent. You have much to experience and to learn. However, I
do
see promise in you.”

Claire didn’t know whether the gripping ache in her chest was due to Mrs. Acklen’s rejection of her for the position, or to the unexpected compliment the woman had just paid her. Or the unnerving prospect that
Willister
was listening to it all outside the door.

Whichever it was, she felt unusually emboldened. And coupled with the memory of Reverend Bunting intentionally leaving the storeroom door open, she knew that if she left without saying what she’d planned to say, she would regret it forever.

She took a fortifying breath. “Up until this morning, Mrs. Acklen, I had never heard of Belmont.” She spoke softly, above a whisper so as not to appear like the beggar she felt, and yet hushed in the hope that her voice might not carry to the next room. Sutton Monroe obviously thought poorly of her already. No reason to give him further evidence to support that opinion. And though she cared—far more than she should have—about his estimation of her, saying what she needed to say to Mrs. Acklen mattered more. “And please know that what I say next, ma’am, I say with the utmost respect. . . . I had never heard of you either. But despite that, I find myself sitting here, in this room, speaking to you now. And I’m beginning to believe that some of the events that led me here—or perhaps all of them, I don’t know—happened on purpose.”

Mrs. Acklen listened wordlessly. And somewhere in between the faint glimmer in the woman’s eyes and the downward tilt of her delicate chin, Claire sensed a spark of renewed interest. And she grabbed it, determined to make the most of the opportunity.

However fleeting or ill-fated it might prove to be.

Sutton stood on the other side of the open doorway, in the central parlor, intent on protecting his employer’s interests.

Though hidden from the ladies’ view, he was certain Miss Laurent knew he was there. He’d given her a look that said he would be listening.

He didn’t trust her.

And though he found what she was saying now—about arriving in Nashville yesterday—credible enough, he didn’t believe her statement about never having heard of Belmont or Mrs. Acklen. He fingered the folder in his hand. He’d been told that particular story before.

How many fortune seekers had he chased off in the past? And how many times had complete strangers shown up on the front porch claiming to be related to Adelicia? Or what of the parade of ne’er-do-well Northerners who came armed, portfolios at the ready, with their “no-lose” investment opportunities. Even far-reaching family members occasionally came calling under the guise of wanting to reconnect with a “loved one.” Adelicia Acklen being that loved one. And yet each time they all wanted the same thing.

Money. And one of his responsibilities was to make sure they didn’t get it. Or that they got only what Mrs. Acklen desired that they have.

Granted, on the surface, Miss Laurent didn’t seem like one of those charlatans. Still, something about her felt . . . not quite right. That could be due to his knowledge that she’d spent the previous night in the First Presbyterian Church—and on Adelicia’s personal cushioned pew, no less.

Something Miss Laurent had failed to mention thus far.

“After I left the train station, Mrs. Acklen, I discovered that the lodgings where I had planned to stay were . . . regrettably unsuitable. So . . .”

Regrettably unsuitable.
The exact description she’d used with him that morning. Not that this meant she was lying. . . . It simply seemed like too much of a coincidence to him. Her showing up in town when she did, and then at the mansion, on the last day of interviews. Not to mention she was French. Hardly a coincidence, given that Adelicia, as most everyone knew, loved anything French.

The woman had adored Paris. That’s where she’d gotten the idea to hire a personal liaison in the first place—after his none-too-gentle suggestion that she do so. She needed the talent of a female counterpart who shared her interest in planning parties, creating guest lists and menus, selecting flower arrangements for tables, and creating the artistic aura that Adelicia demanded for her evenings of elaborate entertaining.

Hence, the liaison.

“So when I saw the church building, I decided to check the doors to see if it was open. And . . .”

Sutton’s train of thought stopped cold. So Miss Laurent
was
telling Adelicia about the church. Then again, of course she would. Because she would know that if she didn’t tell her, he would. He listened, finding her next statement hard to believe.

She’d entered through a storeroom door that had been left unlocked? That seemed unlikely. Reverend Bunting was a thorough man. Bunting wouldn’t have mistakenly left a door open.

Sutton smiled as Adelicia questioned the validity of that statement too.

“Yes, ma’am, I give you my word. I found the door unlocked. And as it turns out, that doesn’t seem to have been an accident. Reverend Bunting told me that . . .”

Unexpected laughter coming from the
tête-à-tête
room drowned out Miss Laurent’s words, and Sutton frowned at the interruption. Who else was Adelicia entertaining this afternoon? The woman was becoming a veritable socialite. And he knew who to blame for that—

Cara Netta’s mother, Madame Octavia Walton LeVert. She and Adelicia had fast become intimate friends.

“So I am to understand, Miss Laurent, that you
slept
in the church last night?” Incredulity edged Adelicia’s tone. She wasn’t a woman easily won over.