A Lasting Impression (18 page)

Claire started to say “How very nice” but decided that simply nodding again and concentrating on her meal was the safer choice.

A moment passed, the only sound the tinkling of silver cutlery on delicate china.

“I’m certain, Miss Laurent,” Mrs. Acklen continued, “that you’re dreaming up some wonderful plans for William’s birthday celebration.”

Hearing a request in the woman’s tone, Claire hurriedly swallowed the bite of lima beans and washed it down with a gulp of icy lemonade, which rushed a chill to her head. “Yes, ma’am.” She smiled at William for good measure, though he still didn’t return the gesture, and she wondered whether the details were meant to be a surprise for him. “I had intended to discuss them with you first . . . privately.”

Mrs. Acklen shook her head. “I think William would be interested in knowing what you have planned.” She glanced at her son, whose expression conveyed considerably more interest than moments earlier. “So . . . do tell us all, Miss Laurent. What are your thoughts at the moment?”

Claire rested her fork beside her plate, eyeing her remaining sweet potatoes. She dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “Well . . .” Excitement rose inside her as she imagined the scene in her mind. “Turning eleven is a special time in a child’s life, and . . .”

She glanced at William, whose features instantly dulled.

“And . . .” Scrambling to regain her thoughts, she wondered what she’d said to provoke such a response. “I was thinking that we could invite his friends, of which I’m sure there are many.”

The boy’s air of disinterest plummeted to full-fledged boredom.

Claire decided to skip her rehearsed introduction and jump ahead to the best part. “This morning, I browsed in town and found the most wonderful puppet shop. I thought we could—”

“Not puppets
again
!” Claude sighed. “We saw those in Europe. Over and over . . .”

Pauline sat straighter. “I like puppets! Especially when they
hit
each other!” She smacked her fork against her spoon. But only once. A cowing look from her mother saw to that.

William exhaled. “Puppets are for children.” He rolled his eyes. “And I’m not a child anymore.”

“Now, now . . .” Mrs. Acklen lifted her chin. “You will keep your comments to yourself and allow Miss Laurent to finish her thoughts. I’m certain she has other ideas.”

She told herself not to, but Claire glanced across the table only to discover Mr. Monroe’s gaze now confined to his plate, which somehow only deepened her embarrassment.

“Yes, ma’am . . . I have other ideas.” She took a breath, willing her forced enthusiasm to sound authentic, and hoping Mrs. Acklen wouldn’t consider this next idea too indulgent. “I’ll need to explore the logistics, of course, but imagine how exciting it would be to ride in a hot air balloon!” She paused to let the idea take flight, as it were. “We could hire a balloonist to take the chil—” She caught herself. “To take William and his friends for a ride. We would have the balloon tethered, of course, so that it would be secure. Less risk for injury or mishap.”

Claire had trouble gauging their reactions to the idea, so she pressed on. “I’ve actually seen these balloons before. Once,” she admitted. “They’re
quite
beautiful, and the experience looks like it would be a memorable one.”

The expressions of Mrs. Acklen and her sons could best be described as complacent. Little Pauline, her eyes wide, seemed close to bursting with excitement yet remained compliantly silent. It was Sutton Monroe’s expression—the flicker of compassion, however fleeting—that explained everything.

Claire’s throat tightened. Her face burned with embarrassment. “You’ve already done that too, I suppose.”

“In Paris,” William said, his tone gloating. “We flew the balloon over the city. Without a tether.”

“However”—Mrs. Acklen cast a sharp glance at her middle son before looking back at Claire—“your description of the experience is most accurate, Miss Laurent. It was a memorable part of our journey.”

It was all Claire could do to nod.

“Well . . .” Mrs. Acklen rang the silver bell beside her place setting. “I think that’s enough conversation about the party for now.”

Claire bowed her head as familial conversation resumed. She sensed Mr. Monroe’s attention but didn’t dare look across the table. The last thing she wanted to see was his pity.

Hearing footsteps in the hallway, she glanced at the others’ plates. All empty. Hers was still half full. Despite having failed miserably to impress them, she was still hungry, but she wasn’t about to ask to be given more time.

A dessert plate was placed where her dinner plate had been, and the serving of
petits fours glacés
blurred in Claire’s vision. Her mother had always loved these tiny little iced cakes. Claire gritted her teeth until her jaw ached, refusing to give in to the slow-burning truth flickering inside her. She knew she didn’t belong. In this house, in this position, in this make-believe kind of world.

And what was worse—she slid a look across the table—Sutton Monroe knew it too.

14

M
ay I have a word with you, Miss Laurent?” Sutton could tell by the way she’d avoided his gaze during dessert, and how she’d bolted from the family dining room, that a word with him was the last thing she wanted. And he couldn’t say he blamed her. Not after what she’d just been through.

He understood her desire for a hasty retreat and empathized with her embarrassment, but he needed to properly congratulate her on getting the job, regardless of how he felt about it. And equally as important, he wanted to lay the groundwork for their working together. However brief a time that might prove to be.

She paused by the staircase and turned back, wearing a pasted-on smile and tugging nervously at her dress. “Yes, Mr. Monroe, you may. But please don’t allow your conversation with me to make you late for your opera.”

Telling by the faint flicker in her expression, Sutton gathered she’d tried to keep the hurt from her voice, but a thread of it had needled its way through, and he felt its prick. “There’s time yet before we need to leave, ma’am. And, I promise, I’ll be brief.” He smiled in the hope of setting her more at ease, but the tiny lines at the corners of her eyes only knit tighter. “Allow me to extend my formal welcome to Belmont, Miss Laurent, as well as my congratulations to you on being chosen for the position. If I can be of assistance to you, I hope you’ll consider me at your service.”

“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Monroe. And your offer is most generous.”

Sutton studied her, wondering if she was aware of how truly poor a liar she was. Not that she was lying,
per se
, but she definitely wasn’t speaking her mind. Adelicia was right. That apparently took some coaxing.

With silent deliberation, he checked his pocket watch. If the two of them were going to work together—which Adelicia had made clear they were, at least for the time being—they needed to get some things straight. But the grand salon wasn’t an appropriate setting.

He glanced to where Mrs. Acklen was bidding her children good-night, then back to Miss Laurent. “The gardens are especially lovely this time of evening, Miss Laurent. Would you care to view them with me?”

“That’s most kind of you, Mr. Monroe. But I have no intention of making you late for your plans. And I still need to be shown to my—”

“Miss Laurent . . .” Apparently, he needed to take the more direct approach. “I’m requesting an opportunity to speak with you privately. I’d prefer to do that now, if you are agreeable. Or we can meet following breakfast in the morning.”

Emotions flitted across her pretty face—fear, dread, and finally, begrudging acceptance. With a frown, she nodded, her auburn curls bouncing. He gestured for her to precede him, smiling at her back.

Adelicia caught his attention and gave the faintest nod. He returned it. She hadn’t specifically requested that he have a conversation with Miss Laurent. It was simply understood that he would. Adelicia would view it as his responsibility to keep an eye on the young woman.

The air outside was cooler, and he welcomed the breeze. The rainfall had ceased, leaving behind a world of deeper green and a veil of moisture that clung to every surface. He breathed in and caught the scent of Adelicia’s innumerable roses and was grateful the heavy days of summer were behind them.

He offered Miss Laurent his arm as they descended the steps. She slipped her hand through, then promptly removed it the second her little boot touched level ground, which only renewed his smile. The poor liar, who had trouble speaking her mind, possessed an independent streak. Interesting combination.

They strolled toward the main fountain and as far as the first tiered garden before he broke the silence. “I appreciate your taking the time to speak with me, Miss Laurent. And I’m wondering . . .” He peered over at her. “Would you like to go first, or shall I?”

Her steps slowed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that we both have things we want to say to each other. I’ll go first, if you’d like. Or you may.”

She came to a stop. “I’m afraid you’ve misread me, Mr. Monroe. I . . . don’t have anything
pressing
that I want to say to you.”

“Are you certain?”

She blinked as though checking her own thoughts. “Quite.”

“Very well, then.” He motioned toward a gazebo, thinking she might like to sit, but she shook her head. So they continued their stroll. “First, may I say, ma’am, that I believe you handled the situation in the dining room with grace and decorum.”

She peered up at him. “Yes, you may, Mr. Monroe. And I thank you. But . . . I doubt that’s what you brought me out here to tell me.”

He let his smile show, appreciating her candor. It was a step. “You’re right. It’s not. The main thing I want to say to you, Miss Laurent”—he prayed he would speak with a fraction of the genteel honesty he’d always admired in his father—“is that, while I was not in favor of Mrs. Acklen hiring you for this position, I do respect her choice. And I was most sincere earlier when I offered to assist you in whatever way I can.”

As they rounded a curve in the path, he glanced back toward the house to make sure the carriage wasn’t waiting, dreading the evening before him. He’d gotten his fill of opera for a lifetime in Europe, as well as the social politics that accompanied the event locally.

They walked in silence until Miss Laurent paused by one of the many statues Adelicia had collected through the years. “Why did you not want me to get the position?” Her voice was quiet, her attention fixed on the polished marble of a young woman trimming vines next to an arbor.

Studying her profile, Sutton debated how to phrase his answer, not wanting to intentionally hurt her. But not wanting to mislead either. And certainly not wanting to reveal a confidence between him and Mrs. Acklen. “Because I didn’t feel as though you were among the most qualified applicants, Miss Laurent. I’m sorry. . . .”

She stared at him, then nodded, slowly, as though having to accept his response in increments. They continued down the walkway, and when they came to a fork in the path, Sutton chose the direction leading back toward the mansion.

“What position do you hold here at Belmont?” she asked after a moment.

“I’m Mrs. Acklen’s personal attorney. I also help manage the financial holdings of her estates, which—among other things—means protecting her, and her wealth, from people who would seek to take advantage of either, or both.” He gauged her expression, watching for a reaction—a trace of guilt, perhaps, a sign of discomfort.

And saw traces of both—just before she looked away.

As they neared the main fountain, he spotted the carriage in the distance, coming up the lane. “Shall we?” He offered his arm as they ascended the steps to the front portico. Once inside the entrance hall, he heard Adelicia’s voice, and Mrs. Routh’s, coming from a nearby room. “Has Mrs. Routh shown you your quarters yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Then allow me. It’s through here.” He led the way across the grand salon to the northeast wing. “Others might disagree, since your room doesn’t overlook the gardens, but I think you have one of the most beautiful views Belmont offers.” He opened the door to the bedroom, working to sort the culpability he’d seen in her features a moment earlier with her seeming innocence. “I know because I stayed in this room when I first came here.”

“You don’t live at Belmont anymore?”

“I do. But in another building. The art gallery has guest quarters. I live in one of those.”

Her eyes lit. “Belmont has an art gallery?”

He nodded, feeling a little as if he were seeing the estate for the first time again, through her eyes. “Come and see your view.” He pulled the curtains back to reveal the lush rolling meadows that encompassed the majority of the one hundred eighty acres surrounding the manor. Acreage he and Truxton knew by heart.

She stepped close to the window. “It’s like a painting,” she whispered. “All the colors . . .”

“And it’s not even at its best yet.” He pointed to the tree line in the distance. “Those are all maples. Give it a few weeks and that entire hillside will be on fire with autumn.”

She sighed, and her breath fogged the glass pane. “Autumn was my mother’s favorite time of year. It’s mine too.”

Sutton studied her profile, remembering her recent losses. “I’m sorry about your father’s passing, Miss Laurent. And that of your mother.”

“Thank you, Mr. Monroe.” A moment passed before she looked back at him. Silent tears marked her cheeks.

Knowing he needed to go, Sutton found he didn’t want to. He hated to leave her melancholy. “Is there anything I can do for you, Miss Laurent? Believe I leave . . .”

She dabbed her cheek. “Actually, there is. You can stop calling me Miss Laurent. That’s getting rather bothersome, don’t you think?”

He smiled. “With your permission, then, may I address you as Claire, in less formal settings?”

“You may.” She looked up at him. “But only if I can call you Willister.”

Sutton realized he’d walked directly into her trap. “You may. But only if you don’t want me to respond.” He crossed to the door. “I’m certain Mrs. Routh will be by soon enough to answer any questions you may have.” He gave a brief bow. “Good evening, Claire.”