A Lasting Impression (19 page)

She curtsied. “Good evening . . . Willister.”

It wasn’t until the curtain fell after the third act that Sutton realized his misstep earlier that evening. He tugged at his collar, the lead soprano’s excessive vibrato gnawing at his patience. In his effort to be upfront with Claire Laurent, he had in all likelihood driven a wedge between them, and he’d undermined his pledge to Mrs. Acklen to keep an eye on her.

He’d admitted to Claire that he didn’t believe she was qualified for the position, which meant she wouldn’t dare seek his advice on anything, because that would only prove his point. So instead of nurturing their working relationship, which would further his employer’s goal, he’d actually given Claire a bona fide reason not to confide in him. Or trust him.

Seated in the row behind Mrs. Acklen in her box seats, he stared out over the crowd of Nashville’s elite. As much as he despised the name Willister, he’d certainly earned it this time.

15

W
hile these are not wholly unappealing possibilities for a party, Miss Laurent, I was certainly hoping for something with a little more . . . creativity from you.” Mrs. Acklen eyed her across the library desk. “This needs to be an event that William and his friends will remember, that their parents will talk about, instead of a celebration centered around . . .”

Claire cringed in her chair as Mrs. Acklen reached over the desk for the list of ideas she’d stayed up past midnight last night compiling. Around the same time Mrs. Acklen and Sutton returned from the opera.

“. . . clowns, sack races, croquet, rolling hoops, hopscotch, and . . .” Mrs. Acklen peered over her reading glasses to look at her. “
Donkeys?
”

Disapproval and fatigue lined Mrs. Acklen’s features, and Claire lowered her gaze.

With a sigh, Mrs. Acklen pushed the piece of paper back toward her. “I assume, Miss Laurent, that you’re aware of the zoo on this estate. So correct me if I’m wrong, but I fail to see how a game with donkeys—ones fashioned from paper, no less—is going to enthrall forty-seven children.”

In a brief moment of lunacy, Claire considered correcting her employer’s use of the word
children
—knowing William would have had he been present—but she quickly regained her senses. “Yes, ma’am, I’m aware of the zoo. But the donkeys I referred to are actually
piñatas.
A
piñata
is an object made of
papier mâché
that is filled with—”

“I know what a
piñata
is, Miss Laurent! What I’m telling you is that none of these ideas appeal to me. And I’m certain they won’t appeal to William.” Mrs. Acklen removed her glasses and massaged the bridge of her nose. “Nine days, Miss Laurent. Nine days . . . That’s all that remains before the party.” She gave a tired laugh. “And we don’t even have the menu selected. But of course we can’t do that until we have an idea for the theme.”

Part of Claire wanted to gently remind the woman they were only planning a child’s birthday party, not Nashville’s social event of the year. Then again, this “child’s birthday party”
was
the deciding factor in whether or not she got this job. And she needed to succeed.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Acklen.” Claire rose, eager to return to her task. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and prepare some new ideas.”

“
Creative
ones this time, please, Miss Laurent. And what of the party favors? Have you ideas for those?”

“Party favors?”

Mrs. Acklen’s eyes fluttered closed, then opened. “Yes, party favors, Miss Laurent. A small token of appreciation given to a guest to convey the host’s gratitude for their attendance.”

Claire felt her face heat. “Yes, of course, ma’am. I’m going into town this morning. Right this minute, actually, and will return with possibilities for those as well.”

“Have you arranged for a carriage yet?”

Hand on the doorknob, Claire shook her head. “No, ma’am. I thought I would walk. It’s so nice outside, and I enjoy—”

“Take one of the carriages.” Mrs. Acklen peered over the desk. “Your hem is already caked in dust. I’d hate to imagine what it would be like after tromping the streets of Nashville after yesterday’s rain.”

Claire looked down. She’d spent half an hour brushing the skirt of this dress, since her only other dress was still splattered with mud. “Yes, ma’am.”

“And am I to assume, Miss Laurent”—Mrs. Acklen’s tone softened by a degree—“by your lack of mourning garb that your trunks have not arrived as of yet?”

Claire fingered her skirt. “No, ma’am, they haven’t. But I’ll be sure to stop by the train station when I’m in town and check again.”

“Yes, please do that. And tell the steward to have them sent here. No need to continue making needless trips into town when there’s so much to be done. In fact, I have several contacts in New Orleans. We could wire them and ask them to check on your belongings and—”

“No, ma’am,” Claire said quickly, panic clawing its way up inside her. The last thing she needed was for an acquaintance of Mrs. Acklen’s to visit the gallery where they had lived. “What I mean is . . . that won’t be necessary. I’m sure the trunks will arrive soon enough.”

Mrs. Acklen looked pointedly at her. “If your trunks don’t arrive today . . . then other arrangements will need to be made.”

“Other arrangements, ma’am?”

“Yes, Miss Laurent.” Mrs. Acklen smoothed the front of her own immaculately pressed pastel dress. “We’re having dinner guests tomorrow night, and you need a suitable
ensemble
for that occasion. As well as an appropriate mourning dress.”

Claire tightened her grip on the doorknob, summoning her nerve. “I understand what you’re saying, but I’m rather short of funds right now, and buying even one dress—”

“Oh yes, I remember you saying as much. Not to worry, I’ll deduct the dresses from your wages.” With a fountain pen, Mrs. Acklen wrote something on a piece of stationery and held it out. “Visit this shop and ask for Mrs. Perry. She’ll assist you.”

Claire took the fine linen paper and stared at the name of the shop, then the address, wondering why the street sounded so familiar. Her grip tightened on the page as realization dawned.

“Do you have a question about what I’ve written, Miss Laurent?”

Claire looked up. “No, ma’am. There’s no question. Thank you.” She opened the door to leave, existing solely for the moment she could close it behind her.

“Miss Laurent?”

Masking her dread, Claire looked back. “Yes, ma’am?”

“One does not say they’re sorry when they have committed no wrong. While you were mistaken in thinking that your ideas for the party were worthy of serious consideration, you committed no
wrong
. Offering an apology for an offense and admitting you were mistaken on a subject are two quite different responses to two quite different circumstances.”

Claire stared, waiting, wondering if Mrs. Acklen was finished. “Yes, ma’am. I understand. I’m sor—” She caught herself. “I’m
so
very grateful that you pointed that out to me. Thank you.” Sweat beading beneath her chemise, Claire thought she caught the flicker of a smile in Mrs. Acklen’s eyes. As she pulled the door closed, she looked again to be sure, and knew she must have imagined it.

The latch clicked into place behind her, and Claire leaned against the doorjamb in the entrance hall and sighed.

“That bad, was it?”

She quickly straightened. Mr. Monroe—
Sutton
—was standing in the hallway leading to the grand salon.

Gathering her wits, she shook her head. “No, everything’s fine.” She recalled his admission last night, and while having suspected his opinion of her, hearing him say he didn’t consider her qualified for the position stung.

Determined to appear more confident, she pasted on a smile. “I’m simply weary from a late night. And I have a busy day ahead. So if you’ll excuse me . . .” She headed toward her room, not really knowing why. Only that she wanted to appear confident and as if she knew what she were doing.

He fell into step beside her. “And what does that busy day entail . . . Claire?”

“It entails going into town . . . Sutton.”

“Have you requested a carriage?”

She stopped midstride. “I was going to do that right now.”

“Well done, then.”

Aware of his deepening amusement, she took a step and glanced about, wondering where to go and whom to ask about a conveyance. Mrs. Routh had given her a brief tour of the main floor of the mansion last evening, but the head housekeeper had left the rest of the mansion to her imagination, stating rather coolly that “the family’s
private
quarters are upstairs.” Which Claire had taken to mean she wasn’t supposed to go up there.

Sutton cleared his throat. “Eli would be happy to send for a carriage.” He motioned. “He’s out front.”

Claire nodded. “Of course.” She should have known that. She headed toward the entrance hall.

Sutton followed. “Ask for Armstead, Mrs. Acklen’s coachman. I’d be happy to accompany you too, if you desire.”

“No,” Claire said quickly, a little too quickly, she realized after the fact. “Thank you, Sutton, but . . . I imagine your day is rather full, and I have several errands.” One of which she was still debating the wisdom of making, but she certainly couldn’t see to if he were along.

“I understand.” He motioned for her to precede him into the entrance hall. “Have you decided on a theme for the party yet?”

She gave him a look, and he held up his hands as if declaring a truce. “It was merely a question.”

“I’m still working on it. But I’m getting closer.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. Even though she still had no clue what she was going to do, she
was
getting closer simply by the process of elimination. The cumulative number of ideas inhabiting the universe pertaining to children’s birthday parties was shrinking rapidly due to their lack of appeal to Adelicia Acklen. Which therefore meant she was getting closer.

The door to the library opened, and Mrs. Acklen stepped out. Claire sucked in a breath.

“Oh, Mr. Monroe, I’m glad you’re here. I just opened a telegram. . . .” Mrs. Acklen held up a piece of paper. “It’s one I believe you’ll find most encouraging.” With a nod, she included Claire in the conversation, and Claire saw a definite glimmer in her eyes this time. “The LeVerts will be departing New York soon and have requested to break their journey at Belmont. They’ll be here the first week of October.”

“October . . . That’s barely three weeks away.” Sutton’s voice had changed somehow. “That
is
wonderful news.”

Claire looked beside her. She didn’t know Sutton well, by any means. But she knew him well enough to know he didn’t truly consider that
wonderful
news.

Mrs. Acklen folded the telegram. “Miss Laurent, the LeVerts are a fine family with whom we traveled while in Europe. Madame LeVert is a dear friend, and she tells me that her daughters will be in her company as well.” She gave Sutton’s arm a quick pat. “I should ask Cordina to prepare onion soup like you and Cara Netta shared that one evening. Remember? At the café near the Louvre. It will be like Paris all over again.”

Sutton agreed, returning her smile, but his exuberance seemed forced. In fact, it appeared he was rather uncomfortable about the LeVerts’ visit.

The only question Claire had, much to her surprise, was who was Cara Netta?

Claire hated to admit it, but Mrs. Acklen had been right. If she had tried to walk into town, it would have been a disaster. The roads were a mucky mess of mud and dung. Simply walking across the street without slipping or stepping in something vile was an accomplishment. And the smell . . .

She grimaced, dodging a pile of something she didn’t care to dwell on. The afternoon’s warming temperatures were only making conditions worse.

“Here, ma’am—” The carriage driver jumped down from his perch. “Let me take that for you.”

Claire handed him the package. “Thank you, Armstead.” She accepted his outstretched hand and did her best to knock the mud from her boots before climbing into the carriage. The same carriage she’d seen Sutton get into at the train station. She’d known from the carriage’s exterior that it was nice. But inside . . . Supple leather and thick crushed velvet. The definition of elegance.

“You ready to head back now, Miss Laurent?”

Claire peered out the window and down Elm Street, still debating. She breathed out, barely able to read the name
Broderick Shipping and Freight
on the sign above the door at the far end of the avenue. Something inside told her to go back to Belmont, as Armstead suggested.

But she wanted her mother’s locket, and it grated on her to think of a man like Samuel Broderick having it. If he still did.

She’d already done her shopping and had stopped by the train station. According to their records, no trunks had arrived in her name, which led her to think that Antoine DePaul hadn’t arrived either.

Looking down the avenue, she weighed her options, and finally decided. “I have one more stop to make, if you don’t mind, Armstead. It’s down this street a short way.”

“Wherever you wanna go, ma’am. Just say the word.”

When the carriage reached the corner, Claire rapped on the side of the door as Armstead had told her to do. He stopped the carriage and offered his assistance, glancing at the cigar shop behind them. “This where you wanted to go, Miss Laurent?”

“No.” Claire smiled, surveying the street, hoping not to see any familiar faces. “But I’d rather walk from here. I won’t be long.”

“All right, ma’am.” He tugged on his hat. “I’ll be waitin’ right here for you, ma’am.”

She thanked him and made her way toward the Brodericks’ storefront, slowing her pace the closer she got. Taking a deep breath, she peered around the corner and inside the shop. Mrs. Broderick sat at the front desk just as she had at their first meeting.

Feeling more than a little conspicuous, Claire waited. Heart pounding, and seeing no sign of Samuel Broderick
the second
, she opened the door and stepped inside. It felt as if weeks had passed since she’d been here, instead of days.