A Lasting Impression (32 page)

Her smile was reward enough. “Thank you, Sutton. And now it’s your turn. You had something you wanted to say?”

He tried to think of a way to tell her about Cara Netta. But no matter how he phrased—and rephrased—the words in his mind, he realized he couldn’t say what he’d planned on saying a moment ago. Because—after what had just happened—how could he explain to her that he had an understanding with another woman? Which he did.

But how could he proceed in good faith into an engagement with Cara Netta, honestly pledging his affections and life to her, when Claire so obviously had a hold on his heart?

He rose from the bed, glancing back at the clock on the mantel. “I just wanted to say that it’s almost nine thirty. And according to doctor’s orders, you can go to sleep now.” Unable to curb the desire, he leaned back down and kissed her forehead. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

26

D
id you give Cordina the list of special requests for this evening’s dinner?”

“Yes, ma’am, I did.” Claire smiled inwardly at the way her employer hovered near the front window and kept glancing out every so often. For the past few days, Mrs. Acklen had been intent on making certain everything was in order for the LeVerts’ visit—and for the dinner party being held in their honor tonight. The entire Belmont household was atwitter with anticipation.

“I met with Cordina earlier this morning, Mrs. Acklen. We’re having all of Madame LeVert’s favorites, as you requested. Fresh coconut cake, warm pear and apple compote, Cordina’s pork loin with rosemary and thyme . . .” Claire rattled off the menu by heart.

“And what of the guest list? No one has sent any last-minute regrets? Or acceptances?”

“No, ma’am. The guest list remains unchanged.” Without being asked, Claire had made place cards for everyone who would be seated in the formal dining room—Mrs. Acklen, the LeVerts, Sutton, and Mrs. Hayes, Adelicia’s mother. Along with Mrs. Acklen’s brothers and sisters and their spouses. It would be a full table, and she was honored that Mrs. Acklen had stipulated she should sit in there too, instead of with Miss Cenas and the children in the family dining room.

“
Hmmm . . .
” Mrs. Acklen said nothing for a moment. “So . . . Mr. Polk wasn’t able to alter his previous engagement?”

“I guess not, ma’am. He hasn’t advised otherwise, so I’m assuming he won’t be in attendance this evening.”

Nodding, Mrs. Acklen turned back toward the window.

Though Claire would never have actually inquired about such a thing, she wondered what kind of relationship Mrs. Acklen and Lucius Polk shared. They’d seemed friendly with one another on the night of William’s party, and Mr. Polk had been to dinner at Belmont twice since. But Mrs. Acklen was a very wealthy, attractive widow, and that combination was bound to attract a good amount of male interest.

Mrs. Acklen pressed closer to the window, and Claire leaned forward in her chair, sneaking a look out herself, eager for the LeVerts’ arrival too. Though for far different reasons.

Following Mrs. Acklen’s comment a few weeks back about Sutton and Cara Netta sharing onion soup in Paris, she hadn’t heard Cara Netta’s name mentioned again until this week. And never in the same sentence with Sutton’s. So whatever relationship the young woman and Sutton shared—or
had
shared—apparently wasn’t of a serious nature. He would have mentioned something to her by now if that were the case. Especially in light of what happened between them the evening following her accident.

Not that anything had
really
happened. Not outwardly, anyway. A warmth rose to her face. But the way he’d stared at her . . . She recognized that look.

She’d received it on occasion from men whose attention she didn’t welcome. Sutton, however, was in a category all his own, and to think that he looked at her in
that
light seemed like too much to hope for. She appreciated how he’d sat with her that first evening, keeping her awake. Since then, he’d been working longer hours in town, leaving before breakfast and returning after dinner. Working on a lawsuit, he’d said. One that would keep him busy for several months. She was glad when she’d learned that. She’d begun to think that maybe he was trying to avoid her.

“
Be careful who you love . . .
”

The memory of her mother’s words rose like a warning inside her, and her thoughts turned to her father. Had her mother’s advice been more of a warning? Considering the kind of man Papa had been, Claire couldn’t discount that. In the same breath,
if
Sutton did feel something more than friendship toward her—and she thought he did—she knew her mother’s
warning
wasn’t needed. Because Sutton was nothing like Papa.

Sutton was kind and honest and good, and he would never lie. And would certainly never try to coerce her to do something she didn’t want to do. Much less, do something that was wrong.

His comment about not doing anything that broke the law had caught her off guard. She’d quickly realized he wasn’t serious, but the casual remark had reminded her again of the barrier her past was between them. While he might find her attractive—which was a nice enough thought on its own—she knew better than to put more weight on that discovery than it could bear. Someone of Sutton’s social status and upbringing would never seriously consider her, not if he really knew her.

Still, the way he’d acted tempted her to hope . . .

“You’re looking in full health these days,” Mrs. Acklen said, glancing back. “You’re not experiencing any lingering pain from your fall?”

Your fall . . .

That’s how everyone—even the servants—referred to her pitiful attempt to jump the corral fence. “No, ma’am. No pain whatsoever. The bruise on my hip is healing nicely and the headache is gone. Dr. Denard said I could commence riding again in a couple of weeks.”

“Mr. Monroe is going to teach you to jump, I hear.”

“He told you?”

“He mentioned it. Mr. Monroe’s a skilled rider and an excellent teacher. He’s trained several of my thoroughbreds. Which, when you consider that his formal training is in the law, makes for an interesting combination in a man.”

Claire couldn’t have agreed more.

“Mama?” Pauline peeked her head in the doorway. “Is Miss Tavie here yet?”

“Not yet, dear.” Mrs. Acklen crossed the study and kissed her daughter on the forehead. “But soon. I’ll have Mrs. Routh notify Miss Cenas after Miss Tavie arrives so you can give her and her daughters each a welcome hug. Now hurry on back to class. I look forward to hearing what you learned over dinner.”

Pauline nodded, tossing Claire an excited grin before she skipped away.

Claire thought of the get-well drawings the children had given her just after her
fall.
Pauline’s pastel-colored drawing featured a fairylike character clad in a pink dress who floated precipitously in the air. Claude’s picture, Claire decided, was far truer to form and depicted her soaring headfirst over the fence, mouth wide in a gaping scream.

William,
sans
picture—since he was “too old for such childish undertakings”—had simply asked if she would demonstrate to him how it happened again. She’d socked him playfully in the arm and had received a grin in return.

For feeling so out of place when she first arrived, Claire had to admit she felt more a part of things now. Certainly not like one of the family. Or even an
equal.
But accepted. As if she was beginning to belong. And it felt . . . wonderful.

“A new project for you, Miss Laurent . . .” Mrs. Acklen reached to straighten a lace doily draped over the back of the settee. “I want you to teach Pauline the basic skills of sketching and watercolors. I believe she possesses a giftedness for the creative arts, and while Miss Cenas’s knowledge of art history is extensive, her skills at drawing are lacking.”

“I’d be honored to teach Pauline, ma’am!” Claire thrilled at the prospect of having the girl as a pupil, and even more at Mrs. Acklen’s trust in her.

“It will only be for a month or so, mind you—until master artist Giovanni Domenico from Italy takes guest residence at the gallery in town. Then Pauline will go there to be tutored in the techniques of oil on canvas. But I believe some helpful bits of instruction from you in the rudimentary aspects would be a worthwhile foundation to her lessons with him.”

As the reality of Mrs. Acklen’s request sank in, Claire worked to hide her disappointment. Mrs. Acklen wanted her to teach Pauline the
basic
skills—which clearly meant that her employer didn’t consider her capable of teaching a six-year-old anything else.

But Giovanni Domenico, a
master artist,
giving instruction to a six-year-old? Wealth certainly did have its privileges. “Of course, Mrs. Acklen. I understand. I’ll look forward to working with Pauline in that regard.”

“Very good.” Mrs. Acklen ran a hand over the bronze statue of Bucephalus on a side table, her expression growing pensive. “How many responses have we received to date for the tea in November?”

Claire glanced down at her notes, already knowing the answer, but not eager to relay the information. She’d sent out thirty invitations for the tea the Monday following William’s party, and every other day, it seemed, Mrs. Acklen requested an update. “We’ve received four so far, ma’am. . . .” And those from Mrs. Acklen’s mother, two sisters, and Mrs. James Polk, a close family friend, though she withheld that detail. “But it’s still early yet. The tea is a full month away.”

Mrs. Acklen said nothing, and Claire sensed she was more than a little hurt by the lack of timely replies. Frankly, Claire didn’t understand it. What woman would turn down an invitation for tea from Mrs. Adelicia—

“A carriage!” Mrs. Acklen gave a tiny gasp. “They’re here!” Smoothing the front of her dress, she exited the study without a backward glance.

Claire hurried to the open window and watched the driver of the carriage negotiate the winding path past rose gardens and between statues and fountains. The carriage came to a halt at the front steps, and not wishing to be seen, Claire took a step backward and peered around the draperies. Eli opened the carriage door and bowed low.

A gloved hand appeared, elegantly extended, and Claire leaned forward, waiting to see to whom it belonged.

With Eli’s assistance, the woman stepped from the carriage, and Claire knew immediately that the woman was Madame Octavia LeVert—the Pride of Mobile, Alabama, and the granddaughter of George Walton, a member of the Second Continental Congress, one of the three Georgia signers of the Declaration of Independence, and . . . a former governor, if she remembered correctly.

Bless Cordina’s heart . . . Knowing that woman provided all sorts of advantages.

Madame LeVert’s dress was exquisite, reminiscent of a style Claire had seen in a recent issue of
Godey’s.
She glanced down at her own
new
gray dress, mended as it was, and though it fit her station, she suddenly felt underdressed.

“Welcome to Belmont once again, Octavia dear . . .” Mrs. Acklen’s voice drifted in through the open window. “Seeing you again does my heart such good.”

“As seeing you does mine, Adelicia. Bless you for allowing us to break our journey here. The girls and I have been beyond ecstatic when thinking of seeing you and . . .”

As the two women embraced, a second woman exited the carriage with Eli’s assistance. From what Cordina had shared, Claire guessed her to be the older of the two daughters. Then a third woman stepped from the conveyance and Claire sucked in a breath.

Cara Netta.

With thick tresses of rich black hair, dark as a raven’s wing, and with eyes that—even at this distance—shone more violet than blue, the young woman was stunning. With such delicate features, and so tiny a waist. And her dress and . . .
décolletage
. Claire laid a hand to her own decidedly less bountiful bodice, and suddenly the onion soup comment made by Mrs. Acklen took on more meaning.

“Miss Laurent?”

Claire jumped, her heart catapulting to her throat. “Mrs. Routh!”

The head housekeeper approached. “Taken to lurking behind the draperies now, have we?”

Claire pushed back from the window. “No, ma’am . . . I simply heard the carriage and—”

“And now that you know the LeVerts have arrived, Mrs. Acklen would appreciate it if you would come out from hiding and be
properly
introduced.”

Wishing again that she hadn’t gotten off to such a poor start with the woman, Claire laid the papers in her hand on a side table. “Yes, ma’am.”

Mrs. Routh promptly scooped the papers up, gave them a good stacking on the edge of the table, and placed them in perfect symmetry on the antique secretary. “Madame Octavia LeVert is not only a most beloved public figure, Miss Laurent, she’s also Mrs. Acklen’s dearest friend. And I trust you will do everything within your means to make the LeVerts’ stay here at Belmont both enjoyable and . . . harmonious.”

Wondering at the woman’s choice of wording, Claire nodded. “Of course, I will, Mrs. Routh.”

The head housekeeper led the way into the entrance hall. “Much like their mother, Madame LeVert’s daughters are both delightful creatures,” she continued. “So talented and refined. It’s no wonder they’ve attracted the interest of some of Nashville’s finest gentlemen.”

Claire didn’t find that statement surprising, not after seeing the sisters. And that they came from wealth—and would likely bring it
with
them when they married—would most certainly guarantee their prospects for a good match, especially in these difficult times. What she
did
find surprising, however, was Mrs. Routh’s talkativeness. This was the most the woman had said to her since she’d arrived. And frankly, Claire decided she preferred the woman’s stoic silence.

Mrs. Routh opened the front door, and Claire spotted Sutton riding up the road. Odd to see him home so early when he’d had to work so late recently. Then again, he knew the LeVerts were expected.