A Lasting Impression (36 page)

“No . . . Cara Netta.”

She blinked. “But . . . I thought you would be pleased.”

“Pleased that I don’t have the means to provide for you in the manner in which you’re accustomed? And expect?”

A frown formed. “I never said that.”

“I know you didn’t. You’re too good and fine a woman to do that. But that’s what I hear in this . . . very generous offer from your mother. That I must flatly refuse.”

Her mouth slipped open. “But why?”

“Because a man wants to provide for his wife and family himself, Cara Netta.
This
man, anyway.”

“This would simply be Mother’s wedding gift to us, Sutton. And it would be Father’s too, if—” Her voice broke. “If he were still here.” She looked away. “Most men of my acquaintance would be pleased at this offer, and frankly”—her expression lost a bit of its sparkle —“would accept it with gratitude.”

“Then I’m sorry to disappoint. And regarding my
hobby
 . . .” Hearing the defensiveness in his voice, he took care to soften its edge. “As I explained to you before, or tried to . . . When I shared with you about wanting to own a thoroughbred farm, I didn’t simply mean I wanted to own it, Cara Netta. I want to run the farm, train the thoroughbreds myself.”

Shades of understanding shadowed her features, and he realized she’d understood his aspiration from the start—she just didn’t share it.

She stared at him for the longest time, then lowered her head. And in a blink, Sutton saw future years passing before him. He could almost feel the soft brush of yet-to-be-lived memories on his face. It would be so easy, in one sense, to follow this course—to marry Cara Netta, to become the wealthy son-in-law of Madame Octavia LeVert, to have a fine house in Mobile, and another in Nashville, and yet another on the coast. He would have his thoroughbred farm in no time, though it would never be the one he’d envisioned. Nor would it be the life Cara Netta had envisioned either. And he wouldn’t be the husband she wanted. Not really.

What confounded him was why she seemed so
set
on him. Cara Netta LeVert could have her choice of so many other men. Wealthier, and from better families.

“
Marriages are built on many different foundations, Mr. Monroe
.”

Adelicia’s comment returned on a dull echo. What kind of marriage would he and Cara Netta have if he were to proceed in seeking her hand? The question wasn’t easily answered. But what bothered him far more—and what he couldn’t deny, no matter how he tried—was knowing that if Claire
had
felt something more than friendship for him, he wouldn’t be here right now, working so hard to justify his feelings for Cara Netta.

The truth was jarring.

“Cara Netta . . .” How could he share his hesitations without hurting her, without causing her to think it was her fault? “You and I have been friends for a very long time, and I’m not saying that we shouldn’t—”

She took hold of his hand and squeezed tight. “Have I ever told you what my father said about you the night before he died?”

Wary, he shook his head.

“He told me that he thought you were one of the finest men he’d ever known. And that you were
just
the sort of young man he would have chosen for me.”

Sutton blinked, feeling a veil being ripped away. And he heard the answer—at least in part—to his earlier question of why she’d set her cap on him. And the truth was—she hadn’t. Henry LeVert had done that for her. Cara Netta was following her father’s wishes, not those of her own heart.

And knowing that explained so much.

“I appreciate that, Cara Netta,” he whispered. “I know you loved your father very much.”

She nodded, her grip tightening on his hands.

“And you’re doing what you believe he would have wanted you to do.”

She nodded again, then stopped. Her gaze turned appraising.

Sutton touched her cheek, seeing awareness dawn in her eyes. “But you need to make your own choice in this. You need to listen to what your heart is telling you.” Just as he did.

“I
am
listening. And it’s telling me that we would make a grand couple, Sutton.” Tears rose in her eyes. “And that we would have a good life together. A happy life.”

Sutton considered the statement, and found truth in it. He and Cara Netta had their differences, but they were compatible in many ways. More so than many couples he’d known. He got along well with Madame LeVert, and Diddie was the sister he’d never had. Still, something inside him held back from agreeing.

A dinner bell rang in the distance, and they turned to see Cordina waving from up by the house. He offered Cara Netta his arm. She looped her hand through, and they started back.

“Cara Netta, about what we were discussing, I think it would be wise for us to give ourselves time to—”

She turned to him and pressed a hand to his chest. “Let’s not talk about this now, Sutton. You’ve had a busy day and an even busier week. You have a lot on your mind right now. And I agree. . . . Let’s give things some time.” Her smile was almost convincing. “Let’s simply enjoy each other, and . . . we’ll talk about all this later.”

He knew they needed to finish the discussion, but he needed time to sort things out. And he would do anything not to deliberately hurt her. He only wanted the best, for them both. Whatever that was.

When they reached the front door, she turned to him, her expression vibrant once again, as though their exchange by the stables had never taken place. “I’m so excited about tonight,” she said, preceding him into the entrance hall.

“Tonight?”

She smiled and swatted his arm. “We’re all going to the opera. Mother arranged everything. Did you forget?”

His stomach churned at the thought. “No,” he said quickly. “Of course not.”

She eyed him.

“All right, yes. I forgot.”

Just before they entered the formal dining room, she slipped her hand into his. Everyone else was seated and turned their way, and he grew uncomfortable beneath the “happy couple” image they no doubt displayed.

Especially when he met Claire’s gaze.

It wasn’t until dinner was over that it occurred to him—had Claire been invited to the opera too? Sutton assumed she had. She’d joined them in the grand salon each evening as Cara Netta played and they enjoyed Cordina’s desserts.

He stood and scooted his chair back beneath the table and tried to get Adelicia’s attention. But she and Madame LeVert were in deep discussion about something. He couldn’t very well ask Cara Netta, and asking Diddie—who’d been unusually quiet during dinner—didn’t seem like a good idea either.

He spotted Claire speaking to Claude and Pauline while she slowly inched her way toward the dining room door.

“Claire?”

She turned, her features guarded. “Yes, Sutton?”

The formality of her tone almost made him bristle. “I was wondering whether—” If she said no to his question, what was he going to do? He hadn’t exactly thought that through. “Whether you’re going to the opera with us tonight?”

Her smile was instant, and telling. “No, I’m not. I’ve got so much to do here. It’s really best that I stay and get some work done.”

He felt a stab of anger. How could Madame LeVert, or whoever had arranged for the tickets, not have thought to include her? “Why don’t you take my ticket, Claire. You know how I feel about the opera, and—”

“No, Sutton.” She shook her head, her voice firm. “No.”

“Oh, Diddie, tell me it’s not true!” Madame LeVert said behind them. “How disappointing. And you’ve been looking forward to this all week.”

Sutton turned to see the women grouped together, little Pauline now with them. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Diddie’s not feeling well,” Mrs. Acklen answered. “So she won’t be joining us this evening.”

Sutton glanced at Diddie, whose coloring did look rather greenish. But he saw the opportunity and seized it. “I’m sorry you don’t feel well enough to go, Diddie. But, so your ticket won’t go to waste, perhaps we could impose upon Miss Laurent to take your place. If she’s agreeable.”

He turned back and saw a light slip into Claire’s eyes. She smiled and nodded, and for a second, everything in the world lined up in perfect order.

“Sutton,” Cara Netta said sweetly from across the room. “That’s so thoughtful of you, but . . . I’ve already asked Miss Cenas to go in Diddie’s stead. She’s getting her shawl and reticule right this moment.”

Sutton’s chest went tight, especially when he sensed that Cara Netta knew exactly what she was doing, or had done. She hadn’t wanted Claire to go. Claire simply smiled, as if the mix-up were of little consequence to her, and a fierce protectiveness rose inside him.

But what galled him most was that
he
was the one who had placed Claire in such an embarrassing position. “I’m sorry, Claire,” he whispered.

“There’s nothing to be sorry about, Sutton. I honestly prefer to stay here.” Her perfect smile would have convinced anyone else. But he knew better.

And he pledged to make it up to her somehow.

30

C
laire gently rapped on the door of the
tête-à-tête
room. Hearing no response, she slipped inside and closed the door noiselessly behind her. She’d been sneaking into the room in the early mornings for the past couple of weeks to read, and if she hadn’t been reading what she was reading, she might have felt a little guilty.

Since the night she’d come
undone 
. . . at least that’s how she thought of it—crying as she had, falling apart, and in front of Sutton, no less—she’d developed a thirst for the verses that had given her mother such comfort and hope in her final hours.

The Acklen family Bible lay on the table before the hearth, and Claire scooted a chair closer, mindful of the carpet. Mrs. Acklen had told her in passing that the Bible never left the room, but she hadn’t said not to read it, so Claire assumed that was fine. After all, it was the Bible.

But knowing Mrs. Acklen, she’d gone a step further and never moved the Bible from the table. She simply opened the pages, read, and when she was done, made certain the large leather-bound book was exactly as it had been.

She checked her hands to be sure all traces of breakfast were gone. Since the LeVerts arrived, she’d begun taking the meal downstairs in the kitchen with Cordina and the other servants rather than in the dining room with the family and guests. It was simpler that way.

Claire leaned close to the book and breathed in the scent of hand-oiled leather and years-old paper and dust. The pages crinkled as she turned them.

Genesis, Exodus . . . She skimmed over the next few books, watching for the right name. Esther, Job, the Psalms . . .

The Psalms had been what Maman had requested that she read from most, and Claire had read all of those again last week before moving to other books. The next time she went into town, she planned on purchasing a Bible of her own. Not that she went into town that often. Though time had passed and the likelihood of crossing paths with Antoine DePaul was slim, she still held a dread of that happening. How quickly all she’d worked for—and had been given—at Belmont could be taken away.

There it was . . . the book of Isaiah
.

She’d started reading from Isaiah because Reverend Bunting had quoted from it last Sunday, and she’d liked what she’d heard. But she’d soon discovered that the first five chapters of the book weren’t nearly as uplifting as the part he’d quoted from.

Still, she was determined to give it a fair try.

“Chapter six . . .” She found the page and started to begin reading, then remembered and bowed her head. “Thank you, Lord, for being the Bread of Life, and for this . . . my daily bread.” She lifted her eyes, feeling quite the poet. Only, the words weren’t hers. Not originally. She’d borrowed them from a gentleman she’d heard pray aloud in church.

She kept her voice soft. “ ‘In the year that King’ ”—she studied the name before pronouncing it—“ ‘Uzziah died I saw also the Lord sitting upon a throne, high and lifted up, and his train filled the temple.’ ”
Very majestic, descriptive . . .
“ ‘Above it stood the seraphims . . .’ ”

As she read, images of angels and a temple took shape in her mind, and she pictured the scene as an oil on canvas. A scene she’d like to paint someday. “ ‘. . . And the posts of the door moved at the voice of him that cried, and the house was filled with smoke. Then I said, Woe is me! for I am undone . . .’ ”

That word again 
. . . And a feeling she knew only too well.

“ ‘For I am undone,’ ” she repeated softly, “ ‘because I am a man of uncl—’ ” She frowned, familiar with the next term too, uncomfortably so. “ ‘Unclean lips,’ ” she finished, the words resonating inside her.

She read ahead, wincing slightly, as though the angel in the verses who had taken a live coal from the burning altar had touched
her
lips, instead of Isaiah’s. “ ‘And he laid it upon my mouth,’ ” she read, “ ‘and said, Lo, this hath touched thy lips; and thine iniquity is taken away, and thy sin purged.’ ”

Movement from outside the window drew her eye.

Diddie and Cara Netta passed. Coming for breakfast, no doubt.

Claire recalled the “undertaking” Cara Netta had requested her help with—making a scrapbook from bits of memorabilia and pamphlets from the family’s tour of Europe. But Claire knew the real desire behind Cara Netta’s request: to put her in her place as an employee of Belmont and to regale her with all that she and Sutton had experienced together.

Memories of the opera evening, over a week ago now, were still fresh too. She’d cried a few more tears that night after everyone had left. Then she had decided “No more.” What was done was done, and she reconciled herself to change what she could. Instead of attempting to change the impossible.

She had work to do—projects for Mrs. Acklen, and now for Madame LeVert, and lessons with Pauline, which were coming along quite well. She hoped to have some time to sketch for herself this afternoon, to start narrowing down the choices of venue for her first painting for the auction.