A Lasting Impression (43 page)

The split staircases were works of art in themselves—rich mahogany woodwork and intricately carved white spindles. Twin alcoves tucked into the curve of the walls, one on either side, boasted a marble bust of a man, and the other, a vase of freshly cut shrub roses.

Choosing the left staircase, she continued to the second-floor gallery and found it quiet. Rows of narrow rectangular windows below the ceiling line ran the length of the gallery, allowing ample sunlight. Another staircase, smaller, continued upward. To the cupola, she guessed. Oh, how she would love to go up there too. She could only imagine the view . . .

But would be able to imagine it a lot better if her arms weren’t
aching
!

She carefully lowered the tray onto a side table, mindful to keep it level. No wonder Cordina had eyed her when she’d volunteered to carry the tray up herself. The heavy silver teapot, filled to the brim with steaming water, probably weighed ten pounds by itself. Not to mention the tray, the cups and saucers, sugar and milk, and the plateful of fresh tea cakes.

Looking both ways, making sure the hallway was empty, Claire popped one of the tea cakes into her mouth. Not a very ladylike thing to do, but oh . . . Cordina’s tea cakes were delectable. Tiny little cakelike cookies covered in powdered sugar. Like Southern beignets. How the woman managed to get them so moist and all the same—

“May I help you, Miss Laurent?”

Nearly choking, Claire turned.

Standing in a doorway a short distance down the hall was Mrs. Routh. Claire would’ve sworn the woman could walk through walls. Frantically chewing, her cheeks packed, she held up a forefinger, embarrassed, trying to swallow, wishing for tea but knowing if she stopped to pour herself a cup that would only make matters worse.

Finally, she managed to choke down the cake. “Mrs. Routh . . .” Breathing as if she’d run a footrace, she wiped the corners of her mouth, aware of the suspicion in Mrs. Routh’s stare. “Mrs. Acklen requested that I meet her in her personal quarters, and”—Claire glanced around—“I was just looking for her bedroom.”

“Really?” Mrs. Routh closed the distance between them. “Because it appeared as though you were consuming a tea cake, Miss Laurent.”

Instinctively, Claire started to apologize, then caught herself. She had done absolutely nothing wrong.
Why
did she always kowtow to this woman? But she knew why—because she didn’t have the courage to stand up to her. Like the sliding of a bolt into a latch, something shifted inside her.

She squared her shoulders and her gaze. “Mrs. Acklen
requested
that I meet her in her private quarters, Mrs. Routh. I offered to bring her tea, and yes, I helped myself to a tea cake just now. Which, I am certain, is not a sin.” Claire blinked, not believing she’d actually said the words aloud. And without a single stutter. More than a little proud, she tried not to show it.

Mrs. Routh stared, her expression revealing nothing. “Your flippancy, while not at all surprising to me, Miss Laurent, is not the least bit becoming.” She spoke softly, evenly, not a hint of sarcasm in her voice. “Especially when considering your
position
here at Belmont.”

Hearing that one word, Claire’s briefly lived pride faded, and the words she feared would haunt her for as long as she worked for Mrs. Acklen returned. “
You are an extension of me
. . . .”

Feeling as though she’d faced a test and failed miserably, she bowed her head. She was weary of these tense, abbreviated exchanges with Belmont’s head housekeeper, and she knew that if she didn’t do this now, she would lose her nerve. “Mrs. Routh, I realize that from the first time we met, your estimation of me has been less than stellar. You’ve been brutally honest in conveying that to me, on a near daily basis. But I’ve done my best since coming to Belmont. I work hard. Every day. I perform every task Mrs. Acklen asks of me, and then look for ways to help her more. Yet you seem determined to think the worst of me, and”—a traitorous sting of emotion burned her eyes—“for the life of me, I don’t know why.”

Mrs. Routh’s eyes fluttered closed, and she sighed, as though tired of their conversations too. “I’m well aware of the job you’re doing for Mrs. Acklen. And contrary to what you may believe, Miss Laurent, I do not
seek
to think the worst of you. I simply do not trust you.”

Feeling as if the floor had disappeared beneath her, Claire searched Mrs. Routh’s face. “But I . . .” She exhaled. “Why? I don’t underst—”

A door squeaked opened in the hallway behind her. Soft footsteps . . .

“Ah . . . there you are, Miss Laurent,” Mrs. Acklen said. “I was beginning to wonder. Oh, good, you brought our tea. Good afternoon to you, Mrs. Routh.”

Mrs. Routh looked past Claire. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Acklen. You’re looking more rested, ma’am. Is there anything I can get you or that I can do to . . .”

As the two women spoke, Claire turned to pick up the tray, sensing a fierce loyalty in Mrs. Routh’s manner and in the way she addressed Mrs. Acklen. And the discovery shed new light on the confrontation of moments earlier. Mrs. Routh was like a mama bear protecting her cub. Which, while sweet, in a way, was also amusing. Adelicia Acklen was hardly a defenseless cub. She was an assertive, powerful woman of enormous wealth and far-reaching influence.

From what, or whom, could she possibly need protection?

Crossing the threshold into Mrs. Acklen’s private quarters was like stepping into another world. Claire deposited the tray on the table Mrs. Acklen indicated, unable to keep from staring at her surroundings.

She felt as though she’d walked into a land of make-believe, of far-off places and ancient times—and she didn’t know where to look first. From baseboard to crown molding, two murals flowed from scene to scene to scene around the room, separated by a decorative chair rail. Every inch of wall space in the spacious room was covered.

Brilliant blues and reds and mossy greens enhanced the renderings of scenes from a story Claire knew only too well.

“It’s not your customary decor,” Mrs. Acklen said. “But I like it. It’s from—”

“
Les Aventures de Télémaque,
” Claire whispered.

“
Oui, mademoiselle! Très bonne!
” Surprise lit Mrs. Acklen’s expression. “I wondered if you might recognize it. You’ve read the novel, then?”

“A number of times. It was a favorite of my
maman.
And mine.” Along with everyone else in France, and the greater part of Europe. And apparently America.

Mrs. Acklen poured a cup of tea for Claire and then for herself. “This very wallpaper hangs in the Hermitage, the late President Andrew Jackson’s home not far from here.”

Claire nodded, finding the rendering of a temple in the mural—specifically the rows of Corinthian columns situated along its front—strangely reminiscent of Belmont. She turned slowly, looking at the scenes. “Remarkable,” she whispered, speaking not only of the mural, but also of the room itself.

A bed of gleaming rosewood in a style reminiscent of a sleigh set the tone for the bedroom, and the matching side tables, bureau, and wardrobe only enhanced the beauty, as did the marble fireplace and gilded mirror hanging above. Velvet draperies framed the windows, and the patterned wall-to-wall carpet—Claire blinked—was almost dizzying.

“Shall we begin, Miss Laurent? We have much to do.” Mrs. Acklen nodded toward hatboxes stacked in the corner. Seven boxes in all, various sizes, dusty from disuse. “Move them over here, if you would. Closer to the windows.”

Claire did as she bade, discovering the boxes were heavier than she’d imagined. She followed Mrs. Acklen’s lead and opened one, and found it full to the brim with what appeared to be newspaper clippings. Same as the box Mrs. Acklen had opened.

After a brief discussion they decided that Claire would begin organizing the articles by newspaper first, and Mrs. Acklen would follow behind to review them and decide which ones to include in Madame LeVert’s memory book.

Claire briefly scanned the articles as she sorted, not wanting to appear as if she were trying to read them. Which of course, she was. But she didn’t want Mrs. Acklen to think she was prying. Which was a little comical, because, after all, what she was reading had been published in a newspaper.

Many of the clippings were from the local
Republican Banner
and the
Union and American.
But there were also articles from the
New York Herald
and the
New Orleans Picayune,
as well as papers from Atlanta, Mobile, and even Paris, Rome, and London.

They worked through the afternoon, falling into a quiet rhythm, only commenting on occasion.

The other boxes contained cards and letters, not only those from Madame LeVert to Mrs. Acklen but from other family members as well. Hundreds of them—perhaps more. Some bundled with ribbon and string, but apparently—like the clippings—grouped with no apparent attention to date or year. As thorough as Mrs. Acklen was in other areas of her life, her correspondence, while painfully plentiful, lacked proper organization.

Amidst the boxes of letters and cards were party invitations and wedding and funeral announcements. Claire quickly grew familiar with the various family members’ handwriting and could fairly well place the author of any given missive based solely on the handwriting on the front of the envelope.

“I believe, Miss Laurent”—Mrs. Acklen rubbed the back of her neck, then covered her mouth when she yawned—“that we have additional folders available in the library. If not, Mr. Monroe has a supply in the art gallery. Which reminds me . . .”

Claire sensed another project on the horizon.

“I’ve been meaning to speak to you about the art gallery.”

Claire stopped sorting the letters in her hand and offered her full attention.

“I’ve never had all the art at Belmont—both in the house and the art gallery—properly cataloged. Mr. Monroe’s been after me to do that for some time, but”—Mrs. Acklen rubbed her temples, squinting—“I never seem to make it a priority. However, with your assistance . . .” She lowered her head into her hands.

“Mrs. Acklen, are you all right?”

She didn’t look up. “I’m fine. This happens on occasion.”

“This?”

“An ache in my head.” She sighed. “It starts here”—she rubbed the front of her forehead—“and then continues to the back.”

Claire winced. “Too much reading, perhaps?”

“Dr. Denard refers to it as neuralgia.” She slowly raised her head. Her eyes appeared fatigued, and she kept squinting, as if the late-afternoon light, though soft in the room, was painful. “Miss Laurent, would you please take all this to your room and finish there? I think we have enough for Madame LeVert’s book, don’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am. More than enough.” Claire rose and gathered the numerous stacks sitting about the room, careful not to mix them as she placed them in the boxes and carried them into the hallway. “Is there anything I can get you, ma’am . . . before I leave?”

Mrs. Acklen had moved to the bed and lain down. “I have some powders Dr. Denard left for me. They’re in a bowl on my dressing table, right through there.”

Claire opened a door into what she might have called a closet, if not for the room’s ample size. Gowns and trunks abounded. She crossed to the dressing table and spotted a crystal bowl containing folded medicinal papers, similar to those that had packaged her mother’s medicine. She withdrew a translucent sleeve from the batch and felt the slight bulge of powder within.

Careful to keep it level, she’d turned to go when a portrait on the wall stopped her in her tracks.

36

T
hree angelic faces stared back at Claire, their soft expressions so sweet, so full of hope and promise. Dressed all in white and with the same dark hair, the girls shared the identical shade of chocolate brown eyes. Similar smiles tipped their rosy little lips and lit a kindred spark of mischief in their precious heart-shaped faces. There was no question in Claire’s mind.

Sisters.

As if prompted by some unseen hand, Claire looked back at the doorway leading to the bedroom, then slowly to the painting again, and a knifelike pain stabbed her chest. She placed a hand over her heart as memory forced her back to the day she and Mrs. Acklen had gone riding. Bits and pieces of their conversations returned on a terrible wave.
“You don’t believe I know what it feels like to lose a parent at your age. And you resent my insinuation that I do.”

Claire squeezed her eyes tight, recalling her own bitter, self-centered response to Mrs. Acklen’s statement, her all-too-clear insinuation that Mrs. Acklen didn’t understand the depth of her loss. How Mrs. Acklen had looked at her . . . Claire sensed she’d wanted to say something else that day, but now she
knew
it with certainty.

Because she was staring at what Mrs. Acklen hadn’t said.

That in addition to losing her father and husband, Mrs. Acklen had lost two daughters as well, leaving pretty little Pauline as the only girl. Death was no respecter of age, Claire knew. Children died. Parents died. Loss was all too commonplace, especially these days. Until it happened to you. And then it was different.

For some reason, she’d simply assumed that Mrs. Acklen’s wealth had insulated her from loss.

She moved closer to the portrait, close enough to see the brushstrokes of oil paints on canvas.
Masterful,
how tiny little dots of color—artful smears blended with the bristles of a brush—once combined, could evoke such powerful emotion. And such powerful regret.

“Miss Laurent . . . did you find the powders?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Claire answered quickly. “I have one right here.”

She kept her eyes averted as she retrieved Mrs. Acklen’s teacup and filled it halfway with tepid water from the teapot. She added the powder and stirred until the granules dissolved. She assisted Mrs. Acklen as she drank, the scene feeling all too familiar for her.

Mrs. Acklen reclined on a bolster of pillows. “Is something wrong, Miss Laurent?”