A Lasting Impression (44 page)

Claire shook her head. “No, ma’am. Nothing’s wrong.”

Lines furrowed Mrs. Acklen’s brow. “Your
maman
?” she whispered, a trace of question in her voice.

Knowing that was only part of her struggle, Claire nodded.

“I’m
so
sorry for your loss, Miss Laurent.”

Claire bit her lip again, trying to stave off words that seemed to have a life of their own. “I’m sorry too . . .” She glanced briefly toward the closet, unable to get the image of the angelic faces from her mind. “About your daughters.”

Mrs. Acklen’s expression clouded briefly. “Ah . . .” She sighed. “The portrait.”

Claire exhaled a shaky breath. “And I’m sorry I said what I did to you . . . that day we went riding. The way I acted . . .” She shook her head. “I didn’t know,” she whispered, tears rising. “I just didn’t know.”

Mrs. Acklen’s own eyes glistened. “It’s all right, Miss Laurent. It was a long time ago.”

Claire nodded once, then thought of Pauline. “But not so long. Pauline’s not that old.”

Mrs. Acklen briefly closed her eyes. “Pauline isn’t in that portrait, Miss Laurent. The painting is of my daughters Victoria . . . Adelicia . . . and Emma.” It seemed as if the very act of speaking their names was painful. “The portrait was painted over twenty years ago.” She managed a tremulous smile. “Before you were even born. But granted, there are days”—she took a sharp breath—“when those years feel like mere moments.”

Claire stared.
Three
daughters. All passed. “They were so beautiful.”

“And they were angels, all of them. Victoria was six and Adelicia four, when they died. Three days apart. From bronchitis and croup. Emma was only a year and a half old at the time.” Mrs. Acklen briefly closed her eyes, and Claire wondered if it was the medicine taking effect, or if it was the wash of memories. “Emma died from diphtheria nine years later.”

“You must have grieved for them so. And your husband . . .”

Mrs. Acklen looked over at her. “Yes, Joseph grieved with me. He loved Emma, very much. And Emma loved him. But he wasn’t her father, nor was he Victoria’s or Adelicia’s.” She gestured to a side table.

Claire picked up the framed miniature painting of an older man. A man she didn’t recognize and who certainly wasn’t the same man as in the portrait in the entrance hall.

“That was my first husband, Isaac Franklin. We married when I was twenty-two.” She reached for the photograph and smoothed her fingertips over the frame. “We were quite the talk at the time. He was twenty-eight years my senior.”

Claire quickly did the math.

“We had four beautiful children together, and seven wonderful years. Our third child, a son, lived only a few hours.” She gazed at Mr. Franklin’s face, a quiet, distant love in her expression. “Mr. Franklin passed away . . . six weeks
before
Victoria and Adelicia died.”

Claire tried to think of something suitable to say. But everything fell so far short of the weight of loss.

“Oftentimes, through the years, Miss Laurent . . .” Mrs. Acklen’s voice was barely a whisper now. “I’ve pondered how much is provided for us by God’s goodness. So many sources of enjoyment, and how thankful we should be. And even if afflictions come . . . we should know that they are of the hand of God.” She sighed, the semblance of a smile gracing the edges of her mouth. “We should not expect to have all the blessings of life and none of its trials. It would make this world too delightful a dwelling place, and I fear we would never care to leave it.” Her eyes slipped closed. “As it is . . . I have come to believe that it’s only by taking some of those objects from us to which our hearts so closely cling that He endeavors . . . in His kindness, to draw us from this world to one of greater happiness.”

Claire sat perfectly still, not daring to make the slightest sound, feeling as if a veil had been lifted ever so briefly between her and this woman. And she feared the slightest movement or merest breath would dispel the solemnity of the moment.

The silence lengthened and finally Mrs. Acklen opened her eyes and returned the framed daguerreotype.

Claire set it back in its place on the side table and helped situate the pillows behind Mrs. Acklen’s head. “Is there anything else I can get you before I leave, ma’am?”

Mrs. Acklen gave the tiniest shake of her head, her eyes closing again.

Claire had all but shut the door when Mrs. Acklen whispered her name.

Claire peered back inside, the creak of the door overloud in the quiet.

“Thank you, Miss Laurent, for allowing me . . . to remember.”

That evening, Claire arrived a few minutes late for dinner. She’d lost track of time reading through a few more of the newspaper articles, and contemplating what Mrs. Acklen had said. She paused inside the family dining room, finding the table empty . . . but for one place setting.

A fire burned low in the hearth, its woodsy smell lending the room a cozy feel. Wondering if she’d missed some special instruction, Claire took her seat and draped her napkin across her lap.

Scarcely a minute later, Cordina bustled up the stairs from the kitchen carrying a covered plate and a tall glass of lemonade, filled with ice, as usual. “Evenin’, Miss Laurent.” Her smile ever present, she gave Claire a wink. “From what I hear, ma’am, you’s the only one eatin’ in here tonight. Gots it all to yourself.”

Claire glanced at the empty chairs. “Where is everyone else?”

Cordina set the plate, piled high with food enough for two, before her. “The Lady’s feelin’ poorly, as you already know. Them head pains she gets from time to time. And Miss Cenas and the children, they’s gone into town for dinner. Special treat for the younguns since they’s doin’ good in their studies, Miss Cenas said.” Cordina gestured to Claire’s plate. “You want some of my squash relish tonight, ma’am? I run fetch it for you. It be good with them pork chops.”

Not overly hungry, Claire shook her head. “No, thank you. This will be more than enough.” She tried for a casual tone. “By chance, do you know where Mr. Monroe is?”

“No, ma’am. I haven’t seen him since breakfast. Mrs. Routh just said you’d be the only one eatin’. You can come on down to the kitchen, if you want. But I gots to warn you, we been bakin’ bread all day and it’s hot as blazes down there tonight.”

Claire returned her smile. “I think I’ll stay here, if that’s all right.”

“Sure it is, honey.” Cordina patted her shoulder. “Might be kinda nice just to sit and enjoy the quiet. You ring that bell there if you need somethin’. I’ll hear you and come right up.”

Knowing she’d never use the bell, Claire nodded. “Thank you, Cordina.”

She ate a bite of pork chop with mashed potatoes, then tasted Cordina’s sweet creamed peas and corn, and by the time she took her first sip of lemonade, her appetite had returned. Still, she couldn’t finish half of the food on her plate.

The fire in the hearth crackled and popped, and the clock on the mantel ticked off the seconds. Claire drank in the solitude—until her thirst for silence was slaked, and then some. She carried her plate and glass downstairs to the kitchen, smelling the yeasty aroma of fresh bread even before she pushed open the door.

“Good evening, Miss Laurent!” Eli greeted her by taking her plate. And when he reached for her glass, Claire playfully held it back from him.

“I’ll only give it to you if I can have some more of your wife’s lemonade. If there’s enough to spare.”

He grinned, glancing across the kitchen at his wife, who was visiting with three other women. “We always have sweet lemonade at the ready, Miss Laurent. Mrs. Acklen’s orders.” He leaned closer. “And my dear wife’s as well.”

Claire grinned. Surprised as she’d been when learning that Eli and Cordina were married, now that she’d gotten to know them better, she couldn’t imagine them apart.

He returned with her glass filled, his shaved head boasting a sheen of sweat. True to Cordina’s word, the kitchen was overly warm. Claire thanked him and took a good long drink, then gestured to the crusted loaves lining the wooden tables. Enough for a small army. “What’s all this for?”

“It’s going to an orphanage across town. Mrs. Acklen provides food for the children there every month. Cordina suggested we take some of her bread with us this time, and Mrs. Acklen was pleased with the idea.”

An orphanage. Claire couldn’t remember Mrs. Acklen ever mentioning anything about an orphanage. And before this afternoon, she would’ve said she knew her employer quite well.

She retreated back upstairs and outside to the front gardens, where she was greeted by a late October breeze—cool, but not chilling—and she welcomed it after the heat of the kitchen. The leaves on the maples atop the hills were turning. Within days the foliage would be ablaze with color. She thought of her newly arrived canvases and tubes of paint in her room, and her right hand itched to hold a paintbrush again.
Soon
 . . .

She walked down the hill as far as the third tiered garden, and paused to look back, picturing the evening of the LeVert reception with over a thousand people arriving in all their finery, milling about the gardens and grounds before crowding into the grand salon and other rooms. The event would begin at eight in the evening. They’d decided that much, at least. And though a waning yellow sun still hovered over the countryside this evening, she knew it would be a different story come mid-December.

She continued on downhill, wishing now that she’d brought a wrap, but not enough to turn back.

In her mind’s eye, she could see lanterns draped at even intervals along the curving road toward the mansion, golden light blanketing the path, welcoming visitors. And perhaps a brass ensemble situated in the gazebo nearest the house so that guests would arrive amidst the melodies of chamber music and—

She spotted a rider coming up the road. Not needing to look twice, she walked to the edge of the path to greet him.

“Finally,” she said, smiling up as Sutton reined in beside her. “The prodigal has returned.” She’d been waiting all week to use the term she’d learned from Reverend Bunting’s sermon last Sunday.

“Good evening, Claire.”

Good evening, Claire?
That was hardly the teasing response she’d hoped for. And so formal. She noted the firm set of his jaw, despite the coerced smile, and his eyes lacked their usual warmth. “Is everything all right, Sutton?”

He looked away. “Yes, it’s just been a long day.”

She stepped closer. “If you’d like dinner, I’d be happy to fix you a plate and bring it to the—”

“No . . . thank you. I ate in town.”

“Oh . . .” She nodded. “Good.” The breeze that had brought cooling relief moments earlier gave her a chill now, and she rubbed her arms.

He gestured behind him. “A statue Mrs. Acklen ordered while in Europe arrived today. A wagon is bringing it right behind me.”

A statue!
Claire peered down the road, seeing no wagon yet. And in light of Sutton’s present mood, she tried not to appear too excited. “Who is the sculptor?”

He eyed her, then laughed, a sharp, humorless sound. “Nice attempt at indifference, but unconvincing.”

She made a pouting face. “I’m sorry. But I love statues, and paintings, and . . . all of that.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “I know you do.”

His melancholy tone stirred her concern. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

The distant squeak of wooden wheels on hard-packed dirt announced the wagon’s arrival.

Truxton whinnied and pranced, but Sutton held the stallion steady. “I need to unlock the gallery so the men can carry the crate inside. I’m not sure where Mrs. Acklen wants this one. I haven’t even told her it’s arrived.”

Claire nodded, wanting to go with him. But if he wanted her company, he would invite her. Which, at the moment, seemed doubtful. She smiled and stepped back off the road.

But Sutton didn’t move. Holding Truxton in check, he looked down at her and sighed. “Would you like to come along?”

Hardly the invitation she’d hoped for . . . Claire started to decline, but she’d been looking forward to seeing him all day. And it
was
an invitation, however wanting. “I’d love to!”

He scooted back in the saddle, removed his boot from the stirrup and reached down for her. Claire slid her foot into the stirrup and gripped his arm. He lifted her up beside him and held her steady as she situated her dress over her lacy underskirts.

With his solid chest at her back and his arm around her waist, she kept her balance, even when he urged Truxton to a canter. The stallion moved with grace and power that was almost heady. What would it be like to fly across open fields on this animal? Much less over a fence? She could hardly wait for Sutton to teach her how to jump.

As they drew closer to the art gallery, Sutton slowed the stallion’s gait, and withdrew his arm from around her waist.

She glanced back. “Are we still having my first jumping lesson this weekend?”

His delayed response caused her hopes to slip.

“I . . . won’t be able to keep our appointment this weekend, I’m sorry. Maybe there’ll be time next week, or . . . sometime soon.”