A Lasting Impression (48 page)

The carriage came to a stop in front of Belmont, and Claire waited as Eli assisted Mrs. Acklen’s exit before her. It was overwhelming . . . how much work had been done to prepare for the reception in recent weeks, and yet how much remained to be done in the next two days.

Pauline and Claude raced out the front door to greet their mother. Claire had come to enjoy her sketching lessons with Pauline very much. Claude and William even took part on occasion. True to Mrs. Acklen’s word, the young girl showed surprising talent for being only six.

“You two ladies have a nice outing, Mrs. Acklen?” Eli offered Claire his hand as she stepped down.

“Yes, Eli,” Mrs. Acklen answered, hugging her children. “We most certainly did. Miss Laurent and I personally confirmed every confectionary centerpiece, every potted plant, and every flowering camellia.”

“I’m sure that kept you busy, ma’am.” Eli tossed Claire a wink and leaned closer once Mrs. Acklen was a few feet away. “Are you feeling well this afternoon, Miss Laurent?”

“Yes, I’m fine, Eli. Just a little tired.” Which wasn’t the full truth. She was exhausted. More tired than she could remember.

Mrs. Acklen hadn’t told her until that morning that she required her assistance in town today. Who would’ve guessed giving final approvals would take so long? Claire only hoped the repairs to the floor of the grand salon had been completed as Sutton promised.

Only the day before, they’d discovered a weakening in the floor joists beneath the salon. Workmen had been in the basement all yesterday afternoon and were back this morning when they left, pounding and hammering, carrying in reinforcement beams. Mrs. Acklen had shown surprising restraint at the news, but Claire had about come apart. And yet, she couldn’t complain.

Even with all she had left to do in the next forty-eight hours, she was living in a dream compared to most people. It was easy to forget that, living at Belmont. But outside these grounds . . .

While driving through the city of Nashville in a carriage that probably cost more than the majority of people made in a lifetime, it had been impossible for her not to realize how much God had given her since her arrival at Belmont. And her deserving none of it.

“All this party hubbub will be over soon, Miss Laurent. Then you can get back to your normal work.” Eli’s brow wrinkled. “And to your painting.”

Claire nodded, wondering if the time to truly paint again would ever come. Especially with the LeVerts arriving tomorrow. She dreaded seeing Cara Netta again.

“You have a gift from God, ma’am,” Eli continued. “And it’s not right to hide something like that away. People need to see it. What you did for Cordina and the ladies in the kitchen . . .” He shook his head and made a sound as if he’d just tasted one of his wife’s tea cakes fresh from the oven. “It’s like they’ve got windows down there now. You don’t even feel like you’re under the earth.”

Social etiquette forbade it, but Claire wished she could hug the man. She’d had such fun painting those white plaster walls. She’d done it late at night by lantern light when she was so tired but couldn’t sleep, and when she wanted so badly to paint but lacked the concentration to create something of real worth.

She’d painted scenes of rose gardens with gazebos, and of statues and fountains. She even painted a scene of the servants’ brick houses all clustered together. It had been good practice for her, painting them in the style of François-Narcisse Brissaud. The paintings wouldn’t garner any prizes, by any means. Yet the smiles the women gave her each time she entered the kitchen did her heart good.

But come March, she needed to have painted something worthy of entering into the art auction.

“Thank you, Eli.” She covered his hand with hers, smiling when his eyes widened. “It was my pleasure. You and your wife have made me feel so welcome here. Almost like I belong.”

He squeezed her hand right back. “The way I see things, Miss Laurent, you
do
belong here at Belmont, ma’am. Because if you didn’t, the good Lord wouldn’t have brought you here. He knows what you’re doing here, even if you don’t.”

“Miss Laurent?”

Claire looked up to see Sutton standing on the portico by the front door, and her heart did a funny little flip. Mrs. Acklen stood with him. “Yes, Mr. Monroe?”

“Your attention, along with Mrs. Acklen’s, is required in the grand salon. We’re still having . . .” His gaze cut away from hers. “Well, you’d best come and see.”

Her heart fell. He’d assured her at breakfast that they would get it fixed in time. But, oh, if they didn’t . . .

She raced up the stairs, out of breath, and followed him and Mrs. Acklen through the entrance hall. The house was strangely quiet compared to the recent flurry of preparation. Bracing herself, she rounded the corner into the grand salon, and came to an immediate halt.

41

I
n the center of the room stood a statue of an angel—at least five feet tall—situated atop a polished marble platform. Her delicate-looking wings, carved from white marble like the rest of her nude body, hung folded elegantly down her back. Claire could only stare, wordless.

“You may hold me personally responsible, Miss Laurent,” Mrs. Acklen said beside her, “for any anxiety that Mr. Monroe’s
fabrication
of a problem with the floor caused you. I wanted to surprise
you
this time, knowing how deep an appreciation you have for such things.”

With boyish charm, Sutton gestured toward the statue. “I’m sorry if I worried you, Miss Laurent. We had to reinforce the floor beneath the grand salon to support the weight.”

All worry fading, Claire beamed. That the two of them would even think of wanting to surprise her like this. . . “You’re completely forgiven. Thank you both, so very much.”

Mrs. Acklen motioned her closer. “I purchased it on my return from Europe, in New York. It’s called
The Peri,
taken from a poem by Thomas Moore,
Paradise and the Peri.
I’m so pleased it arrived in time for the reception.”

Claire studied the faultless sample of the human form. The angel was a female, judging by her flowing hair and the gentle swell of her breasts. The artist had tastefully left the rest to the imagination. “Who is the sculptor?”

“Joseph Mozier, an American. And as he explained to me,” Mrs. Acklen continued, “the angel is standing at the gates of Paradise. In her right hand she holds the tears of the penitent sinner—”

Claire looked closer at the angel’s right hand resting at her side, palm extended outward. And true to Mrs. Acklen’s word, three tears lay tucked in the heart of the angel’s palm.

“—and in her left hand, she holds one of the bowls found on the shore of the lake from which the redeemed penitent drinks.”

The angel cradled the bowl close to her heart. “Beautiful,” Claire whispered, marveling at the emotion the sculpture evoked. She’d never even heard of Joseph Mozier, and yet, he had created
this
.

“Yes . . . she is that.” Mrs. Acklen’s eyes were moist with emotion. “I especially liked the inscription on the back of the pedestal.”

Claire bent to read it. “ ‘Joy, joy forever, my task is done. The gates are passed, and heaven is won.’ ”

“Isn’t that an encouraging thought?” Mrs. Acklen smoothed a hand over the tears in the angel’s palm. “No more sadness or loss, only joy.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Claire whispered. And while she did find that thought lovely, she found her focus centered on the bowl the angel held. “
One of the bowls found on the shore of the lake from which the redeemed penitent drinks 
. . .”

In her morning readings, she’d come across a passage about a woman who was thirsty and who was coming to draw water from a well. Jesus had been resting there, and He told the woman that He could give her living water. Claire swallowed, wondering if the water Jesus had offered the woman back then was the same water represented in the angel’s cup.

And if it was, how she could get some.

The next night, Claire climbed into bed, hardly believing the day of the reception had almost arrived. In less than twenty-four hours “the grandest party Nashville has ever seen”—according to the newspaper’s account—would be under way, and all the weeks of preparation and work would come to fruition.

It wasn’t late, only a little past nine, but everyone had retired early in anticipation of the party. Shivering between the cool sheets, Claire pulled the covers up to her chin, her eyes so heavy she could barely keep them open.

A knock sounded on the door.

Chilled in the bed but knowing she’d be even more so out of it, she debated, then called out, “Yes?”

“It’s Mrs. Acklen. May I have a word with you, Miss Laurent?”

Claire shot out of bed. A fire burned low in the hearth, but the wooden floor, absent of rugs except for a thin one by the fireplace, held the December chill. Goose bumps rose on her arms as she grabbed her coat and draped it around her shoulders.

She opened the door to see Mrs. Acklen dressed in her wrapper, standing off to the side, oil lamp in hand.

“I’m sorry, Miss Laurent. Were you already in bed?”

“No. I mean . . . yes, ma’am, I was. But I wasn’t asleep.”

“May I come in, please?”

“Of course.” Claire opened the door wider. “Is something wrong, ma’am?” Only then did she see the dress bag draped over Mrs. Acklen’s arm.

Mrs. Acklen entered and looked about. She scrunched her shoulders. “It’s chilly in here, Miss Laurent. Why didn’t you say something? See that rugs are ordered and installed by the end of the week.”

Claire started to say that wasn’t necessary, then realized she could hardly feel her toes. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.”

“What do you plan to wear to the reception, Miss Laurent?”

The question was unexpected. Claire crossed to the small wardrobe and withdrew one of her new dresses. A dark gray one that Sutton had complimented her on more than once. “I brushed it earlier this evening and shined my boots, so I’m all ready.” She presented the dress for inspection, knowing what a stickler Mrs. Acklen was for being well groomed.

“While that’s very nice, Miss Laurent, I think I have something that might suit you—and the event—a little better. But first . . .” Mrs. Acklen draped the dress bag across the bed. “I want to remind you that I’m a stickler for adhering to propriety. You know that.”

Claire nodded.

“However, there are times in life when I believe that conforming to society’s expectations can be . . . confining. Even suffocating. And unnecessary.”

Though tempted to nod, Claire wasn’t sure what she would be agreeing to, so she raised her eyebrows instead and tilted her head slightly. A gesture she’d learned from Mrs. Acklen. One indicating attentiveness without committing to agreement.

Mrs. Acklen chuckled. “You have mastered that response quite well, Miss Laurent.” She ran a finger along the edge of the dress bag. “Allow me to speak in plainer terms. I’ve spent the greater part of my life dressed in black. And as I face my latter years, I’ve begun to wonder if the length of time associated with this tradition is ill-conceived. When I’m gone, do I want Pauline to be draped in the memory of my passing for a full year? Or two? Do I want her to continually focus on the fact that I’m no longer with her? Or would I prefer for her to mourn me, yes, but then to move on with her life and live—and dress—in such a way that would celebrate my eternal inheritance?”

Claire sensed the question was rhetorical. But if she’d had to give answer, she would have easily chosen the latter.

“By no means, Miss Laurent, are you under obligation to wear this dress to the reception. But I think it would be stunning on you.” She withdrew the garment from the bag. “And I sincerely hope you will.”

42

R
est assured, Mr. Monroe, we’ll make certain everything is kept safe. The guests won’t even know we’re here.”

“Thank you, Matthews.” Sutton gripped the man’s hand and took a last look around the art gallery. All doors were locked except for the main entrance, through which a steady tide of reception guests were already coming and going. A recent theft from a home in town, and during a social gathering no less, prompted Sutton to be more vigilant than usual. “I’ll check back with you later this evening.”

“Very good, sir.”

Sutton stepped out into the brisk December evening and felt as though he’d walked into a fairy-tale world. Belmont was awash in a cascade of twinkling lights, and the chilly night air thrummed with anticipation. He’d been at the estate while the luminary company had installed hundreds of oil lanterns and candlelit contraptions all across the grounds—hanging them throughout the gardens, over trellises, and lining the pathways, starting at the gated entrance to Belmont and leading all the way to the front step—but the sight of them lit was overwhelming.

It was nothing short of magical. Otherworldly.

He made his way toward the mansion, dodging the carriages and omnibuses as they deposited guests along the front circular drive. Nashville’s finest in all their finery. He was careful where he stepped. The animals were leaving deposits faster than Zeke and the other stable hands could collect them.