A Lasting Impression (55 page)

“You may be here this morning, pondering the Lord’s goodness in your life,” the reverend continued. “Or you may be wondering why He’s allowed the hard times that He has. When afflictions come—and they will—we should determine to accept them as being from the hand of God. For either God is sovereign, or He is not. He is either Lord of all, or He is not. There is no in between.”

That same theme again . . .
What Mrs. Acklen had said that afternoon in her bedroom weeks ago. But Claire was coming to believe that Mrs. Acklen and the reverend were right. Though it was hardly encouraging to think about a sovereign God intentionally bringing both joy—and pain. Something about it seemed false.

When the reverend invited everyone to stand and sing, Claire was glad the song was one she knew by heart. She laid the hymnal aside and joined in. The pipe organ’s rich tones rose and swelled, and she closed her eyes, swept up in the music and lyrics.

Would you paint if you knew you were painting only for me?

Claire opened her eyes, certain she’d heard a whisper, only not knowing whether it came from the pew in front of her, or behind. The people seated in front of her weren’t looking her way, and neither were the people behind her—until she started looking at them. She quickly turned around, then casually glanced from side to side to see who was seeking her attention.

But she saw no one.

The organ music grew softer, and Reverend Bunting began to pray. Finally deciding she must have imagined it, she bowed her head and, in her mind’s eye, the image of a pot on a potter’s wheel came vividly into view.

She could see the wheel spinning, and the artist’s hands—strong, and long-stained brownish-red—molding and shaping the clay pot as he saw fit.

Would you paint if you knew you were painting only for me?

Claire drew in a breath, hearing the infinite whisper with uncanny clarity this time. Only not with her ears but in her heart. Her scalp tingled, she gripped the pew in front of her, and yet she wasn’t afraid. On the contrary. She’d never felt such peace, or such love.

She didn’t open her eyes. She didn’t have to. She only put a hand to her mouth to keep from saying aloud the name that was on her lips. . . .

Jesus.

Later that night in bed, she lay awake in the darkness, wishing Sutton were there, wishing she could talk to him, tell him what had happened that morning while the details were still fresh inside her.

But she
could
tell him. . . .

She climbed from the warmth of the covers, lit the oil lamp on the side table, and hurried to her desk for pen and paper. Then she scurried back, grateful for the thick rugs covering the wooden floor. Nestled beneath the bedcovers again, she pulled down the sleeves of her gown as far as they would go.

And she wrote.

She wrote until well after midnight, the words pouring from her like the rain splattering her windowsill outside. When the question had come the first time that morning, she’d missed it, not knowing what—or who—it was.
His
inaudible voice. But when she’d heard it the second time, she knew what He was asking. Even though a small part of her wished she didn’t.

Because she wasn’t completely sure of her answer yet.

When she finished writing Sutton, she’d filled seven pages. She stacked those aside and started on a fresh page, this time writing to
Him.
The one who had whispered. She wrote until her hand cramped and her neck and shoulder muscles burned. She wrote thoughts she’d never shared with anyone, and would be embarrassed if others read. She asked questions about Maman
.
About her father. And about why—if God had given her this gift of painting, however slight—He wasn’t doing anything with it?

When she extinguished the oil lamp at half past three, she pressed her cheek into the cool of the pillow, exhausted, clinging to the memory of His voice, and praying she would never forget what she’d felt that morning. Such perfect, boundless love. Beyond anything she’d ever known. And yet she still wondered at the implications of His question—
would you paint if you knew you were painting only for me?

Did that mean that her canvas for the auction—the painting she’d been working on and planned to enter—wouldn’t be well received? Or maybe wouldn’t be accepted at all? Did it mean her work would never achieve the acclaim she wanted? Or did it mean something else entirely? She didn’t know.

She only knew that she wanted that love in her life. And that no matter what it cost her, the answer to Jesus’s inaudible question . . . was
yes.

47

M
onday morning, the rhythm of steel wheels over miles of iron ribbon companioned the steady
tick-tick-tick
of Sutton’s internal clock. He willed the train to travel faster. He’d left Angola Plantation within an hour of receiving Bartholomew Holbrook’s telegram on Saturday morning. Finally, a major stride in their case.

Investigators had learned the name of an art dealer involved in the sale of two forged paintings they now had in their possession. And that man had been traced to Nashville. They didn’t have him in custody yet, and Holbrook hadn’t shared the man’s name in the telegram. But it didn’t matter. That they’d gotten this far was enough.

If they could only win this case. . . .

Holbrook was right—what doors it would open. And he needed an open door because it was becoming more and more likely that his days of working in a management capacity at Belmont were swiftly coming to an end. Dr. William Cheatham had visited Angola three times in the past two months, and the physician’s relationship with Adelicia had definitely taken a more personal turn.

The match wasn’t a surprise to him—the two had been friends for years—and Dr. Cheatham certainly seemed capable of assuming the managerial aspects of the estate. To Sutton’s great relief, Adelicia had agreed that
should
she and William decide to marry, she would protect her financial interests with a premarriage contract, as she’d done with Joseph Acklen.

Sutton would continue to serve as her personal attorney, but there’d be no need for him to live at Belmont anymore. So where would he live? He had no family land. No home of his own. And while he had
some
money saved, the amount seemed inconsequential compared to what he needed to properly establish himself again.

But if they were to win this lawsuit . . .

He checked his pocket watch, already knowing the minute hand would read about ten minutes later than the last time he checked. The train was about a half hour or so from Nashville—he recognized the terrain—and he was itching to get back. To work on their case, but also . . .

To see Claire.

Nearly two months he’d been gone, and she’d mentioned Andrew Stanton only twice in their exchange of letters, and then only in passing. He’d tried to read between the lines of those mentions, wondering if Stanton had managed to make an impression on her or not.

As fine a man as Stanton was, Sutton prayed he hadn’t.

Because after having only her letters to look forward to, he’d decided that he’d been a fool to leave her the way he did. Yes, she’d needed time, he knew, to learn her own heart. But he’d had time to learn his too, and his heart wanted
her.

Now if he could only find a way to provide for her. If love were enough, he was convinced he had a lifetime of that to lavish upon her. But she was worthy of far more, and he wanted to give her everything she deserved.

He rested a hand on the artist’s case he’d made for her in recent weeks. Nothing fancy. Just something she could store her canvases in as she trekked back and forth to paint. He hadn’t worked with wood like that in years, and he’d enjoyed every minute of it. Just as he enjoyed anticipating the look on her face when he gave it to her.

The train whistle blew, signaling their approach into Nashville. But it couldn’t come fast enough for him.

Satchel slung over her shoulder, and easel and white umbrella tucked under her arm, Claire started back down the ridge with the still-wet canvas in her grip. Perhaps it was the sun’s brilliance overhead or the unexpected hint of spring, but she couldn’t deny the sense of possibility filling her.

Or the fact that she was perspiring beneath her chemise.

At the foot of the ridge she paused and took off her coat, then lifted her hair from her neck. Oh, the breeze felt heavenly. And this after it had snowed only days earlier. Tennessee weather . . .

Since she’d gone to bed so late last night, staying up to write, she’d thought she might sleep later than she had. But she’d awakened at a quarter past seven, refreshed and eager to paint. Wishing she had a glass of Cordina’s sweet iced lemonade, she heard something that sounded almost as refreshing.

Shouldering her load again, she gripped the canvas by its edge and started across the meadow for the creek.

Atop the ridge that morning, she’d stood staring out over the meadow at the Belmont estate and had felt her gaze being drawn to the hill in the distance where Sutton’s family home had once stood. It was then she’d finally realized what view she wanted to capture and she’d painted it. An umbrella had helped to diffuse the bright sunlight and show the paint’s true colors, but she looked forward to painting the view again, until she got it right.

She glanced down at the canvas, mindful to keep the winter grasses from brushing the oils still tacky to the touch. And with growing certainty, she heard the response inside her gaining strength.
I’ll paint as if I’m painting only for You.

She expected Sutton would receive her letter in a few days, and she prayed her plea would spur him to come home. She pictured him again at the LeVert reception, speaking with Andrew Stanton, and while she thought she understood the motivation behind what he’d done, she still wanted to shake the man senseless.

Yet she could hardly wait to be with him again.

Seeing the slab of limestone jutting out from the hillside, she felt as if she were seeing an old friend. She set the canvas in a protected cleft of the rock and deposited her belongings beside it. Then she knelt by the creek and dipped her hand in. The icy chill felt like a touch of heaven, and she drank until she’d slaked her thirst.

On a whim, she removed her boots and stockings and slid her feet in. She leaned back, face tilted toward the sun, and let out a sigh—one that felt as if it had been building inside her for months, if not years. As she lay there, her mother’s face came to mind. She wished she still had her mother’s locket watch, yet even without it, she could still picture her
maman
’s smile.

Knowing the day was slipping by and that work awaited, Claire rose and reached for her boots and stockings but paused when she saw the deep pool of water downstream. She glanced behind her, then around. The spot was secluded. She was alone.

By the time she reached the edge of the creek, she’d unbuttoned the front of her dress. Laying it aside, next came her crinoline and underskirts, until she stood in only her chemise and pantalets. She waded in, sucking in a breath as the water swirled around her ankles, then, as she got closer to the deeper pool, around her calves and waist. By the time the water reached her chest, she knew she couldn’t—and wouldn’t—turn back, but oh . . . it was cold.

Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and submerged herself beneath the surface, and for a few brief seconds, the world above faded from view. It was the desire to be clean, and the longing to bury her old life in exchange for the promise of a new one that permeated every corner of her heart, that crowded out every last doubt.

She didn’t know how to go about reshaping this world she’d created without destroying it completely, but she trusted the Potter to know, to show her, and to mold her. Into whatever He wanted her to be.

Belmont came into view and Sutton reined in, as much to give the mare from the livery in town a chance to rest, as to give himself a moment to rehearse, again, what he was going to say to Claire when he saw her.
Forgive me for being such a fool
didn’t seem like enough, yet that’s the first thing that came to him.