A Lasting Impression (57 page)

“I didn’t say that. It’s
good
to see you again.” And he meant it, for the most part. But in another . . . “I was simply surprised. I would have thought you might have written to inform me you were coming.”

“I did write you, son. I told you that if your aunt Lorena ever looked at me in that haughty manner again, I was leaving.” She squared her frail shoulders. “So I did. I packed up my things, bought my train ticket, and came home. For good.”

“For good?” he repeated.

“Yes.” She looked in Claire’s direction, scowled, and promptly dismissed her presence with a turn of her head. “And now that you’re here, Willister, I’d like to know when you’ll be taking me to my home. I know you’ve been busy, as I read in your letters, but I’m sure you’ve rebuilt the family house by now.”

Sutton didn’t know where to begin to answer that question, and he certainly didn’t want to do so in front of Claire. Even though she already knew the story. “We can talk about all this later, Mother. For now, let me help you get settled into a guest room.”

“I’m happily ensconced in a room upstairs. Thank you, son.” She started toward the staircase, then turned an austere look at Claire. “I’d like a pot of tea brought to my room, along with something to eat, please.”

“Mother, Miss Laur—”

“It would be my pleasure, Mrs. Monroe,” Claire said, her voice sweet.

Sutton waited until his mother’s footsteps sounded on the second- floor gallery. “Claire . . .” He sighed, knowing he needed to check on his mother, but he also couldn’t leave Claire without an explanation. “I don’t know what to say. I apologize for all of that. I had no idea she was coming.”

“That’s all right, Sutton. Honestly. I understand.”

But he could see that she didn’t. “I think I told you before that my mother has a delicate emotional nature. But she also has a rather eccentric side to her as well.” He glanced toward the stairs. “One that has apparently worsened. She does fairly well when everything goes according to her expectations. But she doesn’t do well with change.”

“Or”—Claire smiled—“with servants of lesser ranking taking liberties with her son.”

He smiled in return, knowing she wasn’t serious. But what had just happened wasn’t the least bit humorous to him. “I didn’t tell my mother about the change in my relationship with Cara Netta because I knew it would upset her. And I honestly didn’t think it mattered—for the short term. Because she wasn’t here. But . . .” He exhaled. “She is now. And if my guess is right, she’s just ensconced herself in Adelicia Acklen’s personal quarters.”

Claire balanced the tray as she started up the stairs from the kitchen. Mrs. Monroe had been here for a week and the woman had yet to say anything other than “Yes, please,” or “No, thank you” to her, unless she was asking for something. And then—Claire smiled to herself—Eugenia Monroe’s vocabulary increased significantly.

Sutton felt terrible about the situation, but she really didn’t mind that much. Mrs. Monroe could be demanding, even harsh at times, and the woman obviously didn’t like her. But Claire sensed that the woman’s dislike stemmed more from Mrs. Monroe’s disapproval of her relationship with
Willister
than from a personal aversion.

Once Claire reached the main level, she headed toward the guest room at the end of the hallway, passing the formal dining room. She sensed a loneliness from Mrs. Monroe, and knowing all she’d been through, felt compassion for her. Just as hundreds of brushstrokes comprised a finished canvas, people were made up of a lifetime of experiences, both good and bad. And without knowing what someone had endured, it was impossible to truly know them—and accept them—for who they were.

That took time. And patience. And a forgiving heart, which she prayed Sutton would have with her once she told him the truth. Which she was going to do. Tonight. But she knew only too well that you could forgive someone and still decide you didn’t want to be with them.

She’d forgiven Antoine DePaul everything, yet prayed she would never see the man again.

She didn’t know what Sutton had planned for their evening tonight. He wouldn’t tell her. He’d only instructed her to be ready by five thirty and to wear the dress she’d worn to the LeVert reception—which had been enough of a hint to have her flying high for the past five days.

Balancing the tray, she knocked on the guest room door.

“Enter.”

She turned the knob, and saw Mrs. Monroe standing by the window. “Good afternoon, ma’am. Cordina made her famous chicken and dumplings for lunch. Would you like the tray on the table?”

“Yes, please.” Mrs. Monroe’s gaze stayed fixed on some point beyond the glass pane.

“Are you certain you wouldn’t like to enjoy your meal on one of the front porches? It’s lovely outside.”

“No, thank you.”

Claire arranged the tray on the table, sneaking glances. Sutton’s mother was her height but much thinner, frailer, with hair the color of spun gold. And she bore an elegance about her that bespoke breeding and a manner accustomed to the finer things of life.

“Will there be anything else, Mrs. Monroe?”

“No, thank you.”

Claire curtsied. “Good day, then.” She picked up the breakfast tray she’d brought earlier that morning and smiled as she closed the door.

“What is it that you do when you leave here in the mornings, Miss Laurent?”

Claire stuck her hand out to stop the door from closing and nearly dropped the tray, shocked at hearing more than three words in a row from the woman. “I paint, ma’am. Landscapes. Oil on canvas.” She righted an empty china cup on the tray. “Sometimes I go to the gardens out front. Sometimes to the meadow. Other times, like this morning, I walk to the ridge.” She nodded in the direction of the conservatory on the opposite side of the estate. “There’s a beautiful view from that hill.” She decided not to add that a person could see the Monroe family land from that vantage point.

“Do you possess any talent?”

Claire smiled, knowing she shouldn’t be surprised at the woman’s bluntness. “It depends on whom you ask, ma’am. Some people find beauty in what I paint and seem to enjoy it.”

“Given we are out of time, it will have to do . . .”
Her smile faded as her father’s criticism returned. Would his judgment always be a mere thought away? “But I’m certain there are others whose opinions would differ. I simply try to paint the very best that I can.”
And paint as if I’m painting only for Him,
she wanted to add aloud but didn’t.

Mrs. Monroe said nothing.

Claire thought of Mrs. Broderick, the elderly woman at the shipping company, and of her frailty and forgetfulness. But this seemed different. Mrs. Monroe wasn’t that far along in years. Assuming their conversation was over, she turned to go.

“I used to draw,” Mrs. Monroe said quietly, still staring outside. “I was quite good, actually. My husband told me so . . . many times. I lost all of my drawings in the fire.”

Unprepared for such honesty, Claire didn’t know how to respond at first. But she knew how much
losing
her
Versailles
had hurt. “Perhaps, Mrs. Monroe, when your schedule allows . . . you might consider going with me one morning.”

Eugenia Monroe turned a doubtful eye in her direction.

“I would welcome your company, ma’am. And the perspective of a fellow artist.”

Mrs. Monroe didn’t so much as bat an eyelash as she turned back to the window. “Good day, Miss Laurent. Thank you for lunch.”

Claire felt as though she were living in a fairy tale.

She peered across the white-clothed table at Sutton—so handsome in his black cutaway coat and white tie—then around the elegant Creole restaurant where they’d enjoyed dinner. Their table overlooked the Cumberland River, and as the sun sank lower, it left a golden trail of light rippling across the water’s surface.

She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “I’m afraid this is too expensive.”

He mimicked her posture. “And I’m afraid that’s none of your concern,” he whispered back.

She smiled, but at the same time she felt a nervous knot in the pit of her stomach. The same knot she felt each time she thought about what his reaction would be when she told him the truth about her parents’ art gallery, and how she’d forged the paintings. She would need to confess everything to Mrs. Acklen too, and planned on asking Sutton to accompany her, if he would.

When the
maître d’
presented the dessert menu, she almost declined, until she saw their house specialty. “Beignets, please.”

“The same for me,” Sutton said.

She waited for the server to leave. “This has been such a wonderful evening, Sutton. And such a nice surprise. Thank you.”

He winked and sipped his water. “Only two days until the auction.”

She made a panicked face, then grinned. She was disappointed that Mrs. Acklen hadn’t returned from Angola yet and therefore wouldn’t be bidding on her painting—a silly dream she’d somehow allowed herself to entertain. “Even if nothing comes from this opportunity for me, Sutton, I want you to know how much I appreciate your belief in me. And in my painting. How much I appreciate everything you’ve done for me while I’ve been here.”

His eyes narrowed playfully. “Are you planning on going somewhere?”

“No.” She laughed softly, that nervous knot twisting a half turn.

A server poured their after-dinner coffee, and Claire sipped hers slowly, savoring the rich chicory taste. So like Café du Monde.

“I don’t typically discuss business over dinner, but . . .” Sutton pulled an envelope from his pocket and handed it to her. “I received this today.”

Claire pulled a single sheet of stationery from the envelope. A legal document with the heading,
The State of Louisiana v. Mrs. Adelicia Franklin Acklen.
She didn’t comprehend all of the legal terminology, but she caught words here and there, and when she reached the final paragraph, she began to smile. She kept her voice soft, mindful of patrons at nearby tables. “You won the cotton case!” She raised her coffee cup in salute. “Congratulations, Counselor.”

He touched his cup to hers. “We won for now, at least. I’m sure the plaintiff will appeal. But . . . thank you for celebrating with me.”

Watching him, she saw in his eyes at least a portion of what she was already thinking. That while he was very good at what he did, practicing law wasn’t what he most wanted to do with his life, and she prayed again that God would open a door for Sutton to have his dream.

She slid the envelope back to him, wanting to ask some questions about the case. But not in the middle of the restaurant, with listening ears close by.

The server returned with dessert and Claire enjoyed every bite, resisting the urge to lick the powdered sugar from her fingers. Outside the restaurant, they discovered that Armstead hadn’t returned with the carriage yet.

Sutton checked his pocket watch, then offered his arm. “Shall we walk for a while? Armstead will find us.”

Claire accepted and fell into step beside him. “About the case you won, something I’ve wondered since reading about it in a newspaper article Mrs. Acklen saved . . .” She looked over at him. “Were
you
there with her? In Louisiana?”

His smile came slowly. “I was, for some of it, and the woman was a sight to behold. After seeing her manage those negotiations . . .” He shook his head. “It wasn’t an easy time in her life either. She’d just lost Mr. Acklen. And at the time he died, she hadn’t seen him in over a year and a half.”

“Why so long?” Claire nodded to a couple who strolled past.

“The war. When Fort Donelson fell, we all knew it was only a matter of time before Nashville would fall too. Adelicia encouraged him to leave before that happened. She thought he was needed more at their Louisiana plantations and that he’d be safer there. Sure enough, a week after he left, the Federals occupied Nashville, and they began identifying
hearty secessionists.
” He said it with a note of bitterness, and Claire understood why. “Adelicia was named, and most certainly Joseph would have been as well. Like my father was.”

Claire slowed her pace to match his.