A Lasting Impression (58 page)

“The last letter she received from Joseph was in late summer of sixty-three. He wrote telling her that the Confederates had confiscated all the mules and horses, and that he was afraid they were going to burn almost three thousand bales of cotton to keep it from falling into enemy hands. Joseph died about a month later from malaria, which left Adelicia in Nashville with a fortune in cotton about to be burned in Louisiana.”

They reached the corner and he headed toward the right.

Claire glanced back in the direction they’d come. “Are you sure Armstead will be able to find us? Maybe we ought to head back.”

“I told him we might go for a walk.” He checked his pocket watch again. “We have some time yet.”

They resumed their pace, and Claire found herself picturing Mrs. Acklen hearing the news about her second husband’s death, after everyone else she’d already lost. “So you escorted her to Louisiana?”

He nodded. “I got special leave from my unit and took her and her cousin Sarah to the plantation, where Adelicia somehow convinced the Confederates to guard the cotton for her. She promised them she was going to ship it to England and sell it there, which she did. But she needed a way to transport it to New Orleans, and the Confederates didn’t have any wagons. So—in the middle of a war, mind you—she managed to persuade some
Federal
officers to loan her their teams and wagons to move the cotton to the river.”

“Where the cotton”—Claire continued for him—“was then loaded and sent to Europe and sold for a small fortune.” She leaned close. “I read that part in the newspaper article.”

They walked for a while, his hand covering hers on his arm, until finally they came to a corner. He stopped and turned to her. “I know this past week hasn’t been an easy one for you . . . with my mother here. I want to thank you for how patient you’ve been with her.”

“You don’t have to keep saying that, Sutton. She’s your mother, and I’m happy to do it.”

He touched a curl at her forehead. “She told me you invited her to join you one morning, when you paint.”

“She said she used to draw. I thought she might enjoy doing it again.”

“I think I was still a boy the last time I saw her sketch. She drew the framed pictures you saw on my bedside table.”

“Really? I’m impressed.” She had confessed to him about visiting his room more than just that once while he was gone to Louisiana. At which time he had confessed to taking the
joujou
on the mantel in her bedroom the morning he left. She hadn’t even noticed it missing.

“Thank you for having dinner with me tonight, Claire, and I’m sorry I made you walk all the way here, but . . .” He led her around the corner and gestured down the street. “I wanted you to be surprised.”

Seeing what lay ahead, Claire let out a little squeal and threw her arms around his neck.

49

O
pera patrons lined the walkway leading into the Adelphi Theater, and Claire couldn’t have been more proud to be escorted by Sutton. Though she didn’t remember most of the couples’ names, she recognized many of them from the LeVert reception and nodded a silent greeting when they looked her way.

“What opera are we seeing?” she whispered.

Nearing the doorway, he nodded toward the billboard, and she felt a thrill.
Faust.

She squeezed his arm. “I’ll understand every word!”

“I know.” He pressed his hand against the small of her back as they entered. “So you can explain the parts to me that I’ve never understood.”

Once inside the foyer, an attendant led them up a winding staircase and down a narrow corridor lined with doors. Near the end of the hallway, the young man paused and opened a door to reveal a secluded balcony overlooking the stage. “Will Mrs. Acklen be joining you tonight, Mr. Monroe?”

“No, she won’t. It’s just the two of us this evening.”

“Very good, sir. And do you desire the usual refreshments at intermission?”

Sutton nodded and slipped the man a bill.

Claire stood inside the doorway and drank in the scene. Swags of gold-brocaded curtains framed either side of the stage, bronze chandeliers twinkled above, the orchestra tuned their instruments, and the dissonant chords from horns and strings competed with the hushed conversation of a full house.

Sutton came behind her and caressed her shoulders. “Promise me you’ll wear this dress at least once a week.”

She wove her fingers through his and squeezed. “Sutton, this is all so . . .” She couldn’t find the words.

He escorted her to her chair, then claimed his own beside her and scooted closer.

Claire saw movement below, on the floor level. Someone waving at them. “Oh!” She nudged Sutton. “There’s Mrs. Holbrook.” She gave a discreet wave in return.

Sutton nodded a greeting. “Her husband told me she was very pleased with what you did for the Women’s League annual tea. They’d like to have dinner with us, incidentally.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Holbrook?” Claire asked, remembering what Mr. Holbrook had said to her at the reception.

“No . . . President and Mrs. Johnson.” Sutton glanced over at her and grinned. “Of course, Mr. and Mrs. Holbrook.”

She managed a smile, glad when the house lamps were extinguished, but feeling that knot of tension inside her again, reminding her that she needed to tell him. But she couldn’t tell him now, or it would ruin their evening. “Sutton,” she whispered.

He turned to her.

“Could you set aside some time tomorrow so that I could speak with you? It’s about something
very
important.”

He pressed a kiss to her hand. “Of course. I’ll look forward to it.”

As the curtain rose moments later, with tears in her eyes Claire leaned over, intending to kiss him on the cheek. But at the last second, he turned his head and captured her mouth. “I love you, Claire,” he whispered against her lips.

But she almost couldn’t answer, wondering if he would still feel this way tomorrow. “I love you too, Sutton,” she whispered, praying for the strength to accept whatever came, while thanking God for this man she loved, and for the seclusion of the private balcony.

With her painting satchel slung over one shoulder and the artist’s case Sutton had made for her in her grip, Claire picked her way back down the ridge, humming an aria from
Faust.
The opera last evening had plucked every heartstring of human emotion. She’d laughed, she’d cried, she’d held her breath—and Sutton’s hand until it ached, he’d told her later.

The artist’s case he’d made her was ingenious. It contained a special mechanism to hold the canvas in place so she could transport it with greater ease, and less chance for damage. Which was especially important today because the canvas within was the one she would send to the auction hall tomorrow, via courier.

Seven times, she’d painted this particular scene, and each time something different came from her brush. But the landscape she’d most recently finished was without a doubt the one she was supposed to enter. She knew with a certainty, because—even though it frightened her—this was the only canvas of the seven that she’d
not
painted in the style of François-Narcisse Brissaud. But rather, in her own.

She hurried back to the mansion and saw gardeners tending the grounds, primping the winter garden—dormant though it was—to look its best for Mrs. Acklen’s return at the end of the week, in time for the auction for established artists.

Though ready for her return, Claire couldn’t imagine standing before Adelicia Acklen and telling her the truth. Telling Sutton today was going to be hard enough. . . .

She deposited her case and satchel in a corner of the entrance hall by the
Sleeping Children,
as muted conversation drifted toward her.

“Miss Laurent? Is that you?”

Recognizing Mrs. Monroe’s voice, Claire walked around the corner to the
tête-à-tête
room. And when she saw who was seated beside Sutton’s mother, her blood ran cold. “Uncle Antoine . . .” Of its own volition, the name left her lips.

“
Bonjour, ma petite!
” Antoine rose from the settee, looking elegant and far too much at home in his surroundings.

Mrs. Monroe scrunched her shoulders. “I love it when he talks that way. He’s so charming!”

Claire stared, too stunned to speak.

Antoine DePaul crossed the room and leaned in as though to kiss her cheek. But Claire turned her head. His smile never broke.

“It’s been too long, Claire. How are you, dear?”

She kept her voice low. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m visiting my niece,” he said, loud enough for anyone in the hall outside to hear him. “After all, we’re family, you and I.”

Heart pounding, she gestured. “I’d like to see you privately, please.”

Antoine returned to the settee and took his place beside Mrs. Monroe. “I think I prefer this room, Claire. It’s so”—he glanced about—“
rich
looking.”

The thud of horse’s hooves sounded through the open window, and Claire’s heart dropped to her stomach. She looked out, relieved to see it was Zeke and not Sutton. If Sutton were to find out about her this way, he would think she was only telling him because she was being forced to.

“Expecting someone, Claire? Perhaps the gentleman I saw you with last night?”

Claire looked back at him.

“Did you enjoy the opera? It looked as though you did from where I was seated. Below you, toward the back. Then again, the private balcony where
you
were seated was rather dark, and you did seem . . .” He gave her a knowing look. “Well, shall we say
preoccupied
at times?”

Claire’s face heated.

“Miss Laurent,” Mrs. Monroe said, apparently having missed what Antoine had hinted at, “tell Cordina to set another place so your uncle can join us for lunch.”

“I wish that were possible, Mrs. Monroe, but”—she leveled a stare at Antoine—“he’s unable to stay for lunch. He has an appointment in town. Don’t you,
Uncle
?”

He met her eyes, seemed to debate his choices, then stood. “I guess I do need to be on my way. Madame Monroe—” He bowed and kissed her hand. “
Au revoir,
my dear. It was a pleasure meeting you and hearing all about life here at Belmont. Pity I wasn’t able to meet Mrs. Acklen. Perhaps I’ll come back some other day.”

“Oh yes, do.” Mrs. Monroe patted his hand. “She’s the loveliest woman. She and I are the dearest of friends.”

Shaking on the inside, Claire followed him into the entrance hall, closing the door to the
tête-à-tête
room behind them. She opened the front door and gestured him through it, but he paid her no mind.

He studied
Ruth Gleaning,
then made a show of looking around the room. “You land on your feet well, Claire.”

“You need to leave.”

“I will. Once I get what I came for.”

“I’m not giving you anything. And you’re not taking anything from here either.”

He inhaled. “On second thought, lunch does smell delicious.”

“Please,” she said, hating the pleading quality of her voice. She closed the front door so no one could walk up on them unannounced. “You have no right to be here.”

He raised a brow. “And you do?”

Her grip tightened on the door handle. How many times had she asked herself that question? And she knew the answer, only too well.

She felt so helpless, at his mercy. Was this what everything was coming down to? After she’d finally committed to telling the truth. After she’d begged God to make something more of herself than she ever could. She breathed deep, trying to still the trembling inside her. “I’m not painting for you anymore. Like I told Papa, I won’t do it.”

He looked at her for a moment, then scoffed. “Of course you will. Unless you want me to speak with your employer—” he glanced at the portrait—“Mrs. Adelicia Franklin Acklen.” He spoke the name slowly, each syllable accentuated. “I’m guessing she doesn’t know yet about the family business we had in New Orleans.”

“
Your
business—and Papa’s. Not mine.”

“You were just as much a part of things as we were, Claire Elise. You knew it then. And you know it now. I can see it in your eyes.” He shook his head as though pitying her. “You never were good at lying.”

“Unlike you and Papa,” she said, fearing at any minute that someone would walk around a corner.

He took a step toward her. “Mrs. Acklen is a very wealthy woman, and I would imagine that as her personal liaison—as the dear Mrs. Monroe informed me that you are—you have access to her
personal
accounts. And judging by the loathing in your eyes at the moment, I’m convinced you would pay a handsome sum to be rid of me. Am I correct?”

“I don’t have access to Mrs. Acklen’s money, and even if I did, I wouldn’t—”

“
Get
access to it, Claire. Because if you don’t, your part in our arrangement back in New Orleans will come to light in a most unflattering manner, and the world you’ve created for yourself here will come to a very hasty end. And I’m not simply referring to the loss of your job. They prosecute forgers, just like they prosecute the dealers who sell their work. Or haven’t you considered that?”