A Lasting Impression (63 page)

Sutton reached for his coat on a nearby chair. “We’d better get on over there. Or
the Lady
will be sending for us.”

With twilight nearing, they walked arm in arm the short distance to the mansion. Lanterns cast a shimmering spell over the gardens and a stringed orchestra tuned their instruments on the front lawn. When Claire and Sutton reached the top step of the portico, they turned and saw the first carriage.

Followed by another and another . . .

From all over the country, an endless stream of guests arriving for the wedding reception of Dr. and Mrs. William Cheatham, married just over a week ago by Reverend Bunting in a private gathering in the mansion.

Sutton sighed beside her. “Two thousand guests invited this time.”

She laughed and shook her head. “And nearly every one of them accepted.”

The front door opened behind them, and Eli stepped out in black coat and tails. “Good evening, Mr. Monroe, Miss Laurent.”

Claire curtsied. “You look so handsome, Eli.”

He bowed at the waist. “Why, thank you, ma’am. You look lovely, as always. And Mr. Monroe . . . how are you this evening, sir?”

“I’m well, Eli. Thank you.”

Claire continued on inside but paused when she noticed Sutton wasn’t following. She looked back.

“Eli, I’d like to . . .” Sutton briefly looked down. “I’d like to thank you for what you said about my father a while back. And also what . . .” Sutton lifted his gaze. “What you shared with me that
he
said. That meant more to me than you’ll ever know.” Slowly, he extended his hand, and Eli accepted.

Claire sensed significance to the moment and asked Sutton about it when they stepped inside.

But he just smiled. “I’ll tell you about it later.”

“Miss Laurent . . .”

Claire turned to see Mrs.
Cheatham
in a dress of flowing white silk, a veil of Brussels point lace floating about her shoulders. In true queenly form, a diamond tiara—a wedding gift from the Emperor and Empress of France, who had been invited to the reception but who had to politely decline—adorned her head. “You look radiant, Mrs. Cheatham.”

“I concur completely, ma’am,” Sutton added.

“I appreciate that.” Smiling, Mrs. Cheatham turned to Eli, who now stood by
Ruth Gleaning
as well as an easel covered in a black drape. “I also appreciate this,” Mrs. Cheatham added, then gestured. Eli removed the cloth with a flourish.

Claire couldn’t believe her eyes. Her
Versailles,
with her
maman.
“Where did you get this?” But as soon as she looked at Sutton, she knew, and she loved him all the more for it. When she drew closer, she saw it.
Her
name in the bottom right-hand corner. And for a brief second, she was back in her bedroom above the gallery, looking out over the French Quarter, dreaming of her name someday being on a
masterpiece.

“And to be clear, Miss Laurent . . .” Mrs. Cheatham stepped closer. “The painting is mine now. But you may view it anytime you like.”

“What my dear wife probably hasn’t told you,” Dr. Cheatham said, joining them with Pauline and Claude in tow, as well as his own teenage children, Mattie and Richard, “is that she and Mrs. Worthington about came to blows in the bidding.”

Mrs. Cheatham shushed him.

But Sutton laughed. “I wish I could have seen that.”

Wishing she could have too, Claire felt Sutton’s hand on the small of her back.

“So much for your talent not being unique,” he whispered.

Mattie Cheatham sidled up beside her new mother, younger Pauline in hand, and Claire could see a close bond had already formed between them. Joseph was home from school now, and he and William, along with Claude, were already luring Richard Cheatham into their pranks on the girls. A full household indeed.

“Mr. Monroe”—Dr. Cheatham gave Sutton’s shoulder a good-natured grip—“Adelicia tells me you’re quite gifted with horses. I’ve recently purchased two thoroughbreds and would be obliged if you’d consider training them for me. As time permits, of course. I’ll either compensate you outright or legally assign you a portion of their future winnings. Your choice.”

A smile that did Claire’s heart good broke over Sutton’s face. “I’d be honored, sir. Thank you.”

Prominently displayed on a side table was Adelicia Cheatham’s copy of
Queens of American Society
opened to the page that bore Mrs. Cheatham’s picture
,
along with the memory book Claire had made her. But a second copy of
Queens of American Society
also adorned the table, opened to a different page. Claire stepped closer.

“Have you had opportunity to read Mrs. Cheatham’s portion yet, Miss Laurent?”

Claire turned to see Mrs. Routh beside her, the woman’s spectacles resting midway down her nose. “Ah . . .
yes
, Mrs. Routh, actually, I have read it.” She wasn’t about to admit that she’d written practically every word. Only Mrs. Cheatham knew that. “She’s lived a very full and meaningful life.”

“That she has.” Mrs. Routh smoothed a hand over the opened page, her forefinger lingering on the last paragraph. “It was most gracious of
Mrs. Cheatham
to include such kind remarks about me.”

Claire nodded, knowing full well what the paragraph said, and getting the sneaking suspicion that Mrs. Routh knew their employer hadn’t written it. “Mrs. Cheatham thinks most highly of you, ma’am. As do many other people. But then . . .” She met the woman’s gaze. “I hope you would know that by now.”

Mrs. Routh closed the book and held it to her chest. “I do,” she whispered. “Just as I hope those ‘other people’ know that I think the same of them.”

A while later, after toasts had been made to the new bride and groom and a waltz had ended, Claire spotted Mrs. Cheatham gesturing to her. Claire made her way across the grand salon and past
The Peri
. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Miss Laurent, why isn’t the cupola lit and ready for our guests? I am
quite
certain I put that on your list.”

“No, ma’am,” Claire said gently. “We discussed the cupola earlier this week. With the redecorating you’re doing upstairs, you expressly told me that you preferred our guests not—”

“Apparently one of us was not listening well enough, Miss Laurent. The servants are all disposed. Would you please take care of this personally? And straightaway.”

Claire tilted her head. “Most happily, Mrs. Cheatham.” Knowing she hadn’t misunderstood but recalling everything the woman had done for her, Claire ascended the staircase, looking for Sutton, thinking he could help her with the task. She’d seen him dancing with his mother earlier, but he was nowhere in sight now. She’d lit the lanterns up there before. She could do it again.

On the second-floor landing, she retrieved an oil lamp and matches and continued up the stairs. She opened the door to the cupola and stepped inside.

“It’s about time. . . .”

She jumped at the voice, then saw him. And the smile Sutton wore told her she’d been hoodwinked. Very happily so. “Why isn’t the cupola lit and ready for our guests?” she mimicked her employer. “I am
quite
certain I put that on your list.”

He laughed as he took the lamp and matches from her and set them on a table that wasn’t usually there. Same for the bottle of champagne chilling on ice and two glasses. “She was most cooperative when I told her my intentions toward you.”

Claire raised an eyebrow. “You have intentions toward me, Mr. Monroe?”

He pulled her close. “I do indeed.” He leaned down and kissed her soft on the mouth. “And most of them are honorable.”

She smiled, even as his expression sobered.

“I needed some time, Claire, to sort things through. But mainly for us both to get the trial behind us.” He fingered a curl at her temple. “I’ve loved you since we hid all those silly clues together. And it took everything I had not to kiss you that night in the art gallery. I wanted to . . . so badly.”

She traced a finger over his lips. “Like you want to now?”

His sharp exhale should have served warning. He lifted her in his arms, held her against him, and kissed her, deeply, cradling the back of her head. Then, gradually, he lowered her back down until her feet touched the floor again. But Claire could barely breathe, much less stand.

She gave a soft laugh. “I’ll have you know that I loved you first. Because I’ve loved you since you fell out of the gazebo that same night. Long before we hid the clues.”

His deep chuckle warmed her. “It’s not a competition.”

“Oh . . . look,” she whispered, and peered over to see the gardens below. “It’s even more beautiful from up here.”

“Claire . . . I believe this belongs to you.”

She turned back to see him holding something out to her. A necklace? No, it didn’t look—

“Oh, Sutton . . .” Her mother’s locket watch. She cradled the locket in her palm. “Where did you get this?” But as soon as she said it, she knew. “
He
had it . . . didn’t he?”

Sutton nodded. “I put it on a chain for you, along with something else I’ve been wanting to give you.”

A ring slowly slid down the chain, and even as his smile faded, hers bloomed.

“Claire, you’ve long held my heart. And it would be the greatest honor of my life if you would—”

“Yes,” she said quickly. “I will.”

His mouth tipped in a smile. “You’re supposed to wait,” he whispered, “until after I’ve finished asking you. I’ve worked a long time on this.”

“Not nearly as long as I’ve been waiting for you to ask.” She eyed the ring and then him.

He slipped it on her finger, then brought his arms around her, and Claire gave herself to his kiss. She couldn’t imagine what a lifetime of loving Willister Sutton Monroe would be like. But she welcomed it—and eagerly anticipated the
masterpiece
that God would make of their life together.

Dear Reader,

The first time I visited the Belmont Mansion, I knew I wanted to write about this magnificent home and the people who’d lived there. While Belmont served as a “backdrop” for this story and I’ve gone to great length to remain faithful to history, I
have
taken creative license with historical personalities, as well as with the basement level of the mansion, which is no longer inhabitable nor open to the public. For more information on the historical specifics and for pictures of Adelicia’s statuary, please visit my Web site (
www.tameraalexander.com
).

Adelicia had a great appreciation for art, and as the story portrays, she was one of the wealthiest women in the United States in the 1860s. The seed of her wealth came from her first husband, Isaac Franklin, a wealthy planter and slave trader, and was another story in itself. I desired to include those details of her life—and
did
, initially. But as writers learn early on, if story threads don’t serve the main story, they must go. Which these threads did . . . during rewrite. Yet I do believe they are important pieces of Adelicia’s life and to the history of Belmont.

As for the question Claire heard in the book, “Would you paint if you knew you were painting only for me?” that has its root in a personal experience. In 2003, after I’d pitched the idea for my first novel to an editor, she read the first few chapters, then told me she wanted to see it once it was completed. So I set out to finish it. And as I did, I heard this question so clearly in my heart during worship the next Sunday, “Would you write this book if you knew you were writing it only for
Me
?”

In that moment, I was certain of two things: One, it was God’s inaudible voice, something I’ve “heard” only a handful of times in my life. And two, I knew the editor
wasn’t
going to take my book. Still, I spent the next year writing and then submitted the manuscript. Hardly a month passed before I received the rejection letter. But . . . I gained invaluable insights through that experience.

First, I learned that only what we do for God will last. The lessons He taught me as I wrote
Rekindled
, my first published novel, are ones I’ll carry with me forever. And second, from my earliest days of being a novelist I’ve realized who I’m writing for. And—just as Claire did—I’m determined never to forget that.

Adelicia Acklen didn’t keep a journal, or if she did, it didn’t survive. However, we do have letters written in her hand to friends and family members, as well as newspaper accounts detailing the lavish parties and dinners she hosted. One night, while I was writing, I was struggling with Adelicia’s dialogue in a conversation between her and Claire when I remembered a letter Adelicia had written to her sister Corinne in 1860. I pulled it from my files and, oh . . . what a moment. Adelicia’s words fit
perfectly
—without the least editing—into the conversation on the page. A God moment, for sure. (See Ch. 36, the paragraph beginning with the words, “Oftentimes, through the years . . .”)

Attempting to sketch someone’s character without having known them is tricky at best, and rife for misinterpretation. Yet, in researching, I quickly learned that the silent footprints we leave behind—letters written, mementoes saved, even purchases we’ve made—create impressions of the person we are. Or, to those coming after us, the person we
were
.

Never underestimate who’s looking at your life and at how many people you influence. I doubt that Adelicia Acklen ever dreamed somone would write a novel about her life and her beloved Belmont nearly one hundred and twenty-five years following her death. And yet, here we are.

You and I are leaving lasting impressions. May we live authentic lives of faith that point others to Christ. After all, it’s all about Him.

Until next time,

Tamera

Ephesians 2:10

With Gratitude to . . .

My husband, Joe—for acting as my first editor on this manuscript. You listened as I talked (and talked and talked) through characterizations and plot twists. Your patience and enthusiasm never waned, even when mine occasionally did.