A Lasting Impression Page 11
Whichever it was, she felt unusually emboldened. And coupled with the memory of Reverend Bunting intentionally leaving the storeroom door open, she knew that if she left without saying what she’d planned to say, she would regret it forever.
She took a fortifying breath. “Up until this morning, Mrs. Acklen, I had never heard of Belmont.” She spoke softly, above a whisper so as not to appear like the beggar she felt, and yet hushed in the hope that her voice might not carry to the next room. Sutton Monroe obviously thought poorly of her already. No reason to give him further evidence to support that opinion. And though she cared—far more than she should have—about his estimation of her, saying what she needed to say to Mrs. Acklen mattered more. “And please know that what I say next, ma’am, I say with the utmost respect. . . . I had never heard of you either. But despite that, I find myself sitting here, in this room, speaking to you now. And I’m beginning to believe that some of the events that led me here—or perhaps all of them, I don’t know—happened on purpose.”
Mrs. Acklen listened wordlessly. And somewhere in between the faint glimmer in the woman’s eyes and the downward tilt of her delicate chin, Claire sensed a spark of renewed interest. And she grabbed it, determined to make the most of the opportunity.
However fleeting or ill-fated it might prove to be.
Sutton stood on the other side of the open doorway, in the central parlor, intent on protecting his employer’s interests.
Though hidden from the ladies’ view, he was certain Miss Laurent knew he was there. He’d given her a look that said he would be listening.
He didn’t trust her.
And though he found what she was saying now—about arriving in Nashville yesterday—credible enough, he didn’t believe her statement about never having heard of Belmont or Mrs. Acklen. He fingered the folder in his hand. He’d been told that particular story before.
How many fortune seekers had he chased off in the past? And how many times had complete strangers shown up on the front porch claiming to be related to Adelicia? Or what of the parade of ne’er-do-well Northerners who came armed, portfolios at the ready, with their “no-lose” investment opportunities. Even far-reaching family members occasionally came calling under the guise of wanting to reconnect with a “loved one.” Adelicia Acklen being that loved one. And yet each time they all wanted the same thing.
Money. And one of his responsibilities was to make sure they didn’t get it. Or that they got only what Mrs. Acklen desired that they have.
Granted, on the surface, Miss Laurent didn’t seem like one of those charlatans. Still, something about her felt . . . not quite right. That could be due to his knowledge that she’d spent the previous night in the First Presbyterian Church—and on Adelicia’s personal cushioned pew, no less.
Something Miss Laurent had failed to mention thus far.
“After I left the train station, Mrs. Acklen, I discovered that the lodgings where I had planned to stay were . . . regrettably unsuitable. So . . .”
Regrettably unsuitable. The exact description she’d used with him that morning. Not that this meant she was lying. . . . It simply seemed like too much of a coincidence to him. Her showing up in town when she did, and then at the mansion, on the last day of interviews. Not to mention she was French. Hardly a coincidence, given that Adelicia, as most everyone knew, loved anything French.
The woman had adored Paris. That’s where she’d gotten the idea to hire a personal liaison in the first place—after his none-too-gentle suggestion that she do so. She needed the talent of a female counterpart who shared her interest in planning parties, creating guest lists and menus, selecting flower arrangements for tables, and creating the artistic aura that Adelicia demanded for her evenings of elaborate entertaining.
Hence, the liaison.
“So when I saw the church building, I decided to check the doors to see if it was open. And . . .”
Sutton’s train of thought stopped cold. So Miss Laurent was telling Adelicia about the church. Then again, of course she would. Because she would know that if she didn’t tell her, he would. He listened, finding her next statement hard to believe.
She’d entered through a storeroom door that had been left unlocked? That seemed unlikely. Reverend Bunting was a thorough man. Bunting wouldn’t have mistakenly left a door open.
Sutton smiled as Adelicia questioned the validity of that statement too.
“Yes, ma’am, I give you my word. I found the door unlocked. And as it turns out, that doesn’t seem to have been an accident. Reverend Bunting told me that . . .”
Unexpected laughter coming from the tête-à-tête room drowned out Miss Laurent’s words, and Sutton frowned at the interruption. Who else was Adelicia entertaining this afternoon? The woman was becoming a veritable socialite. And he knew who to blame for that—
Cara Netta’s mother, Madame Octavia Walton LeVert. She and Adelicia had fast become intimate friends.
“So I am to understand, Miss Laurent, that you slept in the church last night?” Incredulity edged Adelicia’s tone. She wasn’t a woman easily won over.
“Y-yes, Mrs. Acklen. That’s what I’m saying. But you must understand, I had nowhere else to go. I know no one in this town, and . . . my funds are rather limited at present.”
Sutton studied the carpet beneath his boots, Miss Laurent’s last statement reverberating inside him like a warning bell.
“Very well, Miss Laurent. And is the church where you met Mr. Monroe?”
“Yes, ma’am. I was readying to leave—after not having disturbed anything in the sanctuary—when I turned around and . . . saw him standing there.”
As Miss Laurent told of their encounter—her reflections on the moment similar to his—Sutton smiled as he relived it again in his mind. He’d opened the side door to find this young woman—a very beautiful young woman—arranging herself and her undergarments. Not something he typically saw in a sanctuary. Or anywhere else, for that matter.
The sanctuary being a place of worship wasn’t what had drawn him there that morning, and other mornings. Rather, it was revisiting the place where so many of the men—and boys—he’d known, his friends, had died following battle. And the place where he’d lain, staring up at the rafters, wondering if he would die too.
“You stated earlier that you came from New Orleans, Miss Laurent. Why exactly did you leave?”
A long pause followed Adelicia’s question.
“I would have stayed in New Orleans, ma’am . . .” Her voice was hushed, sad sounding. “But staying wasn’t an option any longer. Maman—my mother—passed away six months ago. And my father . . . he—” Miss Laurent’s voice caught.
Sutton found himself leaning forward. Listening. Waiting.
“He died most unexpectedly. I received word of his passing only after I arrived in Nashville.”
Sutton bowed his head, feeling like an intruder now—especially knowing she knew he was there.
“Please accept my sincerest condolences, Miss Laurent.” Adelicia’s voice held uncustomary softness. “Both on your most recent loss, and the loss of your maman.”
Recalling how quickly his own life had changed with the news of his father’s death, Sutton felt for Miss Laurent and what she was going through. A familiar sense of loss resurfaced—for his father, for Mark Holbrook, and so many others. At least now he knew why she’d worn such a frightened, lost look earlier that morning. If she was telling Adelicia the truth, he quickly reminded himself.
Which, for the most part, he thought she was. But as an employee of Mrs. Adelicia Acklen, he was paid to not trust easily. Because if Miss Laurent really was in mourning, why wasn’t she wearing mourning garb?
“I hope you will understand my need to ask this, Miss Laurent. But if what you’re saying is true, why are you not dressed for mourning?”
Sometimes it frightened him how much he and Adelicia thought alike.
“My only mourning dress was soiled just before I left New Orleans. A
nd as I said earlier, ma’am, I arrived in Nashville yesterday. My trunks were shipped separately, so I temporarily find myself without my wardrobe. In fact, this dress I’m wearing belongs to Mrs. Bunting.”
“Yes . . . I recognized the ensemble when you entered the room.”
Sutton shook his head. Adelicia. Always frank.
The silence lengthened.
“Miss Laurent . . .” Adelicia sighed. “I appreciate you telling me all of this. You’ve been very forthcoming, and your honesty is to be commended. However, again, in light of the specific duties this position requires and of your lack of experience in—”
“Mr. Monroe? You doin’ all right, sir?”
Sutton turned to see Cordina eyeing him from across the room.
He’d forgotten he’d left the door to the entrance hall ajar, and seeing her wary expression, he felt even more uncomfortable. Because he knew Cordina. And that dubious look of hers told him she knew he was eavesdropping.
And furthermore, the hand perched on her ample hip said she did not approve.
12
Sutton crossed the central parlor to where Cordina stood, not wishing for Adelicia or Miss Laurent to hear him. “Yes, Cordina. I’m fine, thank you. Mrs. Acklen is interviewing someone, and I was . . . waiting to see if she needed my assistance.” Belmont’s head cook didn’t need to know his real reason for standing there. Though she knew just about everything else that went on at Belmont.
Cordina nodded toward the sitting room. “You ain’t trustin’ whoever it is with Mrs. Acklen, are you, sir?”
He curbed a smile, accustomed to her blunt—and discerning—nature. “I never said that.”
“No, sir, you didn’t.” She gave him the up-and-down look she’d been giving him since he was thirteen. “But I heard it, just the same.” She leaned closer. “You think the Lady done made up her mind on which one she gonna hire?”
The Lady. A title some of the older Negroes had bestowed upon Mrs. Acklen years earlier. He shook his head, glancing back toward the sitting room. “Not yet. Mrs. Acklen and I will discuss it later, though, I’m sure.” Adelicia had agreed to let him offer his input before she made her final decision, since he would also be working closely with the young woman.
“You think the Lady might pick that highfalutin’ little thing that sashayed her fancy little bottom through here a while earlier?” Cordina made a sashay movement herself, and Sutton smiled.
“Heaven help us all if Mrs. Acklen hires her.” Which she would do over his dead body.
Cordina let out a deep chuckle. “I done saw the way that sweet gal been eyein’ you when she was here, sir. Mmm-hmm . . .” She firmed her lips while laughter danced in her eyes. “You best watch yourself, Mr. Monroe. That little snippet of a woman got somethin’ more than helpin’ the Lady on her mind.”
“Thank you for the warning, Cordina. It’s duly noted.”
She smiled and patted his hand, her palm rough from kitchen work. He didn’t know how old Cordina was, and knew better than to ask. He marveled at how one woman could manage what Cordina did, while also keeping up with every morsel of gossip pertaining to both the house and grounds staff.
If she was ever in a mood and unwilling to talk—which happened on occasion—he went to Eli, her husband, who knew how to sweet-talk the woman into just about anything. Cordina and Eli were as much a part of Belmont as anyone. And despite the war that had been fought and lost, the Negro couple had stayed on with Adelicia. And he admired their loyalty.
Some of Belmont’s slaves—servants, he silently amended—had disappeared immediately following the end of the war. Which they were free to do, in this new order. His own family’s slaves, all seven of them, ran off shortly after his father was killed and his family home was razed. Not that there was much to stay around for after that.
Still, they could have at least stayed to help his mother in the days following. Shown some measure of gratitude for how his parents had always treated them—with fairness and honesty. More like hired hands than slaves, and a lot better than other owners he’d known. But now all of that had changed, yet not all of the changes were sitting well with him.
“I best get myself back down to the kitchen, sir. Make sure dinner’s cookin’ right.” Cordina glanced at the clock on the mantel, and Sutton did likewise.
It was later than he’d thought. “I sure smelled something good when I walked by the stairs earlier.”
She raised a brow. “Roasted chicken with white beans, and fresh corn with cream sauce. And blackberry cobbler for dessert. But not if I don’t get back to it. Mrs. Routh told me six o’clock sharp, and I ain’t been late with dinner yet. Ain’t startin’ tonight either. No, sir . . .”
She bustled off, and Sutton headed for the study, then decided to wait in the entrance hall instead, hoping to conduct his own brief interview with Miss Laurent. Though not for the same reason he’d interviewed the previous ladies.
He sat down and attempted to review the file in his hand, but his mind drifted back to Mr. Holbrook’s earlier proposition. Though he had yet to weigh all the variables, he already knew he would say yes to working on the case. How could he refuse? It sounded like a lawyer’s dream, and he needed the money.
The door to the tête-à-tête room opened, and he looked up to see Reverend and Mrs. Bunting.
“Monroe!” The reverend extended his hand. “I was hoping to see you while we were here today.” Bunting motioned to his wife. “Mrs. Bunting and I were headed out to the gardens for a brief jaunt. Would you care to join us?”
Sutton shook the reverend’s hand, not having to wonder long about what—or whom—had brought them all the way out here. He glanced toward the sitting room and spotted Adelicia and Miss Laurent conversing by the door. Miss Laurent’s head was bowed, and Sutton couldn’t hear what they were saying. “I appreciate the offer, Reverend. But I’ll have to decline. I’m waiting to see Mrs. Acklen.”
“So are we, in fact.” Mrs. Bunting’s tone held a trace of anticipation. “At least, we’re hoping to be able to say hello to her. If she’s not too busy, that is.”
Sutton smiled. “I’m certain Mrs. Acklen will welcome the opportunity to see you again, Mrs. Bunting. She appreciated you sharing your cherry cobbler recipe with her. Cordina made a pan of it last week.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Don’t tell Mrs. Acklen, but her William and Claude both licked their plates clean when she wasn’t looking.”
Chrissinda Bunting beamed. “Boys will be boys, Mr. Monroe.”
“Yes, ma’am, they will be.” And at age eleven and nine respectively, William and Claude were definitely putting that commonly used phrase to the test. Eager to cast off the things of childhood, William seemed bent on mischief and drafted his little brother into the fray at every turn. Their younger sister, Pauline, was often the brunt of their antics. But Pauline was proving to be her mother’s daughter and could hold her own quite well.
“Reverend and Mrs. Bunting!” Adelicia entered the front hall, hands extended in a gracious welcome. “What a pleasure to see you again. And how kind of you to accompany Miss Laurent to Belmont.”
With Adelicia engaging the Buntings in conversation, Sutton seized the opportunity to do the same with Miss Laurent. Despite her not getting the job, he still had a few questions he wanted to ask, mainly to satisfy his own curiosity.
She stood off to the side, quiet and tentative-looking, which was understandable. Questions at the ready, he approached. She seemed hesitant to look at him, and he wondered if she was intentionally avoiding his gaze. He opened his mouth to say something just as she looked up. Her red-rimmed eyes were wary and watchful—like those of a doe caught in a rifle’s sights.
Keeping his reaction in check, Sutton quickly gathered that Adelicia had been none too gentle in refusing Miss Laurent the position. Adelicia Acklen . . . He was grateful for the opportunities the woman had given him, but sometimes her straightforward manner came across harsher than he thought she was aware.
Her smile was unconvincing. “No, Mr. Monroe. I’m fine. Thank you.” She glanced in Adelicia’s direction, and her hand went to her midsection.
An unconscious gesture, Sutton felt sure. But telling, all the same. He tried to think of something to say that would be an encouragement to her but that wouldn’t come across as condescending.
“May I pose a question to you, Mr. Monroe?”
Caught off guard by her request, he nodded. “Of course, Miss Laurent.”
“What is your opinion of my interview with Mrs. Acklen?”
Her question, innocent enough on the surface, was actually anything but. She was telling him that she knew—or strongly suspected—he’d eavesdropped on their conversation. As a lawyer, he appreciated her sly tactic. Likewise, he hoped she would appreciate his equally direct rejoinder. “The answer to your insinuated question, Miss Laurent . . . is yes. I happened to overhear—”
“Happened to overhear?”
Despite her pallor and the evidence of tears, Sutton sensed a steely determination in the young woman. Either that or desperation. But for the moment—if he was correctly interpreting the stubborn tilt of her chin—her frustrations were aimed at him. “As you are now aware, Miss Laurent, I am an employee of Mrs. Acklen. In light of that, and considering the circumstances under which you and I met, I’m certain you can appreciate why I deemed it imperative to intentionally listen to your exchange.”
She opened her delicate little mouth to respond.
“And”—he inclined his head to mimic hers—“in answer to your stated question . . .”