A Lasting Impression Page 15

  “October . . . That’s barely three weeks away.” Sutton’s voice had changed somehow. “That is wonderful news.”

  Claire looked beside her. She didn’t know Sutton well, by any means. But she knew him well enough to know he didn’t truly consider that wonderful news.

  Mrs. Acklen folded the telegram. “Miss Laurent, the LeVerts are a fine family with whom we traveled while in Europe. Madame LeVert is a dear friend, and she tells me that her daughters will be in her company as well.” She gave Sutton’s arm a quick pat. “I should ask Cordina to prepare onion soup like you and Cara Netta shared that one evening. Remember? At the café near the Louvre. It will be like Paris all over again.”

  Sutton agreed, returning her smile, but his exuberance seemed forced. In fact, it appeared he was rather uncomfortable about the LeVerts’ visit.

  The only question Claire had, much to her surprise, was who was Cara Netta?

  Claire hated to admit it, but Mrs. Acklen had been right. If she had tried to walk into town, it would have been a disaster. The roads were a mucky mess of mud and dung. Simply walking across the street without slipping or stepping in something vile was an accomplishment. And the smell . . .

  She grimaced, dodging a pile of something she didn’t care to dwell on. The afternoon’s warming temperatures were only making conditions worse.

  “Here, ma’am—” The carriage driver jumped down from his perch. “Let me take that for you.”

  Claire handed him the package. “Thank you, Armstead.” She accepted his outstretched hand and did her best to knock the mud from her boots before climbing into the carriage. The same carriage she’d seen Sutton get into at the train station. She’d known from the carriage’s exterior that it was nice. But inside . . . Supple leather and thick crushed velvet. The definition of elegance.

  “You ready to head back now, Miss Laurent?”

  Claire peered out the window and down Elm Street, still debating. She breathed out, barely able to read the name Broderick Shipping and Freight on the sign above the door at the far end of the avenue. Something inside told her to go back to Belmont, as Armstead suggested.

  But she wanted her mother’s locket, and it grated on her to think of a man like Samuel Broderick having it. If he still did.

  She’d already done her shopping and had stopped by the train station. According to their records, no trunks had arrived in her name, which led her to think that Antoine DePaul hadn’t arrived either.

  Looking down the avenue, she weighed her options, and finally decided. “I have one more stop to make, if you don’t mind, Armstead. It’s down this street a short way.”

  “Wherever you wanna go, ma’am. Just say the word.”

  When the carriage reached the corner, Claire rapped on the side of the door as Armstead had told her to do. He stopped the carriage and offered his assistance, glancing at the cigar shop behind them. “This where you wanted to go, Miss Laurent?”

  “No.” Claire smiled, surveying the street, hoping not to see any familiar faces. “But I’d rather walk from here. I won’t be long.”

  “All right, ma’am.” He tugged on his hat. “I’ll be waitin’ right here for you, ma’am.”

  She thanked him and made her way toward the Brodericks’ storefront, slowing her pace the closer she got. Taking a deep breath, she peered around the corner and inside the shop. Mrs. Broderick sat at the front desk just as she had at their first meeting.

  Feeling more than a little conspicuous, Claire waited. Heart pounding, and seeing no sign of Samuel Broderick the second, she opened the door and stepped inside. It felt as if weeks had passed since she’d been here, instead of days.

  Mrs. Broderick looked up. “Good afternoon, dear. How may I help you?”

  Claire watched for a spark of recognition in the woman’s eyes. “How are you today, ma’am?”

  Mrs. Broderick’s expression turned bothered. “I’d be much better if we weren’t so busy.”

  “Yes.” Claire glanced around the empty shop. “I can see that. By chance . . . is there anyone else here?”

  “No, dear, there’s not. I’m afraid I’m the only one . . .” A stricken look came over her. “Oh dear . . . I’m not supposed to tell anyone that. Oh, gracious me . . .”

  “It’s all right.” Claire reached over and patted her hand. “I won’t tell anyone. I promise.” She glanced at the staircase that led to the second floor. Mrs. Broderick clearly didn’t remember her and wouldn’t after this visit either, she felt certain. “I’m wondering, ma’am, if anyone has turned in a reticule in the last few days. Or . . . perhaps a locket of some kind?”

  “A locket . . .” Mrs. Broderick started searching the top of the desk. “I used to have a locket. But someone took it.” Tears welled in her eyes.

  Claire glanced out the front window again before moving around the desk, feeling only a touch of guilt over what she was about to do. After all, it was her reticule. “Mrs. Broderick, would you like to go upstairs for a while? You might feel more comfortable there.”

  The older woman nodded. “I do like it better up there. It’s not so busy. And people don’t take things.”

  Mrs. Broderick teetered as she stood, and Claire slipped an arm about the woman’s frail shoulders to steady her. They navigated the stairs with little issue, and once the matron was settled in her rocker, Claire got her a glass of water and the woman sipped, then leaned back and closed her eyes.

  Claire discreetly searched Mrs. Broderick’s room, then left the door ajar and tiptoed down the hallway, listening for the slightest sound. She searched the bedroom where she’d left her reticule, then what appeared to be Samuel Broderick’s quarters, eager to be out the second she stepped inside. She searched the other bedrooms last, but her search proved fruitless.

  She turned to leave when a door at the end of the hallway caught her eye. A linen closet, maybe—just where a man might stash a woman’s reticule. She covered the distance on tiptoe and winced as the door creaked open. It was not a linen closet. It was another bedroom, and men’s toiletries littered the top of the bureau.

  But it was the familiar leather satchel on the chair—with the initials a.d.—that raised the hair on the back of her neck. He’s already here. In Nashville.

  Suddenly feeling as though she were being watched, Claire turned to look behind her. But no one was there. She started to close the bedroom door, eager to leave, when she hesitated. She wouldn’t get another chance to search his room again. Because once she left she was never coming back. Trembling and with perspiration trickling beneath her chemise, she searched every drawer, every cubby, even his leather satchel, careful to put every item back in the same place.

  It wasn’t the thought of facing Antoine DePaul again that frightened her so much. He was a swindler and a liar, and expert at both. And despite how he’d slapped her that one time, she was confident he wasn’t a violent man. But with a word he could ruin her, and her opportunity at Belmont. And something told her that once he knew she wasn’t going to paint for his benefit anymore, he would do just that.

  And he would revel in it.

  No reticule. No locket watch. Nothing of her father’s or mother’s either. And no trunks, that she could see. Forced to accept that the locket watch was gone, she closed the door and hurried down the hallway, hearing Mrs. Broderick’s soft snoring as she passed the woman’s bedroom.

  Claire paused at the top of the stairs, listening to make sure no one had come in, then started down. But the squeak of a door opening in the shop below stopped her cold.

  16

  Frozen on the third stair from the top, Claire heard the door close in the shop below, then the hollow thud of footsteps. She skirted back upstairs and pressed her back against the wall. She hadn’t noticed a second-floor exit in her search, so the only way out of the building was down the stairs.

  The footfalls grew closer, and she held still, unwilling to take another step for fear a squeaky plank would give her away. So foolish . . . comin
g back here. Was it Samuel Broderick? Or Antoine? She wasn’t sure which one she dreaded most.

  “Broderick, are you here?” a man called out.

  Claire took a much-needed breath. The voice wasn’t Antoine DePaul’s. Still, how was it going to look if she came waltzing down the stairs? For what felt like forever but was, she was certain, only a moment or two, she waited to hear the door to the shop open and close again. But it didn’t. Was the man waiting for Broderick to return?

  Claire chanced two steps and peered downstairs. She didn’t see anyone. They might want to wait for him, but she certainly didn’t. Piecing together a plausible excuse for her presence, she headed down.

  A distinguished older gentleman seated in a chair by the desk looked up as she descended. He stood and removed his tall black hat. “Good day, ma’am.”

  Claire did her best to appear at ease. “Good day, sir.”

  He glanced beyond her. “Broderick’s not hiding somewhere up there, is he?”

  The twinkle in his eyes told her he was jesting. “No, sir. He’s not. Per his mother, he’ll be back in a little while.” She gestured toward the stairs. “I was helping Mrs. Broderick back up to her bedroom. She didn’t seem too steady on her feet.”

  “Ah . . .” He nodded. “That was most kind of you, young lady. We infirm, older folks need some help every now and again.”

  Claire smiled, but infirm was not a word she would have used to describe the gentleman. He was getting on in years, true, but his gaze was keen, and she guessed his mind to be equally so.

  Eager to leave, she curtsied. “I hope you have a good afternoon, sir.”

  “I plan on making it one, ma’am.”

  He met her at the door, apparently having decided to leave as well. Claire opened the door and, out of deference for his age, gestured for him to go on through.

  He shook his head. “No, ma’am. It’s always ladies first.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She smiled and walked on down the street, mindful of passersby and praying none of them would have a familiar face. When she reached the carriage, Armstead was waiting.

  “Get what you need, Miss Laurent?”

  “No,” she said after a brief pause. “I didn’t. But . . . it’s all right.” She accepted his help into the carriage and leaned back into the cushioned seat. Of all the gifts her mother had given her, the locket watch had been her most prized.

  As soon as the thought came, Claire knew she was mistaken. She still had her mother’s two most precious gifts. One was tucked deep inside, as deep as a mother’s love could reach. And the second—she bent her fingers as though they held a paintbrush—was also nestled safely where no one could ever take it away.

  The carriage started forward with a jolt, and she gripped the side of the door. She assumed that her trunks had already been delivered—and were wherever Antoine was storing them. But the forfeiture of items in those trunks—much like the loss of her mother’s locket—was nothing compared to the chance to start over again, fresh and clean.

  Nor were they worth all she stood to lose if Antoine ever found out where she was or if Mrs. Acklen or Sutton ever learned about her past.

  She could never have imagined ending up at a place like Belmont, and she hoped Belmont was the very last place Antoine DePaul would ever look for her. Sooner or later, he would move on—like she was determined to do.

  As the carriage rounded the corner, Claire glimpsed the elderly gentleman she’d seen in the shop, his black hat making it easy to spot him in a crowd. He was climbing the stairs to a tall redbrick building. She read the name of the business on the brass placard hanging to the right of the double cherrywood doors.

  Holbrook and Wickliffe Law Offices.

  She looked back to the man and, to her surprise, found him looking in the direction of the carriage as it passed. He raised a hand as though waving to her. Uncertain whether he was looking at her or not, she raised her hand in return, and he smiled.

  The next morning, Claire awakened before sunrise, still tired but unable to sleep. She’d awakened several times during the night, worrying about Antoine and that he might somehow find her. And each time, she’d consoled herself with the sheer size of Nashville. Surely she could hide among twenty-five thousand people. Still, she would take extra care when venturing into town from now on, and would do everything she could to minimize those excursions.

  She yawned and stretched, dreading having to leave the warmth of her bed. She’d promised Mrs. Acklen after dinner last night that, in addition to answering a stack of correspondence, she would present the entire plan for the party to her this afternoon. The sack containing the sample party favors sat in a corner across the room and she thought Mrs. Acklen would approve, especially with the extra touches she planned to add.

  But as of yet—Claire exhaled in the dark—she still hadn’t thought of an idea for an activity that the Acklen family hadn’t already experienced while visiting some foreign country halfway around the world. “We flew the balloon over the city. Without a tether.”

  She rolled her eyes, recalling William’s comment and also her brief conversation with him yesterday afternoon—that yielded no help whatsoever.

  All the boy had said was that he wanted a grown-up party, where they really did something. And he’d said it with such sincerity that she almost forgave him for his previously high-and-mighty attitude. Almost.

  What must it be like to be raised in the midst of all this? To never know anything but elegance and plenty? She feared that with young William’s present outlook, life after Belmont might prove to be somewhat of a disappointment for him. As it would for her too, all too soon, if she didn’t get up and start accomplishing something.

  She pushed back the covers and lit the lamp on the bedside table, wondering if there wasn’t one special idea Mrs. Acklen was waiting for her to discover. Planning this party was a test. Mrs. Acklen had made that clear. But a test of what?

  At first, Claire would have said it was of her own ability to coordinate details, as the advertisement had listed. But now she wasn’t so sure. Was it a test of her patience? Her creativity? Her fortitude? Her dedication and desire to work for Mrs. Acklen? Perhaps all of those. Whatever it was, she asked God to show her what to do, because she was all too swiftly coming to the end of her own abilities.

  After using the chamber pot, she lathered a cloth with soap in the tepid water in the basin on the washstand and ran it over her skin. She rinsed the cloth in fresh water and repeated the process, then dried off with a fresh towel. By the time she finished, the skin on her arms and legs resembled gooseflesh.

  Dressing hurriedly, she chose one of the two dresses she’d brought with her to Belmont, grateful to whomever had washed the mud-splattered dress and returned it to the wardrobe freshly pressed.

  Contrary to Mrs. Acklen’s instructions, she’d purchased only one dress in town yesterday, and even that had seemed exorbitant considering her meager finances. She hoped Mrs. Acklen would be pleased with her choice, but that remained to be seen.

  She brushed her teeth and pinned up her curls, appreciating her accommodations. The bedroom, with its modest pine furniture, cotton draperies, and unadorned fireplace, lacked the opulence of the rest of the home, but it was nicer than any bedroom she’d ever had. And its simplicity suited her.

  She especially liked it because this had been Sutton’s room at one time. Somehow that made it feel more familiar. And appealing.

  The clock on the mantel above the fireplace read half past five when she grabbed her shawl and slipped noiselessly from her bedroom and down the darkened corridor toward the grand salon. Mrs. Routh’s bedroom, she’d learned, was off this hallway too, but farther down in the opposite direction. Thank goodness. Her limited interaction with the head housekeeper had been civil thus far, though she could tell Mrs. Routh still wasn’t overjoyed about her being hired.

  Claire paused just inside the doorway leading to the grand salon, still not believing she was actually living
in such a place—for the time being.

  Pale moonlight bathed the salon in silver shadows, and not a sound stirred the silence. Something about standing in the middle of this grand mansion filled with people sleeping all around was comforting. She’d always wished she’d come from a larger family, and she envied the Acklen children’s sibling relationships far more than their privileged upbringing.

  Her hunger dictating her first destination, she crossed the salon, the moonlight allowing her to pick her way around the tables and chairs arranged in groupings about the room. Not for the first time, she admired the nearly life-sized painting of Queen Victoria hanging at the head of the staircase landing leading to the second story. The royal red of Queen Victoria’s robe appeared gray in the dim light. She’d been surprised at the enormous size of the portrait but not at its presence in this home. Especially not with the royal connections Mrs. Acklen seemed to enjoy.

  She continued down the hallway toward the family dining room, stopping when she reached the stairs leading down to the kitchen in the basement. Mrs. Routh hadn’t included the basement on her abridged tour, and Claire felt a little daring at the thought of venturing down there on her own.

  She peered down the dark stairwell, thinking she heard the rattle of a pan. Mrs. Acklen had invited her to join the family for breakfast whenever she desired, but Claire had a sunrise walk in mind and needed a day-old biscuit or corn muffin—and a cup of coffee, if possible—before she set out.

  She held the rail as she descended to the first landing, then peered down and around the corner to see a faint glow from beneath the kitchen door. The hope of sustenance urged her on. She felt for the doorknob in the dark, couldn’t find one, so finally gave the door a little push. It swung right open.

  The comforting aroma of eggs and bacon greeted her, as well as the promise of coffee, but she wasn’t prepared for who was standing at the stove. “Sutton!”