A Lasting Impression Page 23

  Bristling, Claire looked away.

  Mrs. Acklen meant well, she knew, but she couldn’t help comparing the woman’s privileged life and upbringing to her own lesser one. True, Mrs. Acklen had lost her husband and her father, but she was also well twice Claire’s age. Death was part of life. But it was one thing to lose a parent when you had a family and children of your own. It was another to lose a parent when losing them meant losing everything—your family, your home, your place to belong. Every security in life.

  “When did you lose your father, Mrs. Acklen?”

  “Seven years ago,” Mrs. Acklen said, looking out across the meadow.

  “And of course your mother, Mrs. Hayes, you still have with you.”

  Mrs. Acklen slowly looked back. “Yes, Miss Laurent. As you well know. And I have sisters and brothers who live not far from here too.” Mrs. Acklen stared, as though reading the threads of Claire’s thoughts. “Is there something else you’d like to ask me, Miss Laurent? Or say to me?”

  Claire swallowed, still tasting the bitterness of regret, but also feeling a twinge of caution. This was her employer, after all. She bowed her head. “No ma’am. There’s not.”

  “Then let me say it for you.”

  Claire looked up.

  “You don’t believe I know what it feels like to lose a parent at your age. And you resent my insinuation that I do.” She raised a brow. “Am I correct?”

  Cheeks flaming, Claire could hardly hold up her head, ashamed now at being so easily read. And yet a part of her still felt justified. “Yes, ma’am. That . . . sums up my thoughts fairly well.”

  “Then your thoughts would be accurate, Miss Laurent.”

  Claire frowned, her grip tightening on the reins.

  “I don’t know what it’s like to stand over the grave of my parents at the tender age of nineteen. I had the blessed privilege of a loving father for forty-one years of my life. And my mother is . . .” Mrs. Acklen blinked, and briefly firmed her jaw. “My mother is a blessing I treasure to still have with me.” She took a breath and opened her mouth as though to continue, then closed it.

  A painful moment of silence passed.

  Claire was forming the words to an apology when Mrs. Acklen turned to her.

  “Mr. Monroe shouldn’t be the only one allowed to fly on this beautiful afternoon, Miss Laurent.” She leaned forward in the saddle, a fire in her eyes. “You said you knew how to ride. Prove it!”

  24

  Winded from their ride, Sutton prodded Truxton up the last hill, appreciating the power and grace with which the thoroughbred ate up the ground, as if the ascent were nothing but flatland.

  Muscles aching, in a good way, Sutton reined in, then leaned down to stroke Truxton’s neck. “Good job, fella,” he whispered. He never tired of this, and he’d needed this ride after his lengthy meeting with Bartholomew Holbrook that morning.

  Holbrook seemed ten years younger these days, rattling off facts about dates and buyers of art pieces, how much was spent, which city a piece of art shipped from and to, and the name of the gallery. All part of reviewing the research the investigators had compiled thus far. The older man’s enthusiasm was contagious, and Sutton found himself optimistic about the progress they’d made.

  On the other hand, there’d been no word yet from the review board, and his hope was waning in that regard. The wheels of justice had been turning painfully slowly recently, and decidedly in the wrong direction. Daily, it seemed, both the Republican Banner and the Union and American newspapers reported verdicts in similar cases. And without exception, they all ruled in favor of the new Union.

  But there was one bit of information the older man had given him today. Not meaning to, Sutton felt certain. A name. Colonel Wilmington.

  Wilmington was the head of the review board, the man responsible for notifying Holbrook of the verdict. After leaving Mr. Holbrook, Sutton had headed straight to the government offices across town. He hadn’t known exactly what he was going to say to Wilmington when he’d found him, only that he wouldn’t reveal how he’d learned the man’s name or position.

  But Wilmington hadn’t been in, and Sutton had decided not to leave a message with the man’s secretary. He saw no point. The review board didn’t welcome further input from him. Surprise was his best tactic. Not that he wanted to ambush the man. He simply wanted a chance to tell the truth about what had happened to his father. Reading it on a piece of paper was one thing, staring into the eyes of the murdered man’s son was another.

  Sutton stretched and rubbed the back of his neck, determined to put the issue from his mind, at least for a while.

  He prodded Truxton closer to the point, willing the familiar view to lend him a slice of the peace it usually did. The vantage was one he’d appreciated since boyhood.

  The rolling hills, lush and green with cedar, pine, oak, and poplar, swelled and dipped in a seamless rhythm that was as soothing to the eye as it was the soul. Then the view of Nashville, much changed since he was a boy. He couldn’t imagine ever leaving Tennessee. Or ever wanting to.

  The roofline of the mansion rose from among the treetops, the statues along the parapet a brilliant white in the afternoon sun. Adelicia’s gardens boasted a riot of color, even at this distan—

  Movement in the meadow below drew his attention.

  He leaned forward in the saddle, squinting, unable to believe what he was seeing. It was both a premonition and nightmare—Adelicia and Claire bulleting across the meadow beneath him, their horses neck and neck, bodies angled forward, hair flying, stubborn wills on full display.

  He exhaled. “You two women . . .”

  Adelicia, he didn’t worry about. She was a skilled rider on a well-trained thoroughbred. But Claire . . .

  He wheeled Truxton around and barreled downhill, intending to meet them before they reached the mansion. He had no idea of Claire’s experience with horses. Obviously, the woman could ride. But racing across meadows where summer grasses disguised rocks and gopher holes was worlds different than trotting down a city street or through a field. What had Adelicia been thinking to allow such carelessness?

  He thought—and hoped—Claire was riding Athena, but he couldn’t be sure. Feisty and fearless, the intelligent little mare was fleet and surefooted, and handled herself about as well with a rider as without.

  Sutton reached the bottom of the hill and reined Truxton toward home. The stallion surged forward, responding to Sutton’s slightest command with enthusiastic obedience, his hooves pounding, yet seeming as if they barely touched the earth. Sutton couldn’t count the hours he’d spent training this animal. But every one of them—every last rewarding moment—had been worth it.

  Crouched low, wind whipping his face, he knew with a certainty born of boyish dreams matured by manhood that that was what he really wanted to do with his life. Train horses—thoroughbreds—for racing.

  With the ease of a blink, Truxton cleared the creek, and Sutton spotted the two riders as they crested the final hill toward Belmont. Unfortunately, the women were at least thirty yards in front of him. They approached the manor from the south, so the mansion lay between them and the stables.

  Sutton knew which way Adelicia would take—he’d raced her before—and he could tell by the way Claire looked first to her left, then right, that she was weighing her options. At the last moment, Adelicia veered left and headed around the back of the mansion. Claire headed right, and so did Sutton.

  To his relief, no carriages were parked in the front drive. Claire had a clear shot to the stables. Halfway down the road, when he was certain Claire thought she had it won, Adelicia and Bucephalus bolted through the trees. And again, the horses were neck and neck.

  Just then a carriage appeared from around the corner, coming down the road at a healthy clip. Adelicia and Claire apparently saw it too because they adjusted course at the same time, and headed straight for the corral. Adelicia never slowed. She and Bucephalus scaled the split-rail fence in a perfect arc. A
nd, to Sutton’s amazement, it looked as though Claire and Athena would too.

  Until the very last second. When Claire hesitated.

  He read it in her body, in her hold on the reins, and he saw it in how Athena’s confidence weakened beneath Claire’s doubt. Athena skidded, her legs stiffening, and Claire went sailing, straight over the split-rail fence.

  25

  Claire!” Sutton leapt from his horse, vaulted the fence, and ran to where she’d landed on her side. He knelt, and careful not to jar her, tugged her skirt down over her legs and brushed the hair back from her face. “Claire . . .” He leaned close. Her gray dress was torn at the shoulder revealing a bloody scrape. “Are you all right?”

  She blinked, and then her eyes slipped closed.

  He checked her pulse on the underside of her throat the way he’d seen his father do. Her heartbeat was strong. Rapid, but that was to be expected.

  “Miss Laurent!” Adelicia’s panicked steps sounded behind them. “Is she hurt, Mr. Monroe? Is anything broken?” She knelt, her face ashen.

  “I don’t know yet.” Keeping his own panic at bay, Sutton ran a hand over Claire’s left arm and found it sound. Her right was still tucked beneath her.

  “Zeke!” Adelicia called over her shoulder. “Ride for the doctor. Immediately!”

  Sutton took Claire’s hand in his. “Claire, I need for you to tell me where you hurt. I don’t want to move you until we’re sure nothing’s broken.”

  Her eyes fluttered open. She turned her head and looked up at him, squinting as though trying to clear her vision. Adelicia smoothed a hand over Claire’s forehead and cheek—a motherly instinct that Sutton appreciated. But what had the woman been thinking? Racing that way . . .

  “Claire?” He spoke louder. “If you can hear me, I need to know where it hurts. That’s all you need to do, Claire.”

  She took a breath. “I will”—she frowned as though in pain—“if you’ll please just stop saying my name. . . .”

  Her mouth tipped in a weak smile, and Sutton exhaled, cautious relief trickling through him. He wanted to take her and hug her tight but knew better. There’d be opportunity for that later. And if not, he’d make one.

  Adelicia brushed a smear of dirt from her cheek. “Can you tell us if you’re injured, Miss Laurent?”

  Slowly, and with Sutton’s assistance, Claire eased over onto her back. She took a deep breath and released it, her eyes looking more focused. “Mostly . . . it’s my pride that’s wounded.”

  Adelicia half laughed, half sighed, and bowed her head. “I never should have challenged you like that, Miss Laurent. I don’t know what I was thinking. Will you please forgive me?”

  Sutton glanced up. It wasn’t the apology that surprised him so much. When proven wrong, Adelicia admitted it. She was a woman with fierce opinions but also a woman of fine character. It was the glistening in her eyes that took him aback.

  Claire looked over at her. “Of course I’ll forgive you, Mrs. Acklen . . .” She smiled. “If you’ll just say that I won.”

  Sutton curbed a grin, seeing that the gleam in Adelicia’s eyes was only exceeded by the one in Claire’s.

  By now, servants from inside the house and out had joined the stable hands and were watching at a distance. With Claire’s permission and Adelicia’s help, Sutton checked her arms and legs, then the curve of her neck and shoulders. Thank God, nothing was broken. He helped her to a sitting position, letting her rest against him until the dizziness passed.

  Then at Adelicia’s request, he gathered her in his arms and carried her inside, taking it slow so as not to jar her, all while trying to convince himself that what he felt for the woman cradled in his arms . . . was only friendship.

  Mortified over what she’d done—not only in front of Adelicia, but also Sutton—Claire smoothed the bedcovers over her lap, careful not to move her head. The pounding was only now beginning to subside. Still, she wished they would stop making such a fuss. She felt like a complete fool.

  Dr. James Denard returned his stethoscope to his leather satchel. “Miss Laurent needs bed rest, Mrs. Acklen. For a day or two, at least. But I see no sign of serious injury.” He turned to Claire. “Which is a fairly remarkable feat, young lady, considering what Mr. Monroe described to me. Sounds like you took a nasty toss.”

  Claire felt Sutton staring at her from the foot of her bed but couldn’t bring herself to look at him. “I’m sure it wasn’t as dramatic a scene as what’s been painted, Dr. Denard.”

  “Thrown over a fence”—Sutton’s tone was matter-of-fact, if not bordering on sarcasm—“and landed a good fifteen feet away. You’re right, Miss Laurent. It wasn’t dramatic in the least.”

  Hearing concern in his voice, she chanced a look at him. And whether due to being beneath the bedcovers fully clothed or to the way he was looking at her, she grew overly warm, overly fast.

  After being thrown, she’d attempted to make light of what had happened, wanting to save face. She alone was at fault, and she knew it. She’d been trying to impress her employer, prove that she could keep up. And at the last minute, she’d panicked. The accident was due to her lack of experience, plain and simple.

  “Will she be all right, Doctor?” Sutton asked, inching closer to the bed.

  “She’ll be fine, I assure you.” Dr. Denard slipped his suit jacket back on. “But no more riding for now, Miss Laurent. And with the size of that knot on the back of your head, I want you to stay awake for a while. At least until”—he checked his pocket watch—“around bedtime tonight. That’s a good five or six hours from now. Understood?” He aimed an appraising gaze first at Mrs. Acklen and Sutton, who nodded, and then to Claire.

  “Yes, sir.” Claire managed a smile, but for reasons she couldn’t explain, she questioned whether or not he was being honest with her about her injuries. Yet, other than her head hurting and her feeling achy, she felt normal. So why did staying awake seem like such an impossible feat? All she wanted to do was close her eyes and sleep for days.

  Dr. Denard retrieved his medical bag. “Expect to be sore for a while, Miss Laurent. That bruise on your hip will turn several lovely shades of purple and black before it’s healed.” He gave her a quick smile. “But again, you’ll be fine, I assure you.”

  Claire nodded, but still felt that niggle of doubt.

  The doctor crossed to the bedroom door, then paused, peering over his spectacles at Mrs. Acklen. “If her headache worsens, Mrs. Acklen, or vomiting develops, send for me without delay.”

  “We will, doctor.” Mrs. Acklen joined him. “Thank you so much for coming so quickly. I’ll see you out.” She left the door ajar.

  Sutton retrieved the desk chair, thunked it down by Claire’s bedside, and straddled it in a decidedly masculine way. “So . . . which will it be? Chess or checkers?”

  “Neither, please. I just want to rest.”

  He leaned toward her. “It appears you’re going to live after all.”

  “It would seem . . .” Claire forced a smile, but all she could think about was that last night in New Orleans when she’d asked the physician about her father’s condition. “He’ll be fine, I assure you,” had been his response too. And then her father had died.

  She wasn’t afraid of dying in that moment. She’d been thrown from a horse, not stabbed with a knife. It was the thought of dying—of this life ending and of coming face-to-face with God—that sent an unrelenting shiver through her. Because she wasn’t ready. She didn’t know why exactly—she only knew she wasn’t. She wanted the peace her mother had somehow found toward the very end.

  Only, she preferred to find it before the final hours of her life.

  “Not yet, sleepyhead.” Sutton gently squeezed Claire’s shoulder, seeing her eyes drift shut again. “Doctor’s orders. It’s not even eight o’clock.”

  With eyes still closed, she frowned. “But I’m so tired, Sutton,” she whispered. “And please, no more checkers. Just let me rest for a minute or two.”

 
“Sorry, but I can’t do that.” He nudged her shoulder again. Nothing. So he dipped a damp cloth in water and wrung it out, then pressed it against her cheek.

  She sucked in a breath, eyes going wide.

  “I’m sorry, but you just can’t go to sleep. Not yet.” He smoothed her matted curls. “Does your head still hurt?”

  “It’s pounding . . .” She winced. “Like a drum.”

  “The doctor said you can have a half dose of laudanum. But only after you’ve eaten a few more bites of Cordina’s soup.”

  “Cordina made soup?”

  “Yes, she did, to answer that question for a third time.” He smiled and helped her sit up a little straighter in the bed. Dr. Denard had told Adelicia on the way out that Claire’s memory might be sketchy for the first few hours. Sutton wasn’t surprised, not when remembering his father having treated patients with head injuries. And Claire had hit her head pretty hard. “It’s potato soup. Your favorite. At least that’s what you said thirty minutes ago when you ate some.”

  Claire gave him a look that said she wasn’t sure whether to believe that or not, but apparently she decided not to argue the point.

  Soup bowl in hand, he eased down onto the edge of the bed, ladled a spoonful of soup, and held it to her lips.

  “I can feed myself.” She reached for the spoon, but he pulled it back, shaking his head.

  “There you go again, Miss Laurent, tryin’ to steal my joy.”

  Sighing, she smirked—and opened her mouth. After a couple of bites, she looked up at him, a disconcerting vagueness in her eyes. “Do you ever think about dying, Sutton?”

  He stilled. “Claire, honey, you’re going to be fine. I know you probably feel otherwise right now, after that fall, but—”

  “No . . . I realize that. What I’m asking is if you’ve ever thought about dying.”

  “Everyone thinks about dying. At some time or another.”

  Accepting another bite of soup, she looked up at him, her expression saying that she wanted—and frankly, expected—more of an answer.