A Lasting Impression Page 24

  “Yes.” He scooped up a chunk of potato. “I’ve thought about it. Many times. Mostly during the war.”

  “You fought,” she said softly, more a statement of fact than a question.

  “Along with everyone else.”

  “Were you wounded?” She accepted another spoonful.

  “I was shot. In the shoulder. I was lucky, though—the bullet went straight through.”

  The milky smoothness of her forehead crinkled. “Did it hurt?”

  He laughed. “Yes, just a little.”

  She looked down. “I’m sorry. That was a silly question.”

  But thinking about lying in that church sanctuary, with Mark Holbrook’s blood as well as his own drenching his clothes, and with his father only days in the ground, Sutton’s humor fell away. “Men were dying all around me. I thought I was going to die too.” He dipped the spoon in the bowl again, but she shook her head, her eyes never leaving his. He laid the bowl aside.

  “Were you scared?” she asked, her voice tentative.

  He looked down at her, wondering where all her questions were coming from. But not minding them. “Yes . . . I was scared.”

  “Were you . . . ready?”

  Sutton felt a tug inside him, like someone had looped a cord around his heart and pulled tight. Had he been ready to die was what she was asking. No one had ever asked him that question before. Not even Cara Netta when they’d spoken once, and ever so briefly, about that night.

  He allowed a moment to pass. He had no choice. He couldn’t speak past the thickness in his throat. “Yes,” he whispered. “I was ready. And . . . no.” He fingered the edge of the quilt. “I don’t think there’s a man alive who, once he knows he’s going into battle . . . isn’t forced to face the possibility that he might not come home. And I’d reconciled myself to whatever was going to come. If God chose to call me home . . .” He’d never forget the moment when the reality of that possibility became real—rifle aimed, bullets zipping by, cannon fire exploding all around him. “Then I knew He’d take me home. We all carried letters with us, just in case. I still have mine.”

  “Do you still carry it with you?”

  The question warmed him, just like she did. She was one beautiful woman, inside and out. Though he tried not to focus on that. “No, I don’t still carry it. Why?” He eyed her with suspicion, hoping to lighten the conversation. “Do you know something I don’t?”

  She smiled, but only for a second. “You said yes, you were ready. But then you also said no. Why no?”

  The woman didn’t give up easily. He liked that. But he was hesitant to answer in too much detail. He wasn’t ashamed of his reasons for wanting to stay around a little longer. They simply weren’t reasons he felt comfortable sharing with just anyone. Of course, Claire wasn’t just anyone. “Because there were things I hadn’t done yet with my life that I wanted to do. That I still want to do.”

  She perked up. “Like what?”

  He shook his head, remembering Cara Netta’s reaction when he’d shared his dream of raising thoroughbreds.

  “I won’t laugh, Sutton. I promise. And I won’t tell anyone, if you say not to.”

  And looking at her, he believed her. “I enjoy practicing law and find it rewarding, and honestly, I don’t ever see leaving that completely. But what I’d really like to do one day is . . . own my own thoroughbred farm.”

  Her eyes lit.

  “But not just own the farm,” he clarified. “I want to train the horses. Myself. For racing. I also want to mend the fences and help birth the foals in the spring. I want to be as involved in every detail as I can.”

  The look of delight on her face was like a gift. “That’s a wonderful dream, Sutton. And you’ll do it too.”

  How did she do it? Looking into her eyes, he really believed that one day, he would have his own farm. When he’d shared his dream with Cara Netta when they were traveling in Europe, she’d reacted with exuberance, and yet her very next question had been about the law firm, and when he might make partner, and wasn’t that a more attractive opportunity to him than owning horses. But he couldn’t completely fault her for that reaction. Not after he’d purposefully mentioned that Bartholomew Holbrook had confided that a future with him being made partner was a possibility.

  Yet Cara Netta had never mentioned the thoroughbred farm to him again. And looking back, he knew now that her reaction had contributed to his hesitation in moving forward in their relationship. At least at first. Now there was a whole other reason for his hesitation. She was about five-foot-six, with auburn hair and blue-green eyes, and had a way of looking at him—like she was now—that made him think he could do just about anything.

  Except tell her about Cara Netta. Which he had to do.

  The LeVerts would be arriving within days. But how could he tell her without making it look as if he’d been hiding the truth from her all this time? Which he hadn’t. It just hadn’t seemed important at first. And then the more they’d gotten to know each other, he simply hadn’t found the right opportunity.

  Which meant he had to make that opportunity. Right now.

  “Thank you, Claire, for that vote of confidence. And I’d ask you what your dream is, but I think I already know.” He glanced at an extra joujou sitting on her mantel. “To paint. And to enter the art auction come spring?”

  “Yes.” She smoothed a hand over the bedcovers. “If I can paint something that’s good enough.”

  “I’m sure you will. You’re very talented. And whatever you decide to paint, I know it will be wonderful.”

  She held his gaze, looking as if she wanted to say more, so he waited.

  When she didn’t, he figured that was his cue. “Something I’ve—”

  “It’s nice to—”

  They both laughed, having spoken at the same time.

  “I’m sorry.” He gestured. “You go first.”

  She dipped her head. “I was just going to say that it’s nice to know you have something you want to do in your life that you haven’t done yet. Even as accomplished as you are.” She looked down for a second, and when she looked up again, her eyes glistened. “And the way you talk about it, the way your face lights up, I can tell it means a great deal to you.”

  Sutton studied her. “I could say the same of you when you were looking at the paintings in the gallery. Your love and appreciation for art radiates from you, Claire. And I’m guessing here . . .” He squinted as though evaluating her. “But I’m betting that difference comes through in your painting too. I look forward to seeing your work on something other than a joujou and a candy dish.”

  For an instant, she looked as if she might cry, then she leaned up and put her arms around his neck. “Thank you, Sutton.”

  Surprised at her reaction, but pleased, he slid an arm around her back, gently, not wanting to hurt her where she might have been bruised in the accident.

  “May I ask you something?” she whispered, her breath warm on his neck. “For a favor, of sorts?”

  More than a little distracted by her closeness and moved by the shyness in her voice, he drew back, not really wanting to. “Ask away, as long as it doesn’t involve breaking any laws. The Tennessee courts—and Mrs. Acklen—might frown on that.”

  Her face when blank for an instant, then she gave a breathy laugh. “No, this doesn’t break any laws.”

  He smiled, touched by the timid look on her face, and also by their close proximity to each other on the bed. The doctor had checked her heartbeat earlier, and the buttons at her neckline remained loosened, the collar hanging open. He didn’t see anything he shouldn’t, but what he saw inspired thoughts he knew he shouldn’t have. Or, at least, shouldn’t encourage.

  The strong, steady beat of her heart was evidenced in the soft, inviting hollow at the base of her throat. And then there were those lips. Lips whose smile could lay him waste with the least little effort, and her eyes that—

  Were reading every thought he was having at the moment. Or s
eemed to be.

  Sutton took a breath even as a telling shyness came over her. If she hadn’t known before how attracted he was to her—and he didn’t think she had—the woman had to know now. Or at least suspect it. Should he say something or just let it pass? Never having been good at the latter, he reached for an apology. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to stare.”

  She briefly looked down at her hands, an embarrassed smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “I don’t mind the attention . . . coming from you.”

  A bolt of lightning coursing through his rain-drenched body would have had less effect on him than her soft admission. Watching her, a steady warmth built inside him, and as the seconds lengthened, he knew he needed to steer the conversation, and his thoughts, toward safer waters. “So . . .” He breathed out, breaking hold of her gaze and hoping his face didn’t look as hot as it felt. “What is this favor you’re wanting to ask me?”

  He would’ve sworn he glimpsed a flicker of daring in her expression. Maybe from something she thought of saying and then thought better of it.

  “What I was going to ask is . . . as soon as I’m well, and once Dr. Denard says it’s all right for me to ride again, I’m wondering if—”

  “I’d teach you to jump,” he guessed, reading the answer in her eyes and already looking forward to that first lesson. “I’d be honored. And by the time I’m through with you, you’ll be scaling every fence and creek east of the Mississippi.”

  Her smile was reward enough. “Thank you, Sutton. And now it’s your turn. You had something you wanted to say?”

  He tried to think of a way to tell her about Cara Netta. But no matter how he phrased—and rephrased—the words in his mind, he realized he couldn’t say what he’d planned on saying a moment ago. Because—after what had just happened—how could he explain to her that he had an understanding with another woman? Which he did.

  But how could he proceed in good faith into an engagement with Cara Netta, honestly pledging his affections and life to her, when Claire so obviously had a hold on his heart?

  He rose from the bed, glancing back at the clock on the mantel. “I just wanted to say that it’s almost nine thirty. And according to doctor’s orders, you can go to sleep now.” Unable to curb the desire, he leaned back down and kissed her forehead. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

  26

  Did you give Cordina the list of special requests for this evening’s dinner?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I did.” Claire smiled inwardly at the way her employer hovered near the front window and kept glancing out every so often. For the past few days, Mrs. Acklen had been intent on making certain everything was in order for the LeVerts’ visit—and for the dinner party being held in their honor tonight. The entire Belmont household was atwitter with anticipation.

  “I met with Cordina earlier this morning, Mrs. Acklen. We’re having all of Madame LeVert’s favorites, as you requested. Fresh coconut cake, warm pear and apple compote, Cordina’s pork loin with rosemary and thyme . . .” Claire rattled off the menu by heart.

  “And what of the guest list? No one has sent any last-minute regrets? Or acceptances?”

  “No, ma’am. The guest list remains unchanged.” Without being asked, Claire had made place cards for everyone who would be seated in the formal dining room—Mrs. Acklen, the LeVerts, Sutton, and Mrs. Hayes, Adelicia’s mother. Along with Mrs. Acklen’s brothers and sisters and their spouses. It would be a full table, and she was honored that Mrs. Acklen had stipulated she should sit in there too, instead of with Miss Cenas and the children in the family dining room.

  “Hmmm . . .” Mrs. Acklen said nothing for a moment. “So . . . Mr. Polk wasn’t able to alter his previous engagement?”

  “I guess not, ma’am. He hasn’t advised otherwise, so I’m assuming he won’t be in attendance this evening.”

  Nodding, Mrs. Acklen turned back toward the window.

  Though Claire would never have actually inquired about such a thing, she wondered what kind of relationship Mrs. Acklen and Lucius Polk shared. They’d seemed friendly with one another on the night of William’s party, and Mr. Polk had been to dinner at Belmont twice since. But Mrs. Acklen was a very wealthy, attractive widow, and that combination was bound to attract a good amount of male interest.

  Mrs. Acklen pressed closer to the window, and Claire leaned forward in her chair, sneaking a look out herself, eager for the LeVerts’ arrival too. Though for far different reasons.

  Following Mrs. Acklen’s comment a few weeks back about Sutton and Cara Netta sharing onion soup in Paris, she hadn’t heard Cara Netta’s name mentioned again until this week. And never in the same sentence with Sutton’s. So whatever relationship the young woman and Sutton shared—or had shared—apparently wasn’t of a serious nature. He would have mentioned something to her by now if that were the case. Especially in light of what happened between them the evening following her accident.

  Not that anything had really happened. Not outwardly, anyway. A warmth rose to her face. But the way he’d stared at her . . . She recognized that look.

  She’d received it on occasion from men whose attention she didn’t welcome. Sutton, however, was in a category all his own, and to think that he looked at her in that light seemed like too much to hope for. She appreciated how he’d sat with her that first evening, keeping her awake. Since then, he’d been working longer hours in town, leaving before breakfast and returning after dinner. Working on a lawsuit, he’d said. One that would keep him busy for several months. She was glad when she’d learned that. She’d begun to think that maybe he was trying to avoid her.

  “Be careful who you love . . .”

  The memory of her mother’s words rose like a warning inside her, and her thoughts turned to her father. Had her mother’s advice been more of a warning? Considering the kind of man Papa had been, Claire couldn’t discount that. In the same breath, if Sutton did feel something more than friendship toward her—and she thought he did—she knew her mother’s warning wasn’t needed. Because Sutton was nothing like Papa.

  Sutton was kind and honest and good, and he would never lie. And would certainly never try to coerce her to do something she didn’t want to do. Much less, do something that was wrong.

  His comment about not doing anything that broke the law had caught her off guard. She’d quickly realized he wasn’t serious, but the casual remark had reminded her again of the barrier her past was between them. While he might find her attractive—which was a nice enough thought on its own—she knew better than to put more weight on that discovery than it could bear. Someone of Sutton’s social status and upbringing would never seriously consider her, not if he really knew her.

  Still, the way he’d acted tempted her to hope . . .

  “You’re looking in full health these days,” Mrs. Acklen said, glancing back. “You’re not experiencing any lingering pain from your fall?”

  Your fall . . .

  That’s how everyone—even the servants—referred to her pitiful attempt to jump the corral fence. “No, ma’am. No pain whatsoever. The bruise on my hip is healing nicely and the headache is gone. Dr. Denard said I could commence riding again in a couple of weeks.”

  “Mr. Monroe is going to teach you to jump, I hear.”

  “He told you?”

  “He mentioned it. Mr. Monroe’s a skilled rider and an excellent teacher. He’s trained several of my thoroughbreds. Which, when you consider that his formal training is in the law, makes for an interesting combination in a man.”

  Claire couldn’t have agreed more.

  “Mama?” Pauline peeked her head in the doorway. “Is Miss Tavie here yet?”

  “Not yet, dear.” Mrs. Acklen crossed the study and kissed her daughter on the forehead. “But soon. I’ll have Mrs. Routh notify Miss Cenas after Miss Tavie arrives so you can give her and her daughters each a welcome hug. Now hurry on back to class. I look forward to hearing what you learned over dinner.”

/>   Pauline nodded, tossing Claire an excited grin before she skipped away.

  Claire thought of the get-well drawings the children had given her just after her fall. Pauline’s pastel-colored drawing featured a fairylike character clad in a pink dress who floated precipitously in the air. Claude’s picture, Claire decided, was far truer to form and depicted her soaring headfirst over the fence, mouth wide in a gaping scream.

  William, sans picture—since he was “too old for such childish undertakings”—had simply asked if she would demonstrate to him how it happened again. She’d socked him playfully in the arm and had received a grin in return.

  For feeling so out of place when she first arrived, Claire had to admit she felt more a part of things now. Certainly not like one of the family. Or even an equal. But accepted. As if she was beginning to belong. And it felt . . . wonderful.

  “A new project for you, Miss Laurent . . .” Mrs. Acklen reached to straighten a lace doily draped over the back of the settee. “I want you to teach Pauline the basic skills of sketching and watercolors. I believe she possesses a giftedness for the creative arts, and while Miss Cenas’s knowledge of art history is extensive, her skills at drawing are lacking.”

  “I’d be honored to teach Pauline, ma’am!” Claire thrilled at the prospect of having the girl as a pupil, and even more at Mrs. Acklen’s trust in her.

  “It will only be for a month or so, mind you—until master artist Giovanni Domenico from Italy takes guest residence at the gallery in town. Then Pauline will go there to be tutored in the techniques of oil on canvas. But I believe some helpful bits of instruction from you in the rudimentary aspects would be a worthwhile foundation to her lessons with him.”

  As the reality of Mrs. Acklen’s request sank in, Claire worked to hide her disappointment. Mrs. Acklen wanted her to teach Pauline the basic skills—which clearly meant that her employer didn’t consider her capable of teaching a six-year-old anything else.

  But Giovanni Domenico, a master artist, giving instruction to a six-year-old? Wealth certainly did have its privileges. “Of course, Mrs. Acklen. I understand. I’ll look forward to working with Pauline in that regard.”