A Lasting Impression Page 28

  He felt a stab of anger. How could Madame LeVert, or whoever had arranged for the tickets, not have thought to include her? “Why don’t you take my ticket, Claire. You know how I feel about the opera, and—”

  “No, Sutton.” She shook her head, her voice firm. “No.”

  “Oh, Diddie, tell me it’s not true!” Madame LeVert said behind them. “How disappointing. And you’ve been looking forward to this all week.”

  Sutton turned to see the women grouped together, little Pauline now with them. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Diddie’s not feeling well,” Mrs. Acklen answered. “So she won’t be joining us this evening.”

  Sutton glanced at Diddie, whose coloring did look rather greenish. But he saw the opportunity and seized it. “I’m sorry you don’t feel well enough to go, Diddie. But, so your ticket won’t go to waste, perhaps we could impose upon Miss Laurent to take your place. If she’s agreeable.”

  He turned back and saw a light slip into Claire’s eyes. She smiled and nodded, and for a second, everything in the world lined up in perfect order.

  “Sutton,” Cara Netta said sweetly from across the room. “That’s so thoughtful of you, but . . . I’ve already asked Miss Cenas to go in Diddie’s stead. She’s getting her shawl and reticule right this moment.”

  Sutton’s chest went tight, especially when he sensed that Cara Netta knew exactly what she was doing, or had done. She hadn’t wanted Claire to go. Claire simply smiled, as if the mix-up were of little consequence to her, and a fierce protectiveness rose inside him.

  But what galled him most was that he was the one who had placed Claire in such an embarrassing position. “I’m sorry, Claire,” he whispered.

  “There’s nothing to be sorry about, Sutton. I honestly prefer to stay here.” Her perfect smile would have convinced anyone else. But he knew better.

  And he pledged to make it up to her somehow.

  30

  Claire gently rapped on the door of the tête-à-tête room. Hearing no response, she slipped inside and closed the door noiselessly behind her. She’d been sneaking into the room in the early mornings for the past couple of weeks to read, and if she hadn’t been reading what she was reading, she might have felt a little guilty.

  Since the night she’d come undone . . . at least that’s how she thought of it—crying as she had, falling apart, and in front of Sutton, no less—she’d developed a thirst for the verses that had given her mother such comfort and hope in her final hours.

  The Acklen family Bible lay on the table before the hearth, and Claire scooted a chair closer, mindful of the carpet. Mrs. Acklen had told her in passing that the Bible never left the room, but she hadn’t said not to read it, so Claire assumed that was fine. After all, it was the Bible.

  But knowing Mrs. Acklen, she’d gone a step further and never moved the Bible from the table. She simply opened the pages, read, and when she was done, made certain the large leather-bound book was exactly as it had been.

  She checked her hands to be sure all traces of breakfast were gone. Since the LeVerts arrived, she’d begun taking the meal downstairs in the kitchen with Cordina and the other servants rather than in the dining room with the family and guests. It was simpler that way.

  Claire leaned close to the book and breathed in the scent of hand-oiled leather and years-old paper and dust. The pages crinkled as she turned them.

  Genesis, Exodus . . . She skimmed over the next few books, watching for the right name. Esther, Job, the Psalms . . .

  The Psalms had been what Maman had requested that she read from most, and Claire had read all of those again last week before moving to other books. The next time she went into town, she planned on purchasing a Bible of her own. Not that she went into town that often. Though time had passed and the likelihood of crossing paths with Antoine DePaul was slim, she still held a dread of that happening. How quickly all she’d worked for—and had been given—at Belmont could be taken away.

  There it was . . . the book of Isaiah.

  She’d started reading from Isaiah because Reverend Bunting had quoted from it last Sunday, and she’d liked what she’d heard. But she’d soon discovered that the first five chapters of the book weren’t nearly as uplifting as the part he’d quoted from.

  Still, she was determined to give it a fair try.

  “Chapter six . . .” She found the page and started to begin reading, then remembered and bowed her head. “Thank you, Lord, for being the Bread of Life, and for this . . . my daily bread.” She lifted her eyes, feeling quite the poet. Only, the words weren’t hers. Not originally. She’d borrowed them from a gentleman she’d heard pray aloud in church.

  She kept her voice soft. “ ‘In the year that King’ ”—she studied the name before pronouncing it—“ ‘Uzziah died I saw also the Lord sitting upon a throne, high and lifted up, and his train filled the temple.’ ” Very majestic, descriptive . . . “ ‘Above it stood the seraphims . . .’ ”

  As she read, images of angels and a temple took shape in her mind, and she pictured the scene as an oil on canvas. A scene she’d like to paint someday. “ ‘. . . And the posts of the door moved at the voice of him that cried, and the house was filled with smoke. Then I said, Woe is me! for I am undone . . .’ ”

  That word again . . . And a feeling she knew only too well.

  “ ‘For I am undone,’ ” she repeated softly, “ ‘because I am a man of uncl—’ ” She frowned, familiar with the next term too, uncomfortably so. “ ‘Unclean lips,’ ” she finished, the words resonating inside her.

  She read ahead, wincing slightly, as though the angel in the verses who had taken a live coal from the burning altar had touched her lips, instead of Isaiah’s. “ ‘And he laid it upon my mouth,’ ” she read, “ ‘and said, Lo, this hath touched thy lips; and thine iniquity is taken away, and thy sin purged.’ ”

  Movement from outside the window drew her eye.

  Diddie and Cara Netta passed. Coming for breakfast, no doubt.

  Claire recalled the “undertaking” Cara Netta had requested her help with—making a scrapbook from bits of memorabilia and pamphlets from the family’s tour of Europe. But Claire knew the real desire behind Cara Netta’s request: to put her in her place as an employee of Belmont and to regale her with all that she and Sutton had experienced together.

  Memories of the opera evening, over a week ago now, were still fresh too. She’d cried a few more tears that night after everyone had left. Then she had decided “No more.” What was done was done, and she reconciled herself to change what she could. Instead of attempting to change the impossible.

  She had work to do—projects for Mrs. Acklen, and now for Madame LeVert, and lessons with Pauline, which were coming along quite well. She hoped to have some time to sketch for herself this afternoon, to start narrowing down the choices of venue for her first painting for the auction.

  She stared out the window, waiting to see if Sutton was accompanying the LeVert sisters. But apparently he wasn’t.

  He’d been scarce in recent days. Busy with the lawsuit he was working on, she guessed, and with business for Mrs. Acklen. She wondered how the relationship was between him and Cara Netta. She saw them walking together often enough, and saw them at dinner, of course, but other than that, she avoided them as much as possible.

  It was her preference, but she also knew it was Cara Netta’s. Not that she blamed the woman. She would feel the very same, if put in Cara Netta’s position. Claire fingered the edge of the page. She imagined that—under different circumstances—she might have liked Cara Netta very much . . . if Cara Netta wasn’t in love with Sutton. And he with her.

  Drawing her thoughts back, she returned her attention to the page and soon lost herself in reading again.

  “Good morning, Miss Laurent.”

  At the voice behind her, Claire stood and spun. “Mrs. Acklen! Good morning, ma’am.” Claire glanced at the open Bible, wishing now that she’d requested permission. “I di
dn’t hear you come in.”

  “Yes, that’s apparent.” Mrs. Acklen looked from her to the Bible and back again. “What are you reading?”

  Claire decided not to respond with the obvious. “Isaiah, ma’am.”

  “Have you read it before?”

  She shook her head.

  “Isaiah is one of my favorite books. Difficult to understand in places, granted. But well worth the effort.” Mrs. Acklen’s gaze narrowed. “Do you not have a Bible of your own, Miss Laurent?”

  “No, ma’am. I . . .” Admitting to not owning a Bible made her sound like a heathen. But what could she say in response to the question? “My Bible was . . . to be packed in my trunks. So I decided to borrow yours. I hope you don’t mind.” There, that was the truth.

  “Your trunks still haven’t arrived, Miss Laurent?”

  Claire bit the inside of her cheek. “Not to my knowledge, ma’am.”

  “Well, we’ll remedy that immediately. Give your previous address to Mr. Monroe and he’ll wire a colleague in New Orleans who will check on your trunks for you. We’ll have them sent directly to Belmont.”

  “Please, Mrs. Acklen, I don’t want you to go to any trouble.”

  “Those are your trunks, Miss Laurent. Your clothes. Your personal belongings. You have a right to have them back. You cannot simply allow someone—or in this instance, some incompetent railroad steward—to take them from you. Is that not clear to you?”

  Claire held back a sigh. “Yes, ma’am. It’s quite clear.”

  “Very good. And when you’re done in here, please come to the library. I have several Bibles. I’ll give you one. I also have a task for you today.”

  Thinking of giving Sutton her New Orleans address, Claire felt more undone by the second. “Yes, Mrs. Acklen. I’ll be right there. And . . . thank you, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Acklen closed the door, and Claire sank back down in the chair. She stared at the open Bible. So much for finding hope and comfort.

  “The Bible is there, Miss Laurent,” Mrs. Acklen said, her back to Claire as she perused a bookshelf. “On the corner of the desk.”

  Claire reached for the Bible lying on a stack of mail. Somewhere toward the bottom, an issue of the New Orleans Picayune peeked out. She’d checked each issue since finding the article about her father, but to her relief, none of them had held further mention of Papa or the gallery.

  “Do you see it, Miss Laurent?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I do.” Claire picked up the tan leather Bible and read the gold-embossed name on the cover—Mrs. Joseph Acklen. “Thank you, Mrs. Acklen.” She fingered the pages edged in silver. Certainly a nicer edition than she would have purchased for herself. “I appreciate your sharing it with me. I’ll take very good care and return it when I’m done.”

  “It’s yours, Miss Laurent. As I said, I have several. I had an envelope here . . .” Mrs. Acklen searched through papers atop the library desk. Finally, she sighed. “Perhaps I left it in my bedroom. I’ll find the envelope while you arrange with Eli for a carriage.”

  “A carriage, ma’am?”

  “Yes.” Mrs. Acklen started toward the door. “I need you to go into town for me this morning on an errand.”

  Claire started to object and yet knew better. But there went any extra time for sketching this afternoon.

  Mrs. Acklen paused and looked back. “Perhaps you have another, more pressing engagement this morning, Miss Laurent?”

  Claire felt herself blush. “Of course not, Mrs. Acklen. I’m happy to go.”

  She followed her into the entrance hall, where they met Diddie and Cara Netta coming from the grand salon.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Acklen,” they said, then sent nods Claire’s way. “Miss Laurent.”

  Claire curtsied. “Good morning, ma’ams.”

  Mrs. Acklen hugged them both. “And what are you dear girls doing today?”

  “Seeing that we’re returning home in two days”—Diddie’s smile temporarily waned—“we’re going into town to shop! That will surely cheer us up.” She grinned again. “Eli’s bringing the carriage around now.”

  “That’s wonderful!” Mrs. Acklen gestured to Claire. “Miss Laurent was leaving on an errand into town on my behalf. Would you mind if she accompanies you?”

  Claire couldn’t hold back. “Oh no, I don’t want to intrude. I’m quite content to walk. It’s a lovely day. Very dry at present,” she added, directing the statement toward Mrs. Acklen. “And I’d appreciate the exercise.”

  Mrs. Acklen looked at her as if she’d grown a third eye. Diddie and Cara Netta merely stared.

  “I am quite certain,” Mrs. Acklen said, “that it’s going to rain. And I’m sure Diddie and Cara Netta would be happy to share their carriage.” She looked at the sisters.

  “Of course we would, Mrs. Acklen,” Cara Netta chimed in, her smile expectedly sweet. “We’ll wait for you out front, Miss Laurent.”

  Claire returned to her room for her shawl. She hadn’t been excited about the errand in the first place, but now she had to abide the trip with Cara Netta.

  She slipped a few coins into her dress pocket, not having replaced her reticule she’d left behind at the shipping office. Mrs. Acklen was paying her very well, but recent expenditures had diminished her savings. First, the gray dress, then the canvases and tubes of paint she’d ordered two weeks ago. And Dr. Denard’s fees had been more than she’d imagined too. Mrs. Acklen had offered to pay the physician, but Claire had insisted. It was her own fault, and therefore her responsibility.

  Knowing the sisters were waiting, she hurried back to the grand salon. Mrs. Acklen had agreed to meet her there with the envelope, but it was Mrs. Routh descending the staircase, and wearing her usual dour expression.

  Determined not to be intimidated this time, Claire forced a smile. “How are you this morning, Mrs. Routh?”

  “I’m well, Miss Laurent. And you?”

  “Quite well. Thank you.” Claire glanced at the envelope in her hand. “Is that from Mrs. Acklen?”

  Mouth firm, the head housekeeper held it out. “You’re to deliver this to Mrs. Perry at the dress shop straightaway this morning. And you’re to await a reply.”

  Claire studied the envelope. The front bore Mrs. Perry’s name in Mrs. Acklen’s impeccable handwriting. She turned the envelope over. “It’s sealed,” she said, wondering why Mrs. Acklen had penned the letter herself instead of asking her to do it.

  “Yes, it’s sealed, Miss Laurent. Which would lead one to think that its contents are intended for Mrs. Perry’s eyes alone.”

  Realizing Mrs. Routh’s insinuation, Claire’s face heated. “I understand that, Mrs. Routh. I was simply wondering why—” Seeing the distrust in the head housekeeper’s eyes, Claire knew that no matter what she said, it would make no difference. “I’ll give Mrs. Perry the envelope. Good day, Mrs. Routh.”

  Claire hurried out to the carriage, wondering again why the woman seemed so bent on distrusting her. Mrs. Routh’s dislike was palpable, and it bothered her more than she cared to admit.

  The two-mile ride into town seemed twice as long as usual. Diddie did most of the talking and was very kind, but Claire didn’t doubt for a second that the older sister knew how the younger felt about her.

  When the carriage pulled up to the dress shop, Claire climbed out with Armstead’s assistance and was surprised when the sisters followed.

  “Mrs. Perry’s was at the top of our list of places to visit today,” Diddie explained. “After all, she has the nicest dresses in town.”

  And the most expensive, Claire wanted to add but didn’t. She smiled and allowed the women to precede her into the shop, hoping that Mrs. Acklen’s errand wouldn’t take too long. She was already looking forward to returning to Belmont. On foot. And alone. As long as the gray clouds held.

  When they entered the store, they found Mrs. Perry assisting a patron, so Claire waited off to the side as Diddie and Cara Netta browsed the dresses. Over half the dresses in the shop were d
arker in color—grays, like the one she had bought, and midnight blacks, and darker blues. Colors of mourning. The colors of war.

  “I’m sorry to keep you ladies waiting.” Mrs. Perry joined them and greeted Diddie and Cara Netta by name. “And Miss Laurent, a pleasure again, and so soon. Are you here for another dress? A style came in yesterday that would be lovely on you.”

  “Good morning, Mrs. Perry, and I’m afraid not.” Claire handed her the envelope. “I’m here on behalf of Mrs. Acklen. She asked me to deliver this, and I’m to wait for your reply.”

  Mrs. Perry read the note, then peered up. “You’ve not read this, I take it?”

  Claire eyed her, thinking again about Mrs. Routh’s insinuation. “No, ma’am, of course not. It was sealed.”

  Mrs. Perry tucked the note back inside the envelope, her face practically glowing. “Then, may I be the bearer of good news, Miss Laurent. I believe it would be appropriate to say that Christmas has come early for you this year, my dear.”

  31

  Claire could scarcely believe what Mrs. Acklen had done for her. Six dresses! Six! And all of them lovelier than any she’d owned before. Mrs. Perry had also included an assortment of lacy undergarments—chemises, underskirts and pantalets, stockings—all in a separate pink paper-lined box. Along with a woolen coat for coming winter and a pair of shiny black boots in another.

  Claire had never owned such fine things, nor had she been treated so royally. She stood at the door of the dress shop, peering out at the steady downpour but determined not to let it dampen her spirits. Not after such a wonderfully unexpected surprise.

  The fittings had taken longer than she imagined, and Mrs. Perry had generously provided lunch for her. Diddie and Cara Netta had left two hours earlier with the promise of returning for her in “the Clarence,” as Diddie called their leased carriage, and so she waited.

  It occurred to her then that perhaps she should have felt insulted by what Mrs. Acklen had done—because apparently Mrs. Acklen didn’t feel as though she dressed appropriately for her station. Yet she wasn’t insulted in the least. She was grateful beyond imagining, and could hardly wait to get back to Belmont to thank her employer properly. Mrs. Perry said the alterations would be completed within a few days and she would have the dresses delivered to Belmont.