A Lasting Impression Page 34

  The fire in the hearth crackled and popped, and the clock on the mantel ticked off the seconds. Claire drank in the solitude—until her thirst for silence was slaked, and then some. She carried her plate and glass downstairs to the kitchen, smelling the yeasty aroma of fresh bread even before she pushed open the door.

  “Good evening, Miss Laurent!” Eli greeted her by taking her plate. And when he reached for her glass, Claire playfully held it back from him.

  “I’ll only give it to you if I can have some more of your wife’s lemonade. If there’s enough to spare.”

  He grinned, glancing across the kitchen at his wife, who was visiting with three other women. “We always have sweet lemonade at the ready, Miss Laurent. Mrs. Acklen’s orders.” He leaned closer. “And my dear wife’s as well.”

  Claire grinned. Surprised as she’d been when learning that Eli and Cordina were married, now that she’d gotten to know them better, she couldn’t imagine them apart.

  He returned with her glass filled, his shaved head boasting a sheen of sweat. True to Cordina’s word, the kitchen was overly warm. Claire thanked him and took a good long drink, then gestured to the crusted loaves lining the wooden tables. Enough for a small army. “What’s all this for?”

  “It’s going to an orphanage across town. Mrs. Acklen provides food for the children there every month. Cordina suggested we take some of her bread with us this time, and Mrs. Acklen was pleased with the idea.”

  An orphanage. Claire couldn’t remember Mrs. Acklen ever mentioning anything about an orphanage. And before this afternoon, she would’ve said she knew her employer quite well.

  She retreated back upstairs and outside to the front gardens, where she was greeted by a late October breeze—cool, but not chilling—and she welcomed it after the heat of the kitchen. The leaves on the maples atop the hills were turning. Within days the foliage would be ablaze with color. She thought of her newly arrived canvases and tubes of paint in her room, and her right hand itched to hold a paintbrush again. Soon . . .

  She walked down the hill as far as the third tiered garden, and paused to look back, picturing the evening of the LeVert reception with over a thousand people arriving in all their finery, milling about the gardens and grounds before crowding into the grand salon and other rooms. The event would begin at eight in the evening. They’d decided that much, at least. And though a waning yellow sun still hovered over the countryside this evening, she knew it would be a different story come mid-December.

  She continued on downhill, wishing now that she’d brought a wrap, but not enough to turn back.

  In her mind’s eye, she could see lanterns draped at even intervals along the curving road toward the mansion, golden light blanketing the path, welcoming visitors. And perhaps a brass ensemble situated in the gazebo nearest the house so that guests would arrive amidst the melodies of chamber music and—

  She spotted a rider coming up the road. Not needing to look twice, she walked to the edge of the path to greet him.

  “Finally,” she said, smiling up as Sutton reined in beside her. “The prodigal has returned.” She’d been waiting all week to use the term she’d learned from Reverend Bunting’s sermon last Sunday.

  “Good evening, Claire.”

  Good evening, Claire? That was hardly the teasing response she’d hoped for. And so formal. She noted the firm set of his jaw, despite the coerced smile, and his eyes lacked their usual warmth. “Is everything all right, Sutton?”

  He looked away. “Yes, it’s just been a long day.”

  She stepped closer. “If you’d like dinner, I’d be happy to fix you a plate and bring it to the—”

  “No . . . thank you. I ate in town.”

  “Oh . . .” She nodded. “Good.” The breeze that had brought cooling relief moments earlier gave her a chill now, and she rubbed her arms.

  He gestured behind him. “A statue Mrs. Acklen ordered while in Europe arrived today. A wagon is bringing it right behind me.”

  A statue! Claire peered down the road, seeing no wagon yet. And in light of Sutton’s present mood, she tried not to appear too excited. “Who is the sculptor?”

  He eyed her, then laughed, a sharp, humorless sound. “Nice attempt at indifference, but unconvincing.”

  She made a pouting face. “I’m sorry. But I love statues, and paintings, and . . . all of that.”

  “I know,” he said quietly. “I know you do.”

  His melancholy tone stirred her concern. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  The distant squeak of wooden wheels on hard-packed dirt announced the wagon’s arrival.

  Truxton whinnied and pranced, but Sutton held the stallion steady. “I need to unlock the gallery so the men can carry the crate inside. I’m not sure where Mrs. Acklen wants this one. I haven’t even told her it’s arrived.”

  Claire nodded, wanting to go with him. But if he wanted her company, he would invite her. Which, at the moment, seemed doubtful. She smiled and stepped back off the road.

  But Sutton didn’t move. Holding Truxton in check, he looked down at her and sighed. “Would you like to come along?”

  Hardly the invitation she’d hoped for . . . Claire started to decline, but she’d been looking forward to seeing him all day. And it was an invitation, however wanting. “I’d love to!”

  He scooted back in the saddle, removed his boot from the stirrup and reached down for her. Claire slid her foot into the stirrup and gripped his arm. He lifted her up beside him and held her steady as she situated her dress over her lacy underskirts.

  With his solid chest at her back and his arm around her waist, she kept her balance, even when he urged Truxton to a canter. The stallion moved with grace and power that was almost heady. What would it be like to fly across open fields on this animal? Much less over a fence? She could hardly wait for Sutton to teach her how to jump.

  As they drew closer to the art gallery, Sutton slowed the stallion’s gait, and withdrew his arm from around her waist.

  She glanced back. “Are we still having my first jumping lesson this weekend?”

  His delayed response caused her hopes to slip.

  “I . . . won’t be able to keep our appointment this weekend, I’m sorry. Maybe there’ll be time next week, or . . . sometime soon.”

  She kept her focus forward, glad he couldn’t see her face. “I understand. And actually”—she was determined to sound convincing—“that works out better for my schedule too. I have a lot of work to do with Mrs. Acklen on the reception. A lot of planning with the menus and flowers and invitations.”

  Sutton reined in behind the gallery but didn’t dismount.

  She felt his warm breath on the back of her neck, and the longer they sat there—not speaking—the more aware she became of him behind her. She felt something on her waist and looked down. His hand . . .

  His fingers gently tightened on the curve of her hip, and Claire closed her eyes, her pulse edging up a notch. Slowly, his hand moved up her side, to her back, tenderly, as if tracing its course, memorizing as it went. She could feel the warmth of his palm through her dress.

  “Claire,” he whispered, “I . . .”

  She shivered and leaned back into him, certain the air had grown thinner. Being this close to him brought a distinct kind of pleasure. And longing. Especially remembering his kiss. The way he’d held her.

  His hand stilled on her back, then was gone, and her skin suddenly felt cool at its absence. Only then did she see the wagon circling around the back of the building.

  Wordlessly, he dismounted, assisted her with the same, looped Truxton’s reins at the post, and went to unlock the gallery.

  37

  Thank you, gentlemen.” Sutton shook the workers’ hands, pressing a gratuity into each of their palms in the process. “I appreciate your careful attention to the freight.”

  They thanked him for his generosity as they left the gallery.

  Watching by the door, Sutton waited for the wagon to roun
d the corner of the building, then returned to the storage room. This statue was one Adelicia was especially partial to and had been waiting impatiently for. He was no connoisseur of art, but in his opinion, the piece was the most exquisite of her collection. And not only because of the statue’s personal meaning for her.

  He reached the doorway of the storage room . . . and paused to take in the view.

  Claire was on her hands and knees, peeking through the slats of the crate, apparently still trying to determine the sculptor, and all of this while being remarkably unaware of his presence.

  He wanted so badly to say something aloud that would make her jump. Yet the delight he got from watching her far outweighed his desire for the other. Her single-mindedness was intriguing. Everything about her was intriguing. He had half a mind to walk across the room and take her in his arms again.

  Why, after the news he’d gotten from Colonel Wilmington, had he thought about Claire nearly every other minute? And not just thought about her. But thought about her. About holding her again, about the softness of her mouth, and about how her laughter—spontaneous and rich—had the power to draw him in like no other.

  Moments earlier, he’d come close to kissing one luscious-looking little place on her neck but knew she would’ve knocked him off the horse if he did. And rightly so. But looking at her now, at her shapely little derrière stuck up in the air—he shook his head—it would’ve been worth the fall.

  His humor faded as he realized she’d done it again—lifted his spirits, without even knowing it.

  Colonel Wilmington had been compassionately direct in delivering the review board’s verdict, which they’d arrived at late last evening. And in the course of five minutes, the man had not only stripped him of the land he should have inherited—land his grandfather had purchased and deeded to his father, and that his father would have deeded to him—but had forever tarnished the honor of his family name.

  The official record of the incident, as submitted by the Federal captain and purportedly substantiated by soldiers with him that day, indicted his father as a traitor to his country. Sutton bowed his head. His father, one of the gentlest, kindest, most godly men he’d ever known. And all because his father had refused to sign a piece of paper.

  And as Holbrook had informed early on, just or not, what the review board decided stood as law.

  Sutton thought again of what Claire had said when he’d ridden up earlier. “The prodigal has returned. . . .” He guessed that was fitting, in a way. Because like the son in Scripture who returned home broken and empty-handed, so had he returned to Belmont. Only, his father hadn’t been waiting to greet him.

  But Claire had.

  She sighed, drawing his attention back. She was still intent on her task.

  “Drop something, Claire?”

  She scrambled to her feet, her eyes wide. “How long have you been standing there?”

  He managed a smile. “Not terribly long.” Aware of her frown, he crossed to a workbench and retrieved a crowbar.

  “Oh! We’re going to open it tonight?” Her expression brightened, then just as quickly clouded. “But shouldn’t we wait for Mrs. Acklen?”

  Sutton fit the flat end of the crowbar beneath a board. “I always inspect the statues before she sees them. And usually before the freighters leave. But this one”—he applied pressure, and the board loosened with a crack—“is very special. Plus”—he repositioned the crowbar—“you’re here.”

  She smiled, and Sutton felt an odd little tug in his chest.

  The next few slats came off the top of the crate with little complaint. One by one, he removed them, then set the crowbar aside. They knelt and together began removing the straw and other packing materials that encased the statue. When he felt the cool of the smooth marble, he quietly held back and let her finish the job.

  She was like a child at Christmas—a very reverent child—and the joy he received from watching her face was gift enough for him. She removed the last layer of straw and went perfectly still. He remembered well what he’d felt the first time he saw the statue of the two children. He was more interested in watching Claire see the statue for the first time.

  Her lower lip trembled, and she put a hand to her mouth—exactly as Adelicia had done when she’d first seen it.

  “It’s entitled Sleeping Children,” he said softly, on his knees beside her. “By William Rinehart. Adelicia purchased it in Rome, in memory of her daughters.”

  Claire reached out her hand, then paused and looked over at him, as if asking for his permission. He nodded, and she cradled the smooth stone cheek of one of the children’s faces.

  She let out a breath. “It’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. They’re so . . . lifelike.”

  Sculpted of white marble, the statue portrayed two children lying in sweet repose—asleep in death, Sutton remembered Rinehart telling them—and was so realistic in its detail. One of the infant’s chubby little arms was lovingly draped across the other’s chest, and their heads were propped on a pillow that—even chiseled from stone—bore the soft folds and texture of a pillow fashioned from satin. Same as the blanket covering the infants.

  Claire covered the child’s little hand that lay on the other one’s chest. “Just today, Mrs. Acklen told me about Victoria, Adelicia, and Emma. And about the son she lost too.” She sniffed. “Four children.” She exhaled. “I can’t imagine what that feels like.”

  Touched by her response, Sutton withdrew his handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. “This statue isn’t in memory of those children, Claire.”

  She turned and looked at him, confusion in her expression.

  “Joseph and Adelicia had twin girls. Born to them in”—he thought back, remembering he was around twelve at the time—“about fifty-two, I think . . . at Angola Plantation in Louisiana. The twins were just two years old when they died. Both from scarlet fever. And only a couple of weeks apart.”

  Remembering Adelicia’s special request of the sculptor, Sutton leaned forward to see the front of the statue. And sure enough, there were the girls’ first names. He pointed.

  “Laura and Corinne,” Claire whispered, running her finger over the engraving.

  “And on the back—” He looked to be sure. “She asked him to inscribe ‘Twin Sisters.’ Which he did.”

  Claire moved to see, wiping moisture from her cheeks. “You said Mrs. Acklen doesn’t know this has arrived yet.”

  “No, I haven’t told her. I didn’t know until after I left the—” He caught himself in time. “The office in town.”

  Claire nodded. “Do you know if she has a place in mind for it?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Well, I have one,” she said softly, smoothing her palm over the Sleeping Children again. “Do you have a base built for this yet?”

  He shook his head. “Why?”

  “Because I’d like to do something special for Mrs. Acklen, Sutton. To show her my appreciation.” She half laughed, half sighed. “I can’t buy the woman anything she can’t buy for herself a thousand times over.”

  Sutton understood that only too well.

  “But I can do this for her, if you’ll let me. All I need is a few days.”

  38

  Are you certain you have time for this?”

  Hearing the excitement in Claire’s voice, Sutton adjusted a stirrup to accommodate her stature, admiring the glimpse of her lovely calf before she smoothed her skirts. “I should be asking you that question. Seems you’re as busy as I am these days, if not more so.”

  She shifted in the saddle. “I could hardly sleep last night for thinking about this!”

  He’d been looking forward to their first lesson too, and had ridden out to the meadow late yesterday evening to set up various-sized stacks of logs. And this after telling Claire, not five days ago, that he wouldn’t have time for a lesson this week, or anytime soon. He’d responded to her in a moment of frustration and had since apologized. Twic
e.

  He needed this time with her. Conflict seemed to be hitting on all sides these days, and she helped to balance the parts of his life that were coming apart.

  He hadn’t told her about the review board’s decision yet. He hadn’t told anyone. Not even Bartholomew Holbrook. He knew he needed to, but he’d also needed time to accept this new reality. Not that he had a choice. The loss of his family’s land had hit him harder than he thought it would.

  In a way, it felt as if he were losing his father all over again. With the sadness and grief came renewed anger—and a profound sense of disappointment in himself.

  He hadn’t decided yet whether to tell her about the report from his colleague. Adelicia had read the findings and was satisfied—as was he—and said she saw no need to tell Claire about it. “This is a procedure that we insist every employee undergo, Mr. Monroe. We’ve not yet felt a need to tell an employee prior to this. Why should you feel a compulsion to do so now?”

  The way Adelicia had looked at him, the smartness in her tone, had told him she knew—or at least suspected—about his feelings for Claire. He’d told her about his and Cara Netta’s decision to rescind their understanding, and she’d been disappointed. But to Adelicia’s credit, she hadn’t broached the subject again.

  “Oh . . . you’re such a handsome fella,” Claire cooed in a sultry voice.

  Sutton looked up to see her stroking Truxton’s neck and running her fingers through his mane. He exhaled. All that woman . . . wasted on a horse.

  “All right, Captain Laurent. Just a few reminders . . .” Truxton whinnied and tossed his head, and Sutton held him by the bridle. “Truxton’s experienced at jumping, so he already knows what to do. That’s the beauty of learning to jump on a horse that’s trained. But when they have a rider—”

  “Like moi,” Claire said, grinning.

  Sutton gave her a look that said to please pay attention. “Their training has taught them to follow your lead. So if you’re unsure, the horse will be too.” He checked her stirrups again, the image of her being thrown over that fence returning with striking clarity. She looked so tiny atop Truxton, and had insisted on riding sidesaddle. He understood but would’ve preferred that she jump astride.