A Lasting Impression Page 8

  Sutton nodded, his appetite more than a little whetted.

  When first considering studying the law, the choice to become an attorney had been the means to an end for him—to what he really wanted to do with his life. But over time, and influenced by Bartholomew Holbrook’s mentoring, the law had come alive and instilled within him a passion for its truth. But as much as he loved the law, he loved something else equally well, if not more.

  He fingered Truxton’s reins, remembering how many years he’d saved to buy this thoroughbred, as well as the others the North had confiscated during the war. His childhood dream had about as much chance of coming to fruition now as he did of receiving a fair rendering from the review board.

  Mr. Holbrook knew about his other aspiration, and Sutton wondered if offering a part in this case was the old man’s way of helping him pick up the pieces of that dream the war had shattered.

  “Consider my offer, Sutton, and when you’ve made your decision, let me know. One stipulation . . . Under no circumstances—whether you accept my proposal or not—can you inform anyone that the firm is working on this case. If news of our client’s investigation were to get out, I fear the evidence we’re seeking, and that we need, would be buried before it sees the light of day.”

  “I understand, sir. And I appreciate your trust.” Sutton reached for Holbrook’s hand and appreciated the man’s still-firm grip. “I’ll have an answer for you within the week.”

  “And when I get word of the board’s decision,” Holbrook continued, “I’ll inform you straight away.”

  Sutton nodded. “Thank you, sir. For . . . everything.”

  Holbrook made to go, then paused. A memory-laden smile eased the tracks of time and loss etched in his face. “Sometimes, Sutton . . . when I look at you, I can still see him. He loved you, you know. Like a brother.”

  Sutton felt a wash of yesteryear move through him. “I loved him too, sir, and carry him with me every day.”

  Seconds passed unhindered, and finally, Holbrook adjusted the brim of his hat. “Well—” He inhaled sharply. “Wish me luck. I’m off to meet with an investigator. I haven’t done this in years. Makes me feel like a first-year attorney again. Never mind that I’ll be reaching for my rheumatism medicine by noon.”

  They parted ways, and Sutton rode on through town. When he reached his turnoff, he headed south, urging Truxton to a canter. He knew Holbrook didn’t agree with his petitioning the military board to review the case surrounding his father’s death. The man didn’t consider it wrong—just pointless, under the circumstances.

  Yet he also knew that Bartholomew Holbrook understood.

  Because Mr. Holbrook had lost his only son on a battlefield not fifteen miles south of town, just a handful of days after Dr. Stephen Monroe had been shot point-blank on his porch in front of his wife. Sutton had been the one to tell Holbrook about his son, because he’d cradled Mark Holbrook—his best friend since the age of six—as death snatched Mark’s life away mere seconds after the minié ball had blasted a hole in his chest.

  Sutton urged the stallion to a canter, then a gallop, then gave the thoroughbred his head. Vengeance belonged to the Lord—he knew that. But sometimes the Lord seemed slow in meting out justice.

  Too slow for the thirst that ached inside him.

  8

  How much farther to Mrs. Acklen’s estate, Reverend?” Nerves edging out her eagerness, Claire leaned forward on the buggy seat and peered past Saint Chrissinda to Reverend Bunting, who gripped the reins.

  “The turnoff’s just ahead.” He tossed her a reticent smile. “I told you it was on the outskirts of town.”

  Two miles from Nashville proper, the Reverend had said, just before insisting that he and Mrs. Bunting accompany her. Claire was grateful for the companionship, and the ride.

  The farther they got from town, the more beautiful the views. Stalwart pines stood shoulder to shoulder with lush-leafed oaks and maples to flank the sunbaked dirt road. Every so often, the timber soldiers would break rank and part to reveal sweeping views of the rolling countryside. Even with the numerous stumps of mighty felled trees—a result of the war, no doubt—she would never have guessed the area surrounding Nashville to be so lovely. Especially after what she’d seen in town.

  She could have traveled the distance on foot—she was accustomed to walking much farther—but the afternoon heat and humidity were enough to bear, even riding in the buggy. And the dusty roads would have ruined the elegant emerald dress and matching jacket Mrs. Bunting had loaned her.

  She’d glimpsed the contents of Mrs. Bunting’s wardrobe, and while the rest of the woman’s dresses were certainly nice, this ensemble was without question her best. Claire hadn’t had the heart to remind Mrs. Bunting that she was still in mourning for her mother. And her father too.

  She silently recounted the couple’s kindness and the small miracles Mrs. Bunting had performed in so short a time. Who would have imagined a reverend’s wife could arrange hair so elaborately? She fingered a curl dangling at the nape of her neck.

  “I’m guessing that thick hair of yours isn’t completely dry just yet, dear.” Mrs. Bunting patted her arm. “But no one will notice—take my word. You look lovely.” She pursed her lips and eyed Claire’s hair. “What I wouldn’t do for those curls. Not to mention that color.”

  Recognizing the attempt to lessen her nerves, Claire smiled her appreciation. Her hair did feel wonderfully clean, like the rest of her, thanks to the luxurious lavender-scented bath Mrs. Bunting had poured. She could have soaked in that warm, sudsy water for days.

  Afterward, she’d told Mrs. Bunting everything she’d told the reverend, and she quickly discovered that Chrissinda Bunting was every bit the saint her husband claimed her to be.

  Reverend Bunting peered over at her. “When we arrive, Miss Laurent, I’ll accompany you inside and make the introductions. Then I’ll wait outside with Mrs. Bunting until you’re done.”

  “I’m going inside too!” Mrs. Bunting nudged him. “Don’t think for one minute, Robert Franklin Bunting, that I’ve come all this way only to sit and wait in this buggy.” She winked at Claire. “I never miss an opportunity to see Belmont.”

  Certain the estate and home were lovely, Claire also felt sure they would fall short of others she’d seen in Louisiana. Not that she would ever voice such an impertinent opinion.

  Remembering another rather blunt opinion she had given voice to—just that morning, in fact—she felt a sense of misgiving. Sutton Monroe. Little had the man known that his attempt to coerce a confession would result in such a boon to her! But despite his intentions, whatever they’d been, she wished he did know. She wished she could tell him. And thank him.

  She’d been tempted to ask the reverend about him, knowing they were acquaintances. But that might be construed as forward on her part, and she hated to add improper to her already somewhat tarnished first impression. It wouldn’t speak highly of her character, and she wanted the Buntings to think well of her. They’d been so generous. . . .

  Which only increased her guilt at not having been totally truthful with them about her circumstances. But how could she just come right out and tell them and still expect their help? She couldn’t. And she needed this opportunity. She needed this job! A way to provide for herself.

  She wondered whether her father’s death had changed Antoine DePaul’s decision about coming to Nashville. She could only hope that it had, and that she wouldn’t have to face him again.

  The buggy dipped, and Claire gripped the edge of her seat. “Thank you again, Reverend and Mrs. Bunting. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.”

  “It’s our pleasure, dear.” Mrs. Bunting squeezed her hand.

  “My wife’s right. We’re happy to do it, Miss Laurent. But we’re only giving you the proverbial foot in the door. The rest is up to you. In the note I sent to Mrs. Acklen earlier, I relayed no specifics about you or your experience. I only gave your name and requested that, upon my recommen
dation, she grant you an interview this afternoon.”

  Which Mrs. Acklen had done without delay, Claire noticed. Which spoke most highly of the woman’s regard for the reverend. Mrs. Acklen had also responded with extreme brevity. The missive, written on fine linen stationery and in flawless handwriting, simply stated, “Dear Reverend Bunting, Request granted. I’ll expect you at half past four. Warmest regards, Mrs. Adelicia Franklin Acklen.”

  Adelicia Franklin Acklen. A very distinguished-sounding name.

  Mrs. Acklen was a widow—a very wealthy widow, the Buntings had told her—and had four children ranging in age from six to sixteen. After breakfast, Mrs. Bunting had shown her the previous day’s newspaper that contained the advertisement for the position.

  Claire pulled the clipping from her skirt pocket and perused the qualifications again, speculating on what questions might be asked during the interview and rehearsing what she would say.

  The advertisement hadn’t been listed with the other requests for assistants, clerks, and secretaries, but occupied a section all its own. Neither was its description abbreviated, as were the others. Apparently, Mrs. Adelicia Franklin Acklen wasn’t concerned with paying by the word.

  The title of the position made Claire smile. The list of qualifications did not.

  LIAISON TO MRS. ADELICIA FRANKLIN ACKLEN

  Desired: Young woman of impeccable character and pleasant disposition who possesses exemplary skills in letter writing, bookkeeping, and coordinating social events. Must be meticulous and thorough in nature, possessing initiative and maturity. Fluency in both English and French required. Résumé and recommendations to be reviewed prior to interview being extended at Belmont.

  “I know what you must be thinking,” Mrs. Bunting whispered, eyeing the newspaper clipping. “Does such a woman exist who can meet such expectations?”

  Claire folded the paper and slipped it back into her pocket, her confidence waning. “Yes, ma’am. That’s precisely what I was thinking.” What on earth was she doing trying to interview for such a position? She was detail-oriented and fluent in French, of course. That wasn’t the problem. It was the exacting tone of the advertisement that worried her. Such high expectations written between each line.

  She fingered the lace-bordered sleeve of her borrowed jacket, wishing she knew more about this Mrs. Acklen before the interview. But before she could articulate the thought into a question, Reverend Bunting slowed the horses and turned onto a side road, guiding the buggy through massive columns of chiseled limestone.

  Claire leaned forward, her focus inexplicably drawn, lured by the wealth of land and richness of beauty sprawling before them.

  Immersed in every imaginable shade of earthy green and sun-drenched yellow, the vista looked like something that belonged more on a canvas than it did in reality. Yet it was the mansion in the distance, rising in a flourish of mauve splendor atop the hill, that captivated her most.

  Reverend Bunting chuckled softly beside her, as did his wife. “Welcome to Belmont, Miss Laurent. The home of Mrs. Adelicia Acklen.”

  9

  Lovely didn’t begin to describe the resplendence of the Belmont estate. Breathtaking came closer but still fell short. The buggy wound its way along the tree-studded path, past a carriage house and stables, and again Claire noted the remnants of years-old felled oak and pine, their burned-out stumps testimony to battles fought.

  Claire spotted a deer—or more rightly, a stag—lurking in the shadow of a pine. Only, this was no ordinary stag.

  Made of cast iron and capturing the true animal’s regal stance, the statue stood alert, its antlered head lifted heavenward, eternally seeking a scent on the wind. Delighted, Claire grinned as other animals appeared—dogs, lions, and several deer—all cast from iron like their dauntless leader, either nestled among the shady trees or standing watch beneath flowering shrubbery.

  The road gradually widened and turned, and the estate extended its second formal welcome in the presentation of lavish gardens containing every imaginable color. The mansion sat atop the hill, in full view, though still some distance away, and Claire drank it all in. Belmont—or Belle Monte in French, meaning “beautiful mountain”—was an artist’s paradise. And she marveled at the lengths Mrs. Acklen had gone to create such a lavish impression on her visitors.

  Three circles comprised the formal gardens, the largest circle located nearest the mansion, while its smaller counterparts descended downhill, diminishing in size. The buggy rumbled past intersecting walkways that connected the circles, and bubbling fountains overflowed amidst a sea of roses, star jasmine, and boxwood. Gardeners dotted the expansive grounds, clipping and planting, pruning and sheering.

  A tower stood a short distance away, and Claire imagined how far a person might be able to see from that vantage point. Something ahead glinted in the sunlight, and she shielded her eyes to get a better look.

  Marble statuary—too many to count at a glance—dotted the expansive gardens. Reflecting the afternoon sun, the sculptures shimmered dazzling white against the grassy carpet of green. And gazebos, standing a softer white against the late summer blooms, extended an invitation to come and rest.

  She laughed to herself. It was all so—

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” the reverend said.

  She exhaled. “Overwhelming was the word I was thinking of.”

  “You haven’t seen the half of it yet.” A smile lit his voice. “Right over there”—he pointed to an octagonal-shaped building—“is the bear house.”

  Claire frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

  Mrs. Bunting nodded. “The bear house, dear. Mrs. Acklen keeps wild animals on her property. Her late husband”—her voice lowered a notch—“God rest his soul, often kept a lion or tiger for the delectation of his guests and himself, or so we’ve been told. Mr. Acklen passed away before we moved to Nashville, so we never had the honor of meeting him. But—if what I’m told is correct—in recent years, Mrs. Acklen has limited her interest in larger animals to bears.”

  “And alligators, let’s not forget,” Mr. Bunting supplied.

  Claire looked to see if he was jesting. But his expression said he most certainly was not.

  The reverend gestured. “In that direction is a lake where Mrs. Acklen keeps the alligators. She had them shipped from Louisiana.”

  Claire instinctively recoiled. What type of person brought alligators all that way? And kept them at their home?

  The clomp of horses’ hooves drowned out the fountains they passed, and she spotted a marble statue, one of a young woman trimming vines about an arbor. The woman, forever fixed in stone, was missing her left hand, and all the fingers from her right, save one.

  “It was damaged in the war.”

  Claire turned to find the reverend looking at the same statue.

  “When the Federal Army took control of the grounds. Soldiers were encamped everywhere. Their generals took command of the house.” Traces of bitterness crisped the edges of his voice. “One of the last battles was fought here, around the house, then on up toward town. Most of Mrs. Acklen’s neighbors lost everything, including their homes. But Belmont came through relatively unscathed.”

  Looking out across the estate, Claire tried to imagine the scene. Soldiers everywhere, campfires burning, the chaos of battle, the smoke and echo of gunfire. Such a stark contrast to the present bliss.

  The mansion loomed ahead, and a tangle of nerves twisted inside her. She wished now that she hadn’t eaten those extra biscuits and ham at lunch.

  Reverend Bunting guided the mares around the wide arc of the circular drive and brought the buggy to a stop before a limestone walkway. An elderly Negro man—dressed in a dark suit with shoes shined to a high polish, his shaved head bearing a similar sheen—stood waiting.

  He bowed at the waist. “Welcome, Reverend Bunting, sir. Mrs. Bunting . . . an honor to see you again, ma’am.” He spoke with distinction, every syllable perfect.

  “Good afternoon, Eli.” The re
verend set the brake, then helped his wife down from the other side of the buggy. “We have an appointment with Mrs. Acklen at half past four.”

  “Yes, sir, Reverend. Lady Acklen’s waiting for you all inside.” He assisted Claire as she stepped down.

  His hand dwarfed hers, and she noticed his fingers—thick, work worn, as ancient as his voice. Yet his grip remained oak tree strong.

  “Afternoon, ma’am.” He gave Claire a smile that demanded one in return. “I’m Mr. Eli.” He dipped his head. “Welcome to Belmont.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Eli.” Claire offered a brief curtsy, pleased when his smile edged wider. “I’m Miss Claire Elise Laurent.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” A twinkle crept into his dark eyes. “I believe you are.”

  A breath of wind stirred. And as if the mansion had whispered her name, Claire lifted her gaze in answer.

  The first things she noticed—besides the enormity of the residence—were the Corinthian columns that framed the entrance to the home. Next was the mansion’s color. Distance lent it a pinkish hue, but closer inspection revealed the stucco’s true color. A warm reddish-brown, set off perfectly by white trim. Cast-iron balconies dotted the front of the mansion, their black lacelike railing reminiscent of New Orleans and the Old Square she’d so dearly loved.

  Standing at the foot of the stairs, Claire let her focus trail from the base of one of the columns all the way up to the octagonal cupola crowning the mansion. Head tipped back, a tremor skittered through her. Both of anxiety and of possibility. So much rested on the next few moments.