A Lasting Impression Page 9

  “Shall we?” the reverend asked.

  Claire turned to find him and Mrs. Bunting waiting.

  She followed them up the stairs to the ornate front entrance, mindful of the full hoop skirt and concentrating to keep from tripping on the decorative hem. Though she tried to buoy her hopes, she knew chances were good she wouldn’t be invited back, so she attempted to memorize every detail about the mansion that she could.

  Panels of etched, rose-colored Venetian glass accented the front door as well as the transoms above. Even the side panel doors framing the main entry boasted colored-glass panes of green, red, and purple. On either side of the walkway, stone lions guarded enormous cast-iron urns overflowing with blooms of purple and yellow and white, their sweet scent heady.

  Claire drank in every detail. Exquisite. Every place the eye lit, beauty dwelled.

  She glanced behind her at the opulence of the gardens—the statues, the fountains—and though she knew it was foolish, she couldn’t shake the niggling feeling she’d been there before. Then she realized what it was she was feeling. This sense of déjà vu . . .

  In many ways, the Belmont estate was a miniature American Versailles.

  The front door opened, and an older woman greeted them and bid them entrance. Her wardrobe resembled that of a well-dressed housekeeper, and though she was handsome and might even have been considered beautiful in younger years, Claire knew instantly—as one knows better than to grasp a rose stem too tightly—that this woman was not to be trifled with.

  “Good afternoon, Reverend. Mrs. Bunting.” The woman closed the door behind them and peered at Claire over dark spectacles resting midway down an elegantly slender nose. “Miss Laurent.” It wasn’t a question. “I’m Mrs. Routh, the head housekeeper at Belmont.”

  Claire curtsied, afraid for a moment she’d forgotten how. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Routh.”

  The head housekeeper’s stoic expression said she doubted that was true.

  Reverend Bunting stepped forward. “Mrs. Routh, I would consider it an honor to introduce Miss Laurent to Mrs. Acklen, if it would—”

  “None of the other applicants has required a personal introduction, Reverend.” Mrs. Routh’s tone teetered between pleasant and patronizing. “I’m certain Miss Laurent is capable of presenting herself in this situation. If not,” —she gave Claire an appraising look—“then perhaps we should reconsider the judiciousness of her appointment altogether.”

  Claire stared between them, waiting. Mrs. Bunting did the same.

  Finally the reverend laughed softly, seeming unbothered. “Of course, Mrs. Routh. You’re right. Miss Laurent is most capable of conducting herself with every manner of grace and decorum.”

  “Very well, then.” Mrs. Routh gestured to her right. “Would you and your wife care to reside in the tête-à-tête room until Miss Laurent completes her interview? We’d be pleased to serve you croissants and café au lait while you wait. Mrs. Acklen brought the recipes back with her from the family’s recent grand tour of Europe. The refreshments have swiftly become favorites of the Acklens, as I’m sure they will the city of Nashville once Mrs. Acklen introduces them at her next ball.”

  “How generous of you, Mrs. Routh.” Reverend Bunting’s patient expression never wavered. “Yes, we’d be pleased to accept your invitation. And the refreshments sound delightful.” Thanking Mrs. Routh again, he indicated for his wife to precede him into the tête-à-tête room, which Mrs. Bunting did, after smuggling Claire a last fleeting glance that said “good luck.”

  And that’s when Claire saw the statue on a pedestal before the fireplace. She hadn’t noticed it before because the Buntings had been blocking her view. Her eyes watered with emotion as all else around her faded.

  She was in the same room with a Randolph Rogers masterpiece. And not only a masterpiece, but his tour de force.

  She had seen this sculpture in print form before but never dreamed she would ever see it in person. She stepped closer. The smooth lines of the woman’s perfectly sculpted marble face, her expression poignant, so full of adoration and love. And the way Rogers had carved the woman kneeling, looking upward, her gaze beseeching, oblivious to her robe having slipped from her slender shoulder to reveal a rather shapely right breast.

  Which—enamored though Claire was with the statue and its sculptor—made her question the statue’s placement in the middle of the front entrance hall. Quite bold a choice of venue. But question of placement aside, Ruth Gleaning was Randolph Rogers’s first work and, in a widely held view, his greatest. She instinctively reached out to touch Ruth’s delicately extended right hand.

  “Miss Laurent!”

  Flinching, Claire jerked her hand back, feeling oddly off balance. And completely out of line.

  Judging by the level-eyed stare Mrs. Routh aimed in her direction, Claire guessed the head housekeeper agreed. She also had a feeling the woman had asked her a question. One she hadn’t heard. “Yes, ma’am?” She curtsied again, in apology, then read further disapproval in Mrs. Routh’s eyes and wished she could take the curtsy back. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I—”

  “My name is Mrs. Routh, in the event you’ve already forgotten, Miss Laurent.”

  “No, ma’am, I . . .” Claire shook her head. “No, Mrs. Routh, I haven’t forgotten. I was simply taken aback by this sculpture. It’s so beautiful, and I’ve long admired—”

  “Belmont is an exquisite estate, Miss Laurent.” The woman’s left eyebrow arched in a way that looked painful. “And Mrs. Adelicia Acklen is a highly cultured woman of great wealth who possesses an unsurpassed eye for only the finest of art. You will do well to remember that.”

  Claire opened her mouth to respond.

  “And to appreciate the art in this home for whatever length of time you are privileged to be in it.” Mrs. Routh’s gaze swept her up and down. “Which, if my guess proves correct, will likely be most brief.”

  Claire wanted so badly to say something in her own defense but knew it would only drive the wedge further between her and this woman. So she kept her mouth shut and her features schooled as best she could. Yet she couldn’t help envying the woman’s ability to speak her mind so thoroughly, without a hint of hesitation. How many times had she wanted to do that with her father? But never had . . .

  Mrs. Routh took a step closer. “Have I made myself perfectly clear, Miss Laurent?”

  Resisting the urge to blink, Claire met her gaze straight on. “Quite, Mrs. Routh. You express yourself with great clarity and directness.”

  “Acquired traits that would serve you well, Miss Laurent.”

  Claire might have taken offense at the counsel—had it not been true.

  “You will wait here, please.” Mrs. Routh turned. “I’ll let Mrs. Acklen know you’ve arrived.”

  Mrs. Routh strode through the doorway to the left of the marble fireplace, the rich red-and-gold floral carpet muting her already quiet steps. Even on the black-and-white-tile-painted floor beyond, Mrs. Routh’s boots barely made a sound. And Claire imagined many an under housekeeper at Belmont experiencing moments of utter terror when sensing a presence behind them only to turn and find Mrs. Routh peering down, her dark spectacles resting at half-mast.

  Alone in the entrance hall, Claire took sum of her surroundings and her feelings of inadequacy multiplied a hundredfold. To her right a portrait hung on the wall of a strikingly handsome man dressed in a dark suit and trousers and with what was, she guessed, the Acklen tartan. The late Mr. Acklen, she assumed, had apparently been of Scottish descent. She wondered how long ago he had passed away. The Buntings hadn’t said.

  On her left hung another portrait, larger, almost life-size. A woman holding hands with a little girl. Mrs. Adelicia Franklin Acklen, mistress of Belmont, she felt certain. The woman was elegant, beautiful with her delicate cheekbones, the wide-set eyes and porcelain skin.

  But there was something about her air, in the slight tilt of her chin and the focused intensity of her gaze,
qualities the artist had captured with masterful skill, that seemed to deepen her physical beauty. Almost mystified it. Making a person wonder what—or whom—had occupied Mrs. Acklen’s thoughts while the artist’s brush captured her likeness.

  Claire looked more closely at the woman in the portrait and searched her eyes. Something lingered within them, a knowledge, perhaps. Or a question. She couldn’t be sure. Artists were often much kinder to their painted subjects than nature and time had been, and she wondered . . . Was Mrs. Acklen as fair of face, and as striking and confident as the artist had portrayed her?

  Exhaling the air kept too long in her lungs, Claire looked about the entrance hall, knowing she would soon find out.

  Every inch of her view, from floor to ceiling, seeped wealth and privilege. From lavish draperies and richly patterned wallpaper, to the flowered English Wilton wall-to-wall carpet, to the marble fireplace, to the carved moldings framing a magnificent bronze chandelier, illuminated by gas, from the looks of it.

  And the plethora of oil paintings . . .

  Claire peered down the hallway where Mrs. Routh had disappeared, found it empty, and took two cautious steps toward a side room containing well-appointed bookcases. The library . . . She peeked inside, and felt her pulse edge up a notch.

  Two landscapes adorned the wall above the desk, painted with such realism she felt she could almost step right into them. Breathtaking in color, the paintings depicted lush Italian countrysides with vineyards ready for harvest. She chanced another step closer to gain a better look and spotted a statue in the corner.

  She couldn’t contain her smile.

  Though not as large as Ruth, the piece also was one she recognized. Rebecca at the Well. It was a C.B. Ives, she was almost certain. A shudder of excitement whisked through her. Belmont Mansion wasn’t merely a home. It was an art gallery.

  Giddy with excitement, she wondered what other treasures were tucked away in this—

  Footsteps sounded in the hall.

  Heart in her throat, Claire bolted back to the spot where she’d been standing, slightly out of breath and certain whoever was coming would hear the thud of her pulse.

  A young girl entered through the opposite doorway through which Mrs. Routh had exited. Her skin was the loveliest tawny brown and her lithe shape dallied on the cusp of womanhood. Spotting Claire, she stilled. “Good afternoon, ma’am.” Her voice was feather soft, her drawl its only weight. “May I be of assistance?”

  Claire smiled at the girl’s question. She was well spoken for one so young. “I have an interview with Mrs. Acklen. Mrs. Routh requested that I wait here until she returns. My name is Claire Laurent.”

  The girl ducked her head. “Mine’s Eva. Eva Snowden.” Eva’s gaze lifted decidedly from Claire’s, a measure of formality having left her voice. “You got mighty pretty hair, ma’am,” she whispered, glancing behind her before continuing. “How do you get it to do that?”

  Claire touched her hair, wondering what it was doing and whether she had time to fix it before Mrs. Routh returned. She glanced at herself in the gilded mirror above the fireplace, and frowned. “I’m not sure what you mean.” Her hair looked like it usually did. Except maybe nicer, with Mrs. Bunting’s touches.

  Eva peered to one side. “How you get it to curl that way? And stay?”

  “Oh . . . that.” Claire smiled. “It curls naturally. But it isn’t nearly as pretty when it rains.”

  Eva nodded, as though imagining the results in her mind. “Goes all wild? Like a soured mop?”

  Claire blinked, unsure how to respond . . . and having no time to.

  Mrs. Routh strode through the doorway. She stopped abruptly by the statue of Ruth, and peered down. “Eva?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Routh?” The young girl’s voice heightened with respect.

  “What is this?”

  Claire looked at the carpet where Mrs. Routh pointed, then back to Eva, who was already closing the distance.

  Eva knelt and picked up a single piece of straw. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Routh. I guess we missed that one, ma’am.”

  “Yes, that would seem to be the case.” Mrs. Routh’s mouth thinned, her patience apparently having done the same. “One would think you would have had ample time to have cleaned up the mess by now. After all, the statue was delivered last night.”

  Claire saw the hurt on Eva’s face and felt for the girl—until Mrs. Routh’s comment registered. “Delivered last night . . .”

  Claire looked from Mrs. Routh to the statue again, her thoughts spinning as memory pulled her back to the train station yesterday. And to the crate. And to the man helping unload it. Her eyes narrowed. What were the chances that Ruth Gleaning was the—

  No . . . It couldn’t be. And yet . . .

  Monroe had said something to the workers about helping them unload the crate later that evening. And about the statue within being carved by an American sculptor. And Randolph Rogers was an American sculptor.

  The scale of possibility tipped with a jarring clang—and not in Claire’s favor.

  Sutton Monroe knew she was guilty of unlawfully entering a church building and then spending the night curled up on one of its pews like some common vagrant. Earlier that day, she’d wanted to thank him. Now all she could do was pray he had no connection whatsoever with Belmont, or Mrs. Adelicia Acklen.

  Because if he did, she had the feeling he wouldn’t be nearly as trusting as Reverend and Mrs. Bunting, who were helping her largely—she knew—because of that silent nudge the reverend had felt to leave the door to the storeroom open.

  A door that had also opened this one, and which Sutton Monroe could slam shut with a single word. Which would mean that her interview for the position of liaison was over before it had even begun.

  10

  Come with me, please, Miss Laurent. Mrs. Acklen is waiting.”

  Claire blinked, heart in her throat. “Y-yes, Mrs. Routh. Of course.” Managing a halfhearted smile in Eva’s direction, she followed, stealing a last look at the statue and hoping her suspicions about Sutton Monroe were unfounded.

  “Today would be preferable, Miss Laurent.”

  Turning back, Claire discovered Mrs. Routh already a good six strides in front of her. She hastened her step, her heels clicking on the black-and-white-tile-painted wooden floor.

  They passed a cantilevered staircase that rose from the grand salon opening before them. The spacious room’s vaulted barrel ceiling and double colonnade of Corinthian columns were a work of art in themselves. A mural painted in pastel tones covered the expanse of the ceiling, giving the room a larger, more open feel. Mrs. Routh turned to the left and Claire did likewise, but not before chancing a quick look behind her.

  Plush red carpeting—that her boots would likely never touch—accented the mahogany stairs. Halfway up, the staircase divided and spiraled to the left and right before continuing to the second floor. So elegant . . .

  Working to keep pace with Mrs. Routh, Claire imagined what it would be like to attend a party at Belmont. To descend those stairs to the swell of stringed music and the lilting conversation of guests, bronze chandeliers flickering with gas flames, china and crystal—

  Mrs. Routh stopped abruptly by a set of glass-paneled double doors, and Claire nearly ran into her backside. She took a quick backward step to compensate, but Mrs. Routh’s heavily lidded gaze communicated plenty.

  Mrs. Routh rapped softly on the glass pane, then turned the knob and indicated for Claire to precede her.

  The instant Claire saw Mrs. Adelicia Acklen—seated on a curved settee in the center of the room—she knew that the artist who had painted the portrait of Belmont’s mistress in the entrance hall had not exaggerated his subject in the least. Mrs. Acklen was stunning.

  Though some years older than the woman depicted in the portrait in the entrance hall, she still embraced the qualities of a rare dark-haired beauty. Her complexion was flawless with a hint of summer rose in her cheeks, and she possessed an old soul’s gaze that an ar
tist’s brush begged to immortalize.

  Even seated, Adelicia Acklen had a commanding presence. Unmistakably feminine yet undeniably formidable. And every one of Claire’s doubts dug in their talons and drew fresh blood.

  With a sweeping wave of her arm, Mrs. Routh inclined her head. “May I present Mrs. Adelicia Acklen. Mrs. Acklen, this is Miss Claire Laurent, here for her interview.”

  Claire curtsied, feeling like a pauper in the presence of royalty. “It’s an honor to meet you, Mrs. Acklen.” She lifted her gaze. “And to be in your home.”

  Mrs. Acklen gave a measured nod worthy of a queen. “My appreciation, Miss Laurent.” Her gaze shifted. “Mrs. Routh, would you see that dinner is served promptly at six o’clock, please? And that the children are present. It seems I’ll be venturing out later this evening, after all.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Dinner at six. I’ll tell the children.”

  “And ask Eva to ready my ivory lace dress, Mrs. Routh. The one with beaded pearls. I desire to dress before dinner.”

  “As you wish, ma’am.”

  Ask Eva to ready her dress . . . Was the young girl Mrs. Acklen’s personal maid, perhaps? Claire heard the latch of the door click into place behind her and noticed a second door, also closed, off to her left. She looked back at Mrs. Acklen, wishing she knew more about proper etiquette in such situations. Especially with someone of such vast wealth.

  But common sense alone told her to wait for Mrs. Acklen’s invitation before drawing closer.

  With the slightest movement of her hand, Mrs. Acklen gestured her forward, then glanced at the companion settee directly opposite her own. Claire swiftly took a seat where indicated and smoothed her skirt—or Mrs. Bunting’s skirt—all while attempting to emulate Mrs. Acklen’s impossibly perfect posture.

  A whiff of cinnamon and cloves wafted toward her, so homey and comforting a scent for such grandiose surroundings. Claire was tempted to take inventory of the room—the furnishings, the statue she could see from the corner of her eye even now, as well as the paintings adorning every wall—but she didn’t dare. Not with Mrs. Acklen staring so intently.