A Lasting Impression (13 page)

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 artist’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.

Mrs. Acklen gestured toward a silver service on a side table. “Would you care for a cup of tea? It’s a special blend that Cordina, Belmont’s head cook, makes for us every fall.” A knowing smile hinted at indulgence. “I requested it early this year. I don’t know what she puts in it, but it’s delicious.”

Claire opened her mouth to accept when three jarring images flashed through her mind—of breaking the delicate china of her possible future employer, of spilling spiced tea all over Mrs. Bunting’s best ensemble, and of not getting the job. Her mouth went dry at the thought of declining, but she shook her head. “No thank you, ma’am. But thank you for your generosity.”

Inclining her head, Mrs. Acklen sipped from her china cup. “Reverend Bunting obviously thinks most highly of you, Miss Laurent. And since
I
think most highly of Reverend Bunting . . .” She smiled, her gaze observant. “That is why you now find yourself seated in my sitting room this late-afternoon hour on the final day of interviewing for the position of my personal
liaison.
”

Appreciating Mrs. Acklen’s French pronunciation of the word, Claire quickly gathered from whom Mrs. Routh had honed her penchant for being so direct. She also wondered whether the mistress of Belmont might not have an affection for all things French.

If so, that could work to her advantage.

Already, her back was beginning to hurt from sitting so erect, so she squared her shoulders and tried to appear at ease, and as if the future direction of her life didn’t hinge on the outcome of these next few moments. “I’m grateful for the opportunity to interview with you, Mrs. Acklen. Reverend Bunting and his wife have been most kind to me. I think the world of them both.”

She dearly hoped Mrs. Acklen wouldn’t inquire about how long she’d known the Buntings. For the Buntings’ sake, as well as her own.

With a queenly nod, Mrs. Acklen returned her cup to its saucer with a soft
tink
and set it aside
.
She arranged her hands demurely in her lap, as though preparing to sit for a portrait, then reached up and touched the pendant on the front of her dress.

Only then did Claire realize she was staring at it. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Acklen.” She gave a nervous smile. “It’s just so beautiful. And distinctive.”

“It’s a hunting horn and a hound’s head.” She fingered it delicately. “A gift from Emperor Napoleon and Empress Eugenie at
Les Tuileries
, following our fox hunt.”

Claire blinked. France was
her
birthplace, and yet this woman went fox hunting with the emperor and empress? She felt more insignificant by the second. “It’s lovely.”

“
Merci beaucoup,
mademoiselle.
” Mrs. Acklen smiled, eyeing her with deeper interest. “Perchance, have you been to that lovely country?”

“
Oui,
madame,
” Claire said softly, not nearly so eager to reveal her heritage now that she knew the extent of Mrs. Acklen’s social connections. “I am originally from Paris. But I grew up here in America.”

Mrs. Acklen nodded. “You’re not the first French girl to interview for this position.” She smoothed the sides of her upswept hair. “There have been several, as you might imagine.”

“Oh yes. I’m sure.” Claire felt a sinking inside as a much-needed advantage slipped away.

Mrs. Acklen resumed her poised position. “Now, let us turn to the business at hand, shall we? May I see your résumé, Miss Laurent?”

Claire summoned her readied response. “Actually, I didn’t bring a résumé, ma’am. I learned about the position only this morning, so I didn’t have time to prepare one. However, with your permission, I’m prepared to tell you about myself and why I believe I would perform quite well in this very important position.”

Claire smiled, hoping it would bridge the gap between expectation and reality. But her smile went unreciprocated.

Mrs. Acklen raised a forefinger, not even a whole hand. But that tiniest of gestures carried a weight of displeasure. “Allow me to clarify my understanding of your situation, Miss Laurent.”

Claire waited, finding the stiff cordiality of the woman’s tone less than reassuring.

“Between the moment you learned of the position this morning and”—Mrs. Acklen briefly looked past her—“a quarter before five o’clock in the evening, you could neither find the time, nor pen and paper, I presume, to list your experiences and talents. To briefly define your individual, God-given characteristics that would aid in convincing me that you are indeed the right young woman to serve in this
very important position.
Is that the understanding I am to form from what you have relayed to me thus far?”

Claire’s cheeks burned as though she’d been slapped. Every intelligible thought vanished.

She broke out in a cold sweat, which only deepened her concern about the borrowed ensemble. She
had
to focus. She had to think of something to say. “I could have listed all of that on a piece of paper, yes, ma’am. But it wouldn’t have been a
formal
résumé, which I knew someone in your position would expect.”

“So instead of bringing less than what was expected, Miss Laurent”—Mrs. Acklen’s old-soul eyes held hers without mercy—“you brought nothing?”

Wordless with embarrassment, Claire felt a coolness on her tongue and realized her mouth was hanging open. She promptly closed it. She tried to take a deep breath, but her rigid posture—and the corset she’d tied extra snug in the hope of appearing more fashionable—prevented it. The image of seeing herself fainted dead away on Mrs. Acklen’s pristine floral carpet spurred her on. “If you will allow me to give account of my knowledge and skills, I believe they will prove to be more than adequate.”
More than adequate!
She barely masked her grimace. That’s not what she’d planned to say! “What I meant was . . . if you will allow me to expound on my strengths, I’m—”

Irritation clouded Mrs. Acklen’s features, and Claire hastened to regain lost ground.

“I’m thoroughly experienced in bookkeeping and am very detail-oriented by nature. I’ve organized a library.” She forced a smile, which died a quick, pathetic little death. And with good reason. She
had,
in fact, organized a library. Her family’s, which had consisted of thirty-eight sad little volumes and a ponderously large dictionary. She’d been only five at the time, so the feat—completed on her own initiative—had seemed quite an accomplishment.

Before viewing it through Adelicia Acklen’s eyes.

Claire licked her dry lips, then wondered if that was poor etiquette. “I’m fluent in French, and have been told that I’m quite gifted in communicating. Although . . .” Her self-deprecating laugh came out more like a high-pitched squeak. “I’m certain it doesn’t appear that way at the moment. Lastly, I also possess excellent handwriting. I’d be happy to demonstrate, if you’d like.”

Interpreting Mrs. Acklen’s lack of response as a clear
no
, Claire waited, wondering if she should continue or simply excuse herself and flee the mansion without a backward glance.

Silence thundered in her ears, and it was all she could do not to give in to the stranglehold of emotion tightening her chest.

Following an excruciating pause, Mrs. Acklen reached for her teacup. She took a sip and set the cup down again, then drew an unhurried breath and exhaled. “Miss Laurent . . . am I to understand by your lack of provision up to this point that you also came to this interview without the requested recommendations?”

Through sheer willpower alone, Claire maintained the woman’s gaze. What had she been thinking, coming here? But that was just it. She hadn’t known where
here
was. Nor had she known how demanding a woman Adelicia Acklen would be. “No, Mrs. Acklen. I’m sorry. I did not bring recommendations with me. I’ve only recently arrived to Nashville, so I haven’t had the opportunity to—”

To what?
Everything she thought of to say felt like a flimsy excuse. Either that, or a partial lie. And worse, she sensed Mrs. Acklen knew it too.

The silence grew thicker, and Claire felt the hot prick of tears as her hopes for this interview, and what it could have meant for her, came to a crashing halt. But she would not cry—she bit the inside of her cheek—not in front of this woman who had probably never shed a tear in her privileged, wealthy life.

Staring at her hands twisted tight in her lap, Claire thought of the man’s portrait in the entrance hall, and knew she wasn’t being fair. Yet, look at all this woman had. How could someone like her understand what Claire was feeling?

The hollow
ticktock
of a clock somewhere in the room marked off the seconds.

This wasn’t the way she’d thought her life would turn out. She couldn’t exactly pinpoint, in that moment, what she’d dreamed it would be. She only knew this wasn’t it. Three months into her nineteenth year, and she had no family, no home, no means of provision. Everything she owned was in her satchel at the Buntings’ home. She didn’t even have a place to sleep tonight. And she could encroach upon the Buntings’ kindness for only so long.

Feeling Mrs. Acklen’s intense stare, she sensed the woman was waiting for an explanation as to why her valuable time had been wasted. And rightly so. No matter how curt Mrs. Acklen had been with her, Claire knew she’d wasted
both
of their time.

Apology was on the tip of her tongue when she spotted a magazine peeking from beneath a cushion on the settee where Mrs. Acklen sat. Recognizing the cover, she felt a twinge of tenderness.

Godey’s Lady’s Book.

The monthly publication had been a favorite of Maman’s and hers for years. They’d read it together and had traveled the globe through the magazine’s collections of stories and poems. They’d delighted in learning about fashion and culture from around the world. Seeing the magazine—and learning that a woman like Adelicia Acklen read it too—brought both a warmth, and a renewed yearning for her mother.

Despite the shambles of her interview, Claire knew she was qualified to be Mrs. Acklen’s liaison
.
And something inside her whispered that this wasn’t an accident, her being here, her having overheard those women in church earlier that morning. If only Mrs. Acklen knew what she’d been through to get to this moment, and how much the opportunity meant to her. How much she needed the job, the opportunity to start over again.

And what better place to pursue her own art than Belmont? She would be surrounded by timeless works of beauty that could—and
would,
she felt it in her bones—inspire her to create something truly worthy. Another painting like her rendition of
Jardins de Versailles,
perhaps. Or better.