A Lasting Impression (22 page)

Claire finally allowed the hint of a smile, pleased with herself for her small performance—but even more, with the glint of humor in Sutton’s eyes.

“Women,” he said beneath his breath, then looked at Claire, his gaze appraising. “I wouldn’t have thought you capable of such duplicity, Miss Laurent. Seems I underestimated you.” A wry smile tipped one side of his mouth. “I won’t make that mistake again.”

Cordina laughed, and so did Claire, outwardly. But not so much on the inside. Perhaps it was her imagination, but she’d heard a touch of seriousness in Sutton’s tone, and once again she was reminded of how important it was to keep him on her side.

Both as a colleague, and a friend.

By the time she left on her walk, the sun had risen, though a hush still lay over the house. True to Sutton’s word, a well-worn path wound its way through the grass-covered meadows and across the maple-dotted ridge to a creek bed below.

She spent the next hour searching and exploring, enjoying the discovery of wildflowers and foliage in the area and spying glimpses of approaching fall, little clues of color nature had hidden. Having missed taking walks in recent days, she reveled in the canted sunlight through the trees, the blue of sky, and longed for a fresh canvas, paintbrush, and palette with which to capture it all.

As she walked, she thought about the events that had led her to Belmont, and try as she might, she couldn’t see them as anything less than orchestrated.
“Things happen for a reason, Claire.”
She could hear her mother’s voice clearly in her mind. No telling how often her mother had said that to her. Looking back, she wondered if her mother had said it to encourage her, or to convince herself.

The soft, drawn-out coo of a mourning dove drifted toward her from over the hill, and Claire stared up into the cloudless sky. Until leaving New Orleans and arriving in Nashville, she hadn’t realized how heavy she’d felt inside. Not just lonely and alone but weighted down. Which didn’t make sense. How could she feel so empty and yet so weighted down with guilt?

She told herself it wasn’t her fault. She hadn’t wanted to forge those paintings. But she’d done it. And, God forgive her, she would do it again if it meant providing money for her mother’s medicine. If it meant buying a chance that her
maman
might still be alive.

But to think that her mother had lived with that same anvil of shame for so long . . . The guilt her mother had carried became undeniably clear the day before she’d passed.

Claire sank down onto a flat lichen-covered rock and drew her legs up against her chest, still able to see her mother lying in the bed so clearly.

“Water,”
her mother had whispered, and Claire felt a flush of emotion as the folds of memory loosened and smoothed, offering up recollections of those final hours like jewels on a blanket. Claire had filled the cup and held it to her lips. But her mother shook her head. So Claire dipped a fresh cloth in the cool liquid and sponged her fevered forehead and face. But again, her mother objected, tears coming. It broke Claire’s heart to see her cry. Her mother never cried. And when Claire held the water to her mouth again, her mother had whispered something she hadn’t understood. . . .

“Pour it over me,”
she’d begged, and Claire had stared down, not understanding, believing the laudanum had addled her mother’s reasoning. But her mother had known what she was asking, even if Claire hadn’t, at the time. So Claire had done exactly as her mother asked. Cupful by cupful, she’d poured the water over her mother’s frail body until the mattress was soaked and her mother was weeping. But tears of contentment this time, not of frustration.
“Merci beaucoup, l’amour de moi,”
Maman had whispered, a peace easing the traces of pain and illness from her face.

A peace that still eluded Claire, but that she craved with everything in her.

Claire wiped her cheeks and looked around. The meadow was empty, and from where she sat, she could barely see the top of the mansion. She was alone. She recalled how straightforward and honest Sutton’s prayer had been, and wanted to word her request to God just like that, as if He were right beside her. But the words that came to mind seemed forced.

No, more than that. They seemed
coercive.
Like she was trying to bargain with God, convince Him that she was worth His time and attention, when really, deep down, she knew the opposite was true. Because she knew what she was. A fake. A forgery. Not good enough. And it wasn’t the paintings she was thinking of any longer. It was
her.

She sat for a while, wishing away the fear inside, wishing she could feel the sun’s warmth on her heart as she felt it on her face.

By the time she started back, she guessed it had to be approaching nine o’clock. She’d thought of other ideas for William’s party on her walk, but none seemed worthy of presenting to Adelicia Acklen. But the idea would come. It had to.

As she neared the mansion, she was tempted to take a brief detour to explore the building Sutton lived in, the one housing the art gallery. But work came first.

A carriage pulled up to the front of the mansion, and she slowed her steps. She didn’t think the carriage belonged to Mrs. Acklen but couldn’t be sure. The woman had several. When two gentlemen climbed out and young Pauline and Claude ran down the steps to greet them, Claire decided to find a door leading in through the back. She didn’t want to chance interrupting a meeting between Mrs. Acklen and her guests.

Behind the mansion, rolling hills and meadows extended as far as she could see. Off to the side, between the manor and the stable and carriage house sat five brick cottages, identical to one another, all lined up in a neat row, clustered alongside a bank of unwieldy pines. She assumed the servants lived in them and couldn’t help noting the contrast between those structures and others she’d seen made of rotting plank wood and timber. It made her feel better about Mrs. Acklen, in a way. And still . . .

Brick or timber, it didn’t change what the people who lived inside those structures were. Or had been. From what she’d seen since coming to Nashville, the war might have abolished slavery, but it hadn’t eliminated the scar. Or even started to close the wound.

Continuing on around, she spotted a Negro boy crouched beneath a tree some distance away, nine or ten years old, judging from his size. He dug in the dirt with something. A broken stick, perhaps. Suddenly he stilled, bent low, and reached into the hole he’d made. He felt around and pulled something out.

He held the object up close, blew against it, eyed it again, then grinned and stuffed it in his pants pocket, and started digging all over again. Claire watched, amused. Whatever he’d found and whatever he continued to search for, it had him spellbound, the little scavenger.

She saw a door on the back of the mansion and tried it. Locked. She knocked. No answer. She tried a second door. Locked as well. She knocked on it too, but again, nobody answered.

She turned back to the boy, certain he would know how to get inside. He didn’t hear her approach.

“Excuse me, but—”

The boy jumped up to his full height, his eyes wide as saucers. “Lawdy, ma’am, you done scare’t me good.”

Claire tried not to laugh. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

He started giggling, which tickled her even more, because when he laughed, his ears wiggled. Actually
wiggled.
She couldn’t keep from laughing now.

“You the Lady’s new helper, ma’am?”

“I am. At least for now.” Claire extended her hand. “My name is Claire Laurent.”

He looked at her hand good and long before giving it a quick shake. “I’m Ezekiel. But I go by Zeke.” His attention drifted upward. “That’s some right pretty hair you got, ma’am. My aunt done told me about it.”

“Thank you,
Zeke.
” She gave a little curtsy. “And who is your aunt?”

“Aunt Cordina. She runs the kitchen for the Lady.” He gestured toward the mansion. “She and Uncle Eli been with the Lady long ’fore I was born.”

Cordina? And Eli?
“Your Aunt Cordina and Uncle Eli are married?”

He grinned again. “Yes’um. They ain’t never had no kids, though.” He shrugged his shoulders. “So they do their dotin’ on me and my brothers and sisters.”

“May I ask you something, Zeke?”

“Yes’um.”

“What were you digging for when I walked up?”

He smiled and reached into his pocket. “I’s lookin’ for bullet shells this mornin’. But I found me a nickel too.” He held up the coin, proud as could be. “I dig around some.” He scuffed the toe of his shoe in the dirt. “I just like findin’ things, I guess.”

“Well, how would you like to find something for me?”

“What you lookin’ for, ma’am?”

“A way back into this house without having to go all the way around front.”

Those ears of his wriggled, and just as she’d thought, he knew precisely which door was unlocked.

Zeke led her through the maze of rooms comprising the basement of the home. She’d had no idea how massive the space was from her brief visit to the kitchen, and how much storage it boasted. Shelves of food and supplies lined the plaster walls. Yet she hadn’t seen crops or fields anywhere on her walk. She asked Zeke about it.

“Yes, ma’am. We got us a farm. Over back behind the fancy flower house.”

Behind the conservatory,
Claire thought, nodding.

“We grow us all sort of things over there. Watch your head, Miss Laurent. It’s kinda low through here.”

Claire ducked through a doorway.

“The Lady, she gots her own plantations too. In Louisiana. They grow cotton, mostly. But I ain’t never seen those places.”

Mrs. Acklen had cotton plantations in Louisiana? In addition to all of this? The sources of Mrs. Acklen’s wealth were becoming clearer by the minute. She wished she could ask Zeke a few more questions, but he’d led her into the kitchen, where she and Sutton had eaten that morning. The space was bustling with activity, and the aroma of baking bread made her mouth water.

Women cooking at the stoves and stirring bowls at counters turned and looked. Claire smiled, noting that Cordina wasn’t among them.

Zeke sidled up to one of the smaller women. “This here’s my mama, Maria. She cooks for the Lady and her family.” He said it proudly, hugging his mother’s waist.

Claire curtsied, remembering having seen the woman serving dinner. “Maria, it’s nice to meet you. You have a delightful son.”

“Thank you, Miss Laurent,” Maria said in a soft voice, cradling her son’s head.

Claire didn’t wonder how Maria already knew her name. News traveled fast at Belmont.

“And this here”—Zeke pointed, continuing on down the line—“is Rena and Harriet and Ive and MaryAnn. They work down here in the kitchen too, but sometimes upstairs with Mrs. Routh.”

Claire nodded a greeting.

“This here’s Amanda. She’s a cook too. And Miss Betsy, over there”—Zeke motioned to an older woman seated at a table, a set of silver service and oilcloths spread out before her—“she’s Amanda’s and Ive’s and Harriet’s mama. She’s been with the Lady longest of anybody, exceptin’ Eli.”

“It’s nice to meet all of you,” Claire said, noting the familial relationships and wondering how many servants worked at Belmont. She asked Zeke that as they started up the stairs leading to the mansion.

“There be eleven of us, I think. Not countin’ the gardeners and workers the Lady hires.”

The soft pitter-pat of footsteps sounded from above, and Eva met them on the stairs, a bundle of clothing in her arms. She dipped her head politely in Claire’s direction, then turned a glare on Zeke. “Eli’s been askin’ for you, boy! The Lady’s got guests, and their horses need waterin’. You best get yourself upstairs right now, or you’re gonna get what for from Eli—
and
your mama once I tell her!”

Zeke bolted, throwing a hasty “Good-bye” over his shoulder as he raced up the stairs.

“That boy . . .” Eva shook her head, but Claire detected a smile in her voice, as though she enjoyed bossing him around. At least a little.

Claire eyed the laundry. “Are you the one responsible for cleaning my dress, Eva? The one that was splattered with mud?”

Question lit the girl’s expression. “Yes, ma’am. Was everything all right?”

“Oh yes! More than all right. I just wondered who to thank, that’s all.”

Eva smiled. “I help with the laundry, mostly. But my mama’s Mrs. Acklen’s personal maid. I’m trainin’ to take her place.”

“Well, you do a very fine job, Eva. Thank you.”

Eva continued down the stairs, a spring in her step, and Claire continued up, hoping Mrs. Acklen hadn’t been looking for her. She’d been gone longer than she’d planned. Almost to her room, she thought of Zeke again and the way his ears wiggled when he smiled. And something he’d said returned to her.

“I just like findin’ things, I guess.”

She paused in the hallway leading to her bedroom. That was it! The idea she’d been searching for! She raced to her room, eager to capture on paper the perfect theme for William’s party, all while beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, God was listening to her after all.

18

K
nowing dinner with the Worthingtons was long over, Sutton reined Truxton in by the stables as the sun made its final descent in a haze of dusky orange. He dismounted, frustrated at being so late but even more so by the summons from the St. Francisville, Louisiana, attorney that had been delivered to the law offices that afternoon.

For over two years the lawsuit had been dragging on, and he was beginning to wonder whether the whole cotton debacle would ever be resolved. He rued the day they’d ever involved Mr. Alexander Walker. But one thing he knew for certain—Adelicia was not going to be pleased.

He led Truxton into the stable, welcoming the brief walk to the house in order to gather his thoughts.

“Evenin’, Mr. Monroe.”

Sutton looked up. “Good evening, Zeke. How are you tonight?”

“I’m good, sir. You comin’ in awful late.”