A Lasting Impression (62 page)

Already, the newspapers had grabbed the story, and of course, since Claire was Adelicia Acklen’s personal liaison, the articles had both captured the front page. The stories were factual, for the most part, and were rife with the terms
counterfeit
and
fake.

Claire bowed her head, finished with her part. But Adelicia still stared. Sutton wished she’d say something. The silence felt piercing and double-edged, even to him.

He and Claire had spoken at length about what she’d done but not at all about them. He loved her. He couldn’t deny it and didn’t want to. In that regard, nothing had changed. Inwardly, anyway. Yet they needed time to work through everything.

But one thing he was certain of—the Claire Laurent he’d grown to love was not the same person who had painted those forgeries. She’d given him a letter containing her thoughts after she’d heard
the question
so clearly in her mind, though
letter
wasn’t quite the word for what she’d given him. It was really more of an outpouring of her heart onto the page, an outpouring that gave him deeper insight into her as a person, and an intimate look into her heart. And he treasured both.

As much as he’d thirsted for vengeance in his own situation, he ached for mercy now in Claire’s. Justice wasn’t as cut-and-dried as he’d once thought, and undeserved mercy held far greater appeal than ever before.

Adelicia drew in a breath and slowly exhaled. “Miss Laurent . . .”

Claire lifted her head.

“When I hired you as my personal liaison, I entrusted you not only with my personal and business affairs, but with my children, my family, my servants, my home, and my reputation. You ate at my table, you slept in my house, you sat beside me in church. Did I, or did I not, tell you that you would become an extension of me? That when people saw you, they would see me. That everything you did would reflect upon me. Does any of that sound familiar to you, Miss Laurent?”

Sutton knew Adelicia was within her right to speak in such a way to Claire, but a part of him still flinched, wanting to protect Claire. Wanting to defend her.

“Yes, Mrs. Acklen,” Claire said, her voice soft, laden with respect. “You did, ma’am. And I tarnished that image. I’m deeply sorry.”

Adelicia rested her hands on the desk, the feminine gesture oddly paired with the steel of her manner. “One thing I have learned in my life is that there are no private mistakes for people who live in the public sphere. Everything we do is subject to criticism. One must learn to live above all that, Miss Laurent . . . even when it cuts so deeply you think the wound will not heal.”

Sutton detected the slightest waver in Adelicia’s voice at the end, though her countenance denied it.

“It
will
heal, Miss Laurent. God himself will soothe the balm over the hurt, if you let Him. You will recover and move on. And you will be stronger for the scar.”

Sutton knew that people—some of them Adelicia’s peers—were reveling in this embarrassing situation for her. He also knew that, somehow, Adelicia would use it and harness it for the betterment of herself and her estate, just as she always seemed to do.

“And something you should remember for the future, Miss Laurent,” Adelicia continued, her tone instructive. “Let no one define how you see yourself . . . save God alone. See yourself through His eyes and His strength, and you’ll see who you
can
be despite being who you are.” A dark brow rose. “But see yourself through your own eyes, and you’ll be left to question, and to doubt, subject to the whims and wishes of others who
will not
have your best at heart. As experience has taught you in a rather harsh manner.”

Moments passed, and finally Claire stood. She moved to the side of the desk, and with a grace and humility that caused Sutton to suck in a breath, she curtsied deep, her head bowed low. Adelicia’s chin trembled the slightest bit before Claire rose and wordlessly walked to the door.

Adelicia stood behind the desk. “And just where, may I ask, do you think you’re going, Miss Laurent?”

Claire stopped and looked back, her hand on the doorknob. “My belongings are packed, and”—she gestured to Sutton—“Mr. Monroe has offered to drive me into town. Reverend and Mrs. Bunting have opened a room to me in their home, until the trial is over.”

“That’s going to be most inconvenient for me, Miss Laurent. Because with my being gone to Angola, and you having apparently stayed here to traipse over hill and dale painting the countryside, we have much work to do.”

Claire took in a quick breath. “But . . . I was under the impression that—”

“That I was dismissing you from your duties?”

Claire nodded, eyes watchful.

“Then your impression was
false
, Miss Laurent.” Adelicia said nothing for a moment, and the words hung in the silence, rife with meaning. “Which, I trust, is—and henceforth will be—no longer the case.”

Claire hiccupped a sob, fresh tears coming. Sutton looked between the two women, not just a little surprised, and felt his own chest tighten.

“Th-thank you, Mrs. Acklen. I . . . don’t know how to tell you how much—”

“Yes, yes.” Mrs. Acklen made a dismissive gesture. “You can thank me after I tell you—both of you—that come June the twenty-seventh there’s going to be a wedding reception here at Belmont. Mine and Dr. Cheatham’s.”

Sutton raised his brow, though not surprised at the news. “Best wishes on your engagement, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Mr. Monroe. You and I have a fair amount of work to do before then as well. But for you, Miss Laurent, I’ve already compiled the guest list.” Adelicia smiled her sweetest and handed Claire a notebook. “We’re planning to invite two thousand of our closest friends. Give or take.”

Claire studied the notebook for a moment, then wiped her tears. “It will be my extreme pleasure to plan your reception, Mrs. Acklen. And almost three months away”—she managed a tremulous smile—“whatever shall I do with all that time?”

“I expect a good portion of it will be spent in court. I do hope you have a good attorney, Miss Laurent.”

Claire nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Mr. Holbrook will be representing me.”

Sutton felt Adelicia’s stare. “Actually, Miss Laurent . . . there’s been a change of counsel in your case.”

Claire looked up at him, fragile hope in her eyes.

“Well . . .” Adelicia looked at them both. “It seems your fate is in very capable hands, Miss Laurent.”

“Yes,” Claire whispered. “It is.”

Sutton and Claire were nearly out the door when he heard the all-too-familiar words.

“One more thing, Miss Laurent.” Seated at her desk, Adelicia peered up. “Forgiveness may be an attribute of the strong, but this is one issue upon which I do not wish my strength to be tested again. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly, ma’am.”

Sutton closed the door behind them, not missing the tiniest smile on Adelicia’s face.

Epilogue

Thursday, June 27, 1867
The Belmont Estate

C
laire peered through a front window of the art gallery at the hundreds of clothed tables situated around the gardens, then at the endless array of twinkling lights strung from every tree and shrub and trellis and gazebo. “I hope it doesn’t rain.”

“Rain?” Sutton said behind her. “On the night of Mrs. Adelicia Hayes Franklin Acklen Cheatham’s wedding reception? After you’ve planned everything to perfection? The heavens wouldn’t dare.”

She turned back only to find he wasn’t looking at her. But seeing the focus of his attention warmed her.

He’d hung
An American Versailles
in the art gallery, but the placard beside the framed canvas clearly stated his ownership.

AN AMERICAN VERSAILLES

OIL ON CANVAS, 1867

CLAIRE ELISE LAURENT, ARTIST

ON LOAN TO BELMONT ART GALLERY

BY WILLISTER SUTTON MONROE

Willister
. He’d used his full name just to get a smile from her. And it had worked.

He stood before the canvas and she came alongside him. The past three months had flown by in one sense, yet had crawled by in another. Due in part to the trial, then to planning Dr. and Mrs. Cheatham’s wedding reception, but mostly because of her and Sutton having to find their way with each other again.

It hadn’t been easy. Her failure to be forthcoming had been as much of a disappointment to him as she’d imagined it would be. But she held on to hope that, in time, the affection he’d felt for her—that she still felt for him, more than ever—might return.

He pointed to
An American Versailles,
to a tree she’d painted just beyond the Belmont mansion where a boy knelt in the dirt. “How did you know I was burying those things for Zeke?”

“Because I saw you one night from my bedroom window.”

He laughed. “You little sneak. You hid things for Zeke too . . . while I was gone to Angola.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because when I got back, he showed me everything he’d found that
I
hadn’t hidden. And I never hid silver dollars.”

Claire curbed a grin. “Those could have been there for years.”

“Not likely, Miss Laurent.” He reached for her hand and wove his fingers through hers. “Next time, if you want something to look like it’s been there for years”—he brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it—“try dirtying it up a little before you bury it.” His breath was warm, his lips soft. “And choose coins that weren’t minted last year.”

Claire laughed, but her eyes burned, her focus on their hands. He hadn’t touched her like this since the night of the auction. “Thank you again, Sutton,” she whispered. “For representing me in court.”

He turned her hand palm up in his and traced feather-soft paths across her fingers. “Thank you for being the perfect witness. Your testimony in the fraud case made all the difference.”

Evidence had revealed that the robbery of the gallery in New Orleans had been staged. Whether her father had been in on that part of the plan, she didn’t know. Antoine had taken out insurance on the art—listing himself as primary owner—and had collected nearly twenty thousand dollars from the insurance company. Of course, most of the art had been forged, unbeknownst to the insurance company.

The trials had spanned ten weeks and had held Nashville—and every newspaper east of the Mississippi—spellbound. The juries—in each separate trial—had decided unanimously for the multiple plaintiffs. Antoine DePaul had been tried and found innocent of her father’s murder due to lack of evidence. But he was later convicted on multiple counts of fraud—as was another art dealer from Perrault Galleries—and both men awaited their separate sentence hearings. As did Samuel Broderick
the second
who had been convicted of lesser counts of fraud.

Claire had no trouble imagining Antoine DePaul as the swindler that he was, but she
did
still find it difficult to believe that he might be capable of murder. That he might have killed her father was something she couldn’t fathom, and was a question she guessed would never be answered.

She had testified against Antoine in court, and that was the last time she’d seen him. Or ever cared to again.

Shortly following the trial, Holbrook and Wickliffe had become Holbrook, Wickliffe, and
Monroe
. A surprising turn of events made possible by Sutton’s contribution to the case. The name had a nice sound to it. Though Claire knew it wasn’t what Sutton wanted to do with his life, it was a step, and every step changed the view. Who knew what God would bring next?

The jury for her trial had been generously lenient. Her “punishment” for the next year seemed anything but. Three times a week she held classes at the Worthington Art Center for any child who wanted to learn how to paint. The first day, thirty-six children had shown up.

She’d managed to make “quiet mention” to Mrs. Worthington about Mrs. Monroe’s exemplary drawing skills, and Mrs. Worthington had wasted no time in extending a formal invitation to Eugenia Monroe to teach at the art center as well. Claire knew Mrs. Monroe still preferred Cara Netta LeVert for her son, but she was determined to win her over—

As soon as she’d won Sutton’s heart again.

Sutton pointed to one of the gazebos in the painting. “I didn’t see this at first.”

She knew he wasn’t talking about the gazebo but about the two people who stood inside. The images were faint, only shadows really, and one of them was about to fall out backward, in her mind, anyway.

“They’re like hidden treasures,” he whispered. “All the little facets you’ve put into this painting. Just like the party you planned for William.”

She hadn’t thought of that before.
Hidden treasures.
Like everything God had taught her in recent months.

Following the trial, all of the fraudulent art that had served as evidence had been auctioned off. At her request, Sutton had checked several times but there was no record of her
Versailles.
It was as if it had never existed.

But in a way, that was as it should be, she decided. Because that painting had never been hers. Not really.

God had given the gift and vision of that painting to François-Narcisse Brissaud. Not to her. She had simply taken it. Not only had she stolen from Brissaud, and from the patron who bought the canvas thinking it was authentic, she’d stolen from God, the Giver of all gifts. She’d also robbed herself. Because she’d cheated herself of the blessing of having to listen for God’s inaudible voice, of waiting on His lead to show her what to create with the gift He’d given her.

Her gaze settled on the top portion of the canvas, the part that had taken her the longest to complete. And she recalled every painstaking brushstroke, every morning she’d arisen before dawn to be on that ridge, awaiting the sun’s return, and for those precious fleeting moments she’d had to capture the beauty of the sunrise over the hill where Sutton’s family home had once stood.

But it was the image within the sunrise she loved most, and that was barely visible. Even she had to look to really see it—a throne, high and lifted up, among the clouds.