A Lasting Impression (17 page)

She was just thankful it wasn’t Mrs. Routh. The head housekeeper scared her almost as much as Mrs. Acklen did.

“You got yourself some tiny little feet there, Miss Laurent.”

Claire managed a smile, liking the way the woman pronounced her last name—
Lowrent
—with a rich drawl that somehow drew the name into three syllables. Papa would have corrected the woman’s enunciation immediately. Which, oddly, made Claire determine never to do so.

Certain that the bristles from the boot brushes were about to poke through to the bottoms of her feet, Claire checked the soles of her shoes again.

“Looks like you done got it all this time, Miss Laurent.” The woman grinned. “We could just ’bout eat offa’ them now, I reckon. Now get your bag there, missy, and come on in outta the wet.”

Claire retrieved her satchel, catching a last glimpse of Reverend Bunting’s buggy as he guided the team up the lane. She appreciated his and Mrs. Bunting’s kind offer of lodgings last night. Though she’d scarcely slept a wink.

Stepping across the threshold of the mansion, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was stepping into an animal’s lair—of her own disastrous making. The opulent beauty of the mansion hadn’t changed overnight, but her realization of the seriousness of her predicament had. And she only had herself to blame.

Despite her fears and the endless possibilities of what could go wrong whirling in her head, she was determined to make the most of her opportunity. But her first assigned duty—to plan a birthday celebration for Mrs. Acklen’s recently turned eleven-year-old son, William—was already challenging that intent.

Not having met William, she’d tried to imagine what a boy of his age and upbringing would enjoy. She believed the ideas she’d prepared to present were rather creative, things she would have adored when she was his age. And she knew Mrs. Acklen could well afford the expenditures.

Claire followed the woman through the entrance hall, taking in the ever lovely and stone-silent
Ruth.
The door to the library was closed, and she wondered if Mrs. Acklen was inside working. She hoped Mrs. Acklen wasn’t waiting on her.

She was arriving much later than planned. The inclement weather and muddy roads hadn’t helped any, but it was a stop at the train station to check on the arrival of her trunks that had caused the delay.

After a quick perusal of the ledger, the porter had said they had no record of her trunks arriving. But if they had, by chance, arrived, Claire knew they would have been delivered to Broderick Shipping and Freight, according to Antoine’s instructions. When the porter asked where to send her trunks, she’d nearly answered Belmont, then caught herself, not wanting to risk that Antoine would try to visit her there. She assured the porter she would stop back in a few days.

Claire followed the apron-clad woman into the grand salon. A savory whiff of herbs layered the air, and Claire inhaled. “Something smells delicious.”

“That’d be my pork roast, Miss Laurent. I baked it with rosemary and thyme picked fresh from the garden this mornin’. ’Bout melts in your mouth. But you’ll find that out soon enough.” She paused and gestured to an out-of-the-way corner. “Just stow your bag right over there for the time bein’. They’s all waitin’ on you.”

Claire stilled. “Waiting on me?
Who’s
waiting on me?”

“Mrs. Acklen and her children, and Mr. Monroe. They’s all in the family dinin’ room down the hallway here. Ain’t been there long, though. They’s still workin’ on their soup.”

“Working on their soup? But I didn’t realize . . .” Panicking, she shoved her satchel into the corner and started hand-pressing the wrinkles from her dress. She glimpsed the splotches of mud staining her hem and grimaced, trying to remember . . .

She was certain Mrs. Acklen hadn’t mentioned anything about dinner. She’d simply said to arrive sometime during the afternoon.
Oh
 . . . Claire cringed. Late on her first day! The look Mrs. Acklen was going to give her . . .

“Calm yourself down there, missy.” The woman gently touched her arm. “Ain’t nothin’ to get worked up over. It’s only dinner, child. And they’s eatin’ a mite early on account of the Lady goin’ out this evenin’.” Smiling, she puffed out her generous bosom as though making airs. “She be goin’ to a fancy opera in town.”

Claire shook her head. “But I’m not properly dressed for dinner, and I—” Seeing a mirror, she chanced a quick look, and sucked in a breath. The curls she’d worked so hard to tame were a mass of frizzy ringlets. What had the young girl asked her yesterday, about what her hair did when it got wet?
“Goes all wild? Like a soured mop?”
Claire tried to tuck the curls back into place, but with little success.

The sharp tinkle of a bell sounded.

“That’s the Lady,” the woman whispered. “That means they done with their soup and they ready for the main course.” She winked and took hold of Claire’s hand, her grip firm, like a man’s. “We’ll just serve you up right alongside the pork roast. Come on now.”

Claire had no choice but to follow.

Feeling smaller with each step, she found herself clinging to the woman’s hand. Just before they entered the dining room, the woman loosened her grip, and Claire let go. All eyes turned, and conversation around the table fell silent.

“Miss Laurent is here, Mrs. Acklen. You asked me to bring her on in, ma’am.”

The woman’s introduction urged Claire forward.

Claire curtsied and lifted her head. Her gaze brushed that of Mr. Monroe’s, then quickly found its way back there again, and lingered. Wearing a black coat with freshly starched white shirt and cravat, he looked nothing less than dashing. Claire gathered he would be attending the opera too.

Mr. Monroe stood, as did the two boys seated beside him, one of whom looked considerably older than the other and who bore a striking resemblance to the man in the portrait in the entrance hall. Claire’s gaze swept the table.

Mrs. Acklen, donned in a stunning blue dress, was seated at the head, her attention unyielding, her expression inscrutable, and her brief up-and-down gaze . . . telling. To her left sat a young girl whose silky dark hair was caught back in a decorative-beaded band. Her eyes were dark and inquisitive. Beside the girl perched the youngest boy seated forward in his chair as if ready to spring at any moment. His eyes were the identical shape and striking brown of his siblings’.

“Welcome, Miss Laurent.” Mrs. Acklen, her smile gracious, motioned Claire toward the empty chair directly across the table from Mr. Monroe. “How lovely that your schedule has finally allowed you to join us.”

Hearing the subtle reprimand, Claire halfway wished she could announce that on the way the Buntings’ buggy had overturned in a horrific accident, and that only after clawing her way through the carnage had she barely managed to escape with her life, and that was why she was late. But of course she couldn’t say that, and the real excuse felt flimsy by comparison.

Standing beside the empty chair, Claire dipped her head, grateful the table hid her muddy hem. “My sincere apologies for being late, Mrs. Acklen.” The silence in the room lay heavy without an accompanying excuse, and Claire bit her tongue to keep one from slipping out, knowing it wouldn’t help her cause.

“Allow me, Miss Laurent.” Mr. Monroe appeared behind her and held her chair as she took her seat.

She glanced up at him, catching a hint of bayberry and spice. “Thank you, Mr. Monroe.”

“My pleasure,” he whispered, his eyes not meeting hers. He returned to his place.

The same woman who had answered the door returned with three other women, all carrying platters and dishes laden with food. Within seconds, the table was transformed into a mouthwatering buffet. Creamed sweet potatoes, whipped light and fluffy, mounded the scalloped edges of an ivory compote, and thick slices of herb-encrusted roasted pork loin adorned a silver platter. Lima beans in a white cream sauce and a bowl of buttery corn followed, but it was the baked apples still bubbling in their sugary cinnamon bed that drew an “Ah . . .” from Mrs. Acklen’s daughter.

Claire had never seen the likes of such luscious offerings. Did the Acklen family eat in such a fashion every night? She couldn’t begin to imagine. . . .

But it was what filled her glass, and everyone else’s, all the way to the brim, that truly amazed her.
Ice.
Which cracked and popped as the servants poured what looked to be lemonade.

“Would you care for a roll, miss?”

“Yes, please.” Claire looked up to see Eva, and almost felt as if she was seeing a friend. “Thank you, Eva.”

Eva gave a delicate, proper nod older than her years. “You’re welcome, ma’am.”

Only then did Claire notice her dinner plate. Fine scalloped china with the name
Acklen
painted in gold lettering in the center. She touched the gold-rimmed edging, not having to wonder whether or not the gold was real.

After everyone was served, the servants left the room. All except the woman who had escorted Claire in. “Is there anything else you be needin’, Mrs. Acklen?”

Mrs. Acklen gave a sigh heavy with approval. “I can’t think of a thing, Cordina. You’ve outdone yourself yet again.”

Cordina
 . . . Claire made mental note of the woman’s name.

“I ’preciate that, Mrs. Acklen. But it wasn’t just me, ma’am. I have lotsa good help in my kitchen.” She dipped her head. “Hope you all enjoy your dinner.”

As Cordina exited the room, Mrs. Acklen bowed her head, as did the rest. Claire followed suit.

“For what we are about to receive, dear Lord, and for what we have already received in such great bounty . . .” Mrs. Acklen’s voice held a humility and quiet reverence that drew Claire’s gaze.

Barely lifting her head, Claire peeked from the corner of her eye, just in case any of the children were looking. They weren’t. Their heads were all dutifully bowed and their eyes closed, as hers should have been.

She chanced a look across the table and felt her breath catch. Mr. Monroe’s head was bowed, but only slightly. And he was watching her. She offered a meager smile, which he barely returned before looking down again.

“Grant us wisdom and discernment to be good stewards of all you have bestowed . . .”

Claire felt a slight frown. Based on her exchange with Mr. Monroe yesterday, she’d thought the two of them had reached a friendly truce. But what she’d seen in his eyes just now hardly resembled a warm welcome.

A thought occurred. One that didn’t bring comfort.

He’d started to say something to her yesterday, just as she was leaving, but they were interrupted. She’d been so preoccupied at the time, she hadn’t thought anything about it, until now. He’d said something about there being a lot of applicants, so she shouldn’t let it—

Bother her . . .
Claire blinked. Was that what he had been about to say? That she shouldn’t let it bother her . . . that she hadn’t gotten the job. He’d assumed Mrs. Acklen had said no to hiring her.

“. . . and may we always be mindful of those less fortunate. . . .”

Claire stared through the steam rising from the food. She surmised that Mrs. Acklen relied heavily on Mr. Monroe for legal counsel. But she sensed a more personal bond there too. So securing his good opinion was paramount to making this a more permanent arrangement.

“In the name of Jesus, we pray . . .”

Claire quickly bowed her head again and closed her eyes.

“Amen.”

“Amen,” Claire echoed softly with everyone else, careful not to look in Mr. Monroe’s direction.

Fork raised, Mrs. Acklen gave a queenly nod, and dinner ensued. “Children, I’d like to introduce Miss Claire Laurent. I’ve already told you a bit about her. She’ll be working with me over the next few days to plan William’s birthday celebration.”

Claire smiled at the boy sitting beside Mr. Monroe, fairly certain that he was William.

“You may remember that Miss Laurent was born in Paris,” Mrs. Acklen continued.

Her daughter leaned forward and peered down the table. “We just got back from there.” Her lower lip pudged. “It’s so pretty!”

Claire smiled. “Yes, it is. But it’s also very lovely here.”

The little boy next to her leaned closer. “Mama knows the emperor of France. Do you know him?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting him.” Claire sipped her lemonade, relishing the cold against her throat, as well as the boy’s short attention span and apparent affinity for sweet potatoes.

“Miss Laurent, allow me to introduce my children.” Mrs. Acklen looked at the older boy seated to her right. “This is my eldest son, Joseph. He’s sixteen and will be returning to school. So he’ll only be with us through the weekend.”

Joseph was a handsome boy with a head of thick, dark brown hair, and was undoubtedly the son of the man in the portrait.

“William is our birthday boy. He turned eleven while in New York, on our way back from Europe, and I assured him that we’d celebrate in style upon our return.” Mrs. Acklen beamed. “Sitting next to you, Miss Laurent, is Claude, who is nine. He’s as sharp-witted as he is precious, so be on your guard. And this”—she patted her daughter’s arm—“is Pauline, who is six . . . going on twelve.” She smiled. “My children are my greatest treasures.”

Claire looked around the table. “And I can see why. It’s very nice to meet all of you.”

Joseph nodded, again in a manner much like his mother, while William eyed her with meager interest. Only Claude and Pauline offered welcoming smiles.

Claire returned them, directing her next comment to the youngest Acklens. “Do you both enjoy attending school? Seeing all of your friends?”

Silence rewarded the questions, and Claude and Pauline looked to their mother.

“Actually, Miss Laurent, the childrens’
private
tutor returns to Belmont in two weeks.” Mrs. Acklen’s tone, though genteel, held a touch of correction, and Claire nodded as Claude and Pauline let out yips of excitement. Mrs. Acklen quieted them with a hushing hand. “Miss Heloise Cenas has been with us for many years now. She oversees the children’s studies in remarkable fashion. I don’t know what we would do without her.”