A Lasting Impression (35 page)

Summoning patience he didn’t feel, Sutton prayed for wisdom he sorely lacked. “To be clear, Mrs. Acklen, I’m not officially
courting
Cara Netta. We have an understanding of sorts between us, but we haven’t—”

“Exactly what is your definition of courting, Mr. Monroe?”

Heat rose from his neck to his face. “But
no
,” he continued undaunted, “we haven’t spoken formally, or otherwise, about marriage plans. I . . .” He hesitated, wondering how much to tell her, and if she might already suspect the truth about his feelings for Claire. Adelicia was as perceptive a woman as she was persuasive, and considering that, he decided to approach her question from a different angle.

“I don’t wish to rush Cara Netta into a decision. After all, Europe was . . .” He searched for the right words.

“Another world away?” she supplied.

“Yes,” he said, aware of her close attention. “And while I have no doubts about her character or person, I believe she deserves more time to reflect upon my own situation.”

Adelicia frowned. “Do not speak so meanly of yourself, Mr. Monroe. While it may be true that your financial standing is more precarious these days, the fine fabric of your character, the qualities that matter most, remain unchanged. The LeVerts are convinced of this, I know.”

Her comment gave him the impression that she and Madame LeVert had been discussing the two of them behind closed doors. Which didn’t surprise him but it aggravated him all the same.

The carriage rounded the corner, and Adelicia directed her attention out the window. Sutton did likewise. He’d been out of sorts lately—with Adelicia, with others, even with himself. The reasons were varied and mostly out of his control. Which only made it worse.

No word from the Federal Army’s review board yet, but daily he waited. Earlier in the week, he’d ridden out to his family’s land late one night, seeking comfort, he guessed. Or reassurance, maybe. But instead, the visit only stirred up painful memories best forgotten.

Regarding the report from New Orleans that he’d been waiting for, his colleague had sent a telegram . . . “Your request forthcoming. Pursuing additional information. Will post within a fortnight.” He wasn’t eager to wait another two weeks, but he’d appreciated the man’s discreet wording. And though Adelicia’s interest in the report’s contents seemed to have waned, his hadn’t.

Not that he expected to learn that Claire was a fugitive wanted for murder or some other outlandish possibility. He simply wanted to know more about her background, enough to satisfy the lawyer in him responsible for protecting Adelicia’s interests.

And . . . to satisfy some of his own.

The carriage jostled over the rutted road, and he remembered how she’d cried the other night, and how he’d held her. He grimaced thinking of what a fool he’d been about to make of himself—on the brink of confessing to her how he felt about her, and why telling her about his understanding with Cara Netta had been so difficult.

Then she’d said the one thing he could have lived the rest of his life quite happily never having heard from her lips.
“You and I are friends.
Good
friends . . .”

He clenched his jaw. But that’s what they were. In her eyes. And what he knew he needed to start viewing her as . . . in his.

Cara Netta LeVert was awaiting a proposal of marriage from him, and he should be grateful to have her in his life. She was sweet and kind and possessed a tenderness of heart that appealed to a man’s innate sense of wanting to protect. Cara Netta could be headstrong and opinionated when her wishes were crossed. But then who couldn’t be, on occasion? She was fiercely loyal to family and had adored her father, doting on his every word. And Sutton knew she missed him. Conversation with Cara Netta came easily—it always had—and no matter the subject, he noticed, she always steered it back to him. What he’d been working on at the law firm. What he’d been doing that week for Mrs. Acklen.

But never did she mention the thoroughbred farm. Not once.

On two occasions in recent days, he’d attempted to speak with her about the future of their relationship. The first time, she’d deftly skirted the issue. The next, they’d been interrupted by Diddie, though he still wondered whether that had been an accident or more of a planned interruption.

The carriage passed the conservatory and water tower, and the mansion came into view.

Bathed in an October sun and set against a cloudless azure sky, the manor more closely resembled an oil on canvas than a real image, and it occurred to him then how easy it was to speak of “
the fine fabric of one’s character and the qualities that mattered most
” when your financial standing was secure, unthreatened.

Adelicia shifted on the carriage seat opposite his and cut him a look. “Perhaps this is none of my business, Mr. Monroe, but from what little I’ve heard, the case on which you and Counselor Holbrook are collaborating could end up being one of a rather
lucrative
nature, should you succeed in winning. Which would dramatically alter your financial standing and therefore your ability to move forward with more . . .
personal
ventures.” Adelicia’s tone held encouragement, and hinted at her appetite for gossip.

Sutton leaned forward, trusting her but still mindful of what he said. “It could. If we win. Which is anyone’s guess at this point.” Local investigators were researching the sales and purchases of hundreds of works of art across the country. It was tedious work, and they had recovered fraudulent paintings. That wasn’t the issue. It was identifying the forgers and, even more importantly for prosecution, finding the swindlers—those who had negotiated the exchange of goods in acceptance of payment, all under the guise that the art was original—that was proving to be next to impossible.

One would think that art dealers and collectors would keep more meticulous records. Then again, thinking of Adelicia, Sutton knew that wasn’t true. How many times had he insisted that her art collection be properly cataloged? And yet, that still remained to be accomplished.

They rounded the last garden, and he counted the seconds, eager to be out of the confines of the carriage and of this conversation, and to go for a good long ride with Truxton.

“Marriages are built on many different foundations, Mr. Monroe.”

Sutton looked across from him, expecting to see that arched brow of hers again. But Adelicia’s expression was all sincerity.

“Some are more deliberate,” she continued, “a choice made after thorough examination. Others involve far more of the heart. Make sure you choose wisely, for each has its rewards . . . and its costs.”

The squeak of carriage wheels on packed dirt bracketed her counsel, and it occurred to him that she might be speaking of her own situation, and not him. He asked as much.

She hedged a smile. “I suppose you could say that I’m advising us both.”

He stared. “You’re contemplating a third marriage, ma’am?” His thoughts jumped to Lucius Polk.

She didn’t answer.

“It’s a bold question, I know, Mrs. Acklen. But I believe our relationship can sustain such.”

Her eyes narrowed playfully. “I’m considering it, Mr. Monroe, and we’ll leave it at that. But I do believe, with all my heart, that you and Cara Netta would make a handsome couple. Your strengths as individuals complement one another. You’re dependable to a fault—she’s spontaneous at heart. You analyze every decision before making a move—she acts in the moment and embraces life’s joys.” She raised a shoulder and let it fall. “In the event that you desired my opinion.”

He merely nodded, listening, but his mind was already working through the financial ramifications should she seek matrimony for a third time. She’d required Joseph Acklen to sign an agreement prior to their marriage—which Joseph had readily done—stating that the property and holdings Adelicia brought into the marriage would remain her own. An astute businessman, Joseph had promptly tripled Adelicia’s wealth after only a few years of marriage, so her fortune was never in peril.

Sutton would insist that her third husband sign a similar agreement. His loyalty to Joseph—and Adelicia—would brook nothing less. But there was another part of this puzzle. One that affected him personally.

If Adelicia married again, her husband would likely assume the management role he had been filling since Joseph’s death. Not the legal side of Adelicia’s business, of course, unless the man were an attorney—which Polk wasn’t. But regarding the management of Belmont, Sutton’s services would no longer be required.

Which, when considering he already stood to lose his family’s land, made this case he was working on with Holbrook even more crucial. But even then, in one sense, that victory was only a means to an end. An opportunity that would give him the chance to do what he really wanted to do with his life.

But not if he had a wife beside him who didn’t share his dream.

29

L
ate the next afternoon Sutton returned from the law offices to find Cara Netta waiting for him in the art gallery, eager to take the walk she’d requested.

As they strolled the grounds, she peppered him with questions about his day, and he answered, sneaking occasional glances up at the mansion. He wondered where Claire was. Whether she was peering out one of the curtained windows or perhaps giving Pauline another lesson in sketching.

When he’d seen her in recent days, she’d seemed fine. There was no awkwardness between them. But she was always running—fulfilling Mrs. Acklen’s and Madame LeVert’s requests, and now tutoring Pauline in sketching. He didn’t know when she was going to have time to do her own painting. But the auction for new artists wasn’t until March. She still had time.

After touring the gardens, he and Cara Netta made their way toward the stables. For October, the temperatures were still on the warmer side, and fall was still struggling to take firm hold.

“Mother and Diddie and I were discussing a return trip to Europe next summer, Sutton. But only for two or three months this time. Doesn’t that sound divine?”

At the moment, he could think of little else he would’ve liked less. Last summer, he’d been eager to escape Nashville and the memories of war, and he’d welcomed the diversion of Europe—and of Cara Netta, he realized with discomfort. But the thought of repeating such a trip wasn’t the least appealing.

Not wishing to hurt her, he knew it was best she realize his feelings on the subject. “Actually, making a trip like that again doesn’t sound
divine
to me at all, Cara Netta.” He smiled to soften the opinion. “My focus is far more . . . stateside at present.”

“Well, of course it is,” she said quickly. “With all the concerns you have pressing, that’s understandable. Even . . . commendable.” She smiled up at him. “I’m certain that any day now you’ll receive word that your land is indeed still yours. Then you can start rebuilding your family home.”

“I wish I shared your positive outlook. But I’m not anticipating the review board will decide in my favor. Not if their track record has any bearing.”

“But your family name is so highly esteemed in Nashville, Sutton. Not to mention your own reputation. I’m certain they’ll make allowances for that.”

He gave a bitter laugh. “Those men care no more about my
esteemed
family name than I do about theirs. The same for my reputation.” The thought of his father’s name and honor being sullied—all because of him—sickened him.

Cara Netta didn’t say anything for a moment, then gestured to the mares grazing in the pasture. “I know how you love horses, Sutton. I do too. That’s yet another thing we have in common.”

He nodded, hearing the forced brightness in her tone. “Yes, it is.”

“I’ve been thinking”—she paused, looking up at him—“about what we discussed in the air balloon that day, floating above Paris. Do you remember?”

“Of course I remember. But I’m a little surprised you do. You were clinging to my arm so tightly.” He gave his shoulder a slight rotation, as though it still ached, and she grinned. Sutton studied her, feeling genuine affection for her. But was it the strength of feeling a man should feel for his future wife?

Her smile faded. “You said you thought each man—and woman—ought to spend their life doing what God created them to do. That they should do no less, and
could
do no more.”

He grew curious at the look in her eyes, and where she was headed. “You have a very good memory, Cara Netta.”

“I agreed with what you said, and I know you’ll be the most celebrated attorney in Nashville someday. And who knows where that will lead? You could become a judge or even a senator.” She looked down and bit her lower lip, and only then did Sutton realize how nervous she was.

She didn’t say anything for a moment, then moved closer and laid a hand on his arm. “I wish Father were here to deliver this news. He would have done better at it than I will, I’m sure. And I know it would have given him great pleasure because . . . he thought the world of you, Sutton.”

Sutton looked at where she touched him, wondering at the nervous quality in her voice. “Your father was a fine man. I admired him a great deal.”

“Which is only part of what makes all of this so perfect.” She took a breath, held it, and then exhaled. “Mother has found a house here in Nashville. That she wants to buy us. As a gift.”

He stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”

“I know it’s a lot,” she said, her words coming fast. “And I hope I’m not getting too far ahead of . . . where we are, but a man in your position needs a home of his own. In town. I know you want to rebuild on your family’s land, and we’ll do that too, but it makes so much sense to have a house in Nashville proper as well. And Mother knows—just as I do—what a success you’ll be at the law firm when you make partner. Mrs. Acklen says you’ll likely be the youngest partner they’ve ever had. And there’ll be room enough for your mother to come and live with us, if you’d like.”

“Cara Netta—”

“And there’s a stable, Sutton. A small one, granted. But big enough for four horses, so you can dabble in your hobby in the evenings and on weekends when we’re not”—her violet eyes sparkled—“out at the opera, or dining with heads of state, or entertaining dignitaries. And in time, if you still want to, we can purchase a larger estate, where you could own thoroughbreds like—”