A Lasting Impression (9 page)

“If I were to decide that I didn’t want to . . .
confess
anything, I don’t have to.”

He nodded.

“And if I wanted to get up from here right now and leave, you wouldn’t try to stop me.”

“That is exactly right.”

An enormous weight lifted from her shoulders. She could breathe again. Tempted to go ahead and tell the reverend what she’d done, she decided that really—when taken as a whole—her actions hadn’t been horrendous. She hadn’t broken anything or taken something that wasn’t hers. And the door
had
been unlocked, after all.

“Well . . .” She rose. “That’s wonderful to know because . . . I really don’t have anything to confess
.
Not a horribly grievous sin, anyway.”

The table at the front of the sanctuary, where the women had bowed earlier, caught her eye, and silently, she thanked God for answering her prayer of deliverance. She was now free to go and pursue that interview—she glanced down at her dress—looking like a travel-worn vagabond. And with not a single coin left in her—

My reticule!

She glanced about but saw only her satchel.

She raced down the aisle to check the pew where she’d slept. Nothing. Then a picture formed in her mind, and knowledge hardened like a pit in the bottom of her stomach. She’d left her reticule at the shipping office, on the dresser in the bedroom. Oh, how could she have been so—

Feeling sick, she frantically searched the pockets of her skirt, reaching deep inside, praying she’d feel the familiar touch of metal. But her pockets were empty. She closed her eyes as regret knifed deeper. She’d left her mother’s locket watch in her reticule.

Tears rose, and she could do nothing to stop them.

“Is there a problem, Miss Laurent?”

Hearing Reverend Bunting behind her, Claire kept her face turned away, unable to speak. Assuming that Samuel Broderick
the second
was the kind of man she thought him to be, he would already have plans for what to do with the contents of her reticule. And surely he’d have found it by now. And he could have it all. She didn’t care—except for that locket watch. She wanted her mother’s most treasured possession back.

She sniffed, and a handkerchief appeared over her shoulder.

“Miss Laurent, I’d be most honored to offer assistance, ma’am, if you’ll only tell me how I might do that.”

Gingerly, she took the handkerchief, wiped her tears, and dabbed her nose. Finally, her voice returned. “I have nothing. No money. No family. No place to stay. No place to go.” She turned back to him. “And . . .” Oh, she hated to admit it. “I slept in your church last night. Right there.” She pointed to the only cushioned pew, tears renewing.

“And when two women came in this morning for prayer, I hid beneath the pew so they wouldn’t see me. So I wouldn’t get in trouble. And then I overheard their conversation, which was wrong, I know.” She hiccupped a sob. “And then I got up and”—she made motions with her hands—“I was . . .
fixing
myself, only to look up and find Mr. Monroe watching me. He saw me crawl out from beneath the pew, and . . .”

Expression attentive, Reverend Bunting nodded.

“Mr. Monroe, he was kind, and then . . . he left me with you. And”—she took a breath, the weight of recent days bearing down hard—“I learned last night that my father died.”

Reverend Bunting patted her arm, and she cried, telling him everything. She left out the details about the robbery in the art gallery—and about what she and her parents used to do. Sharing that bit of information would surely hinder her fresh start.

Besides, all that was behind her now. Or soon would be.

“I’m sorry,” she finally whispered after a long moment. “I’ve gone on too long and have taken up too much of your time.”

“
Shhhhh
 . . . Don’t you worry about a thing. You’re exactly where you need to be, Miss Laurent. Of that, I’m certain.”

She sniffed, reminded of something she’d noticed last night. “Your church smells like a hospital.”

He took a breath, his brow wrinkling. “I don’t smell it anymore myself. I guess I’ve grown used to it. The church was used as a hospital during the war. All the pews were moved out and over a thousand cots were crammed in from corner to corner.” He scuffed the floor with the tip of his boot. “The wooden planks seem reluctant to give up the stains. And the smell too, I guess.”

Claire dried her eyes, hearing the somber note in his voice. She looked around, viewing the sanctuary in an even more reverent light, and slowly, oddly, began to calm.

“Better?” he said softly.

She shrugged, then nodded. She did feel surprisingly better having confessed everything. Well, almost everything. “There is one thing I can think of that I need help with, Reverend Bunting. But it’s a lot to ask.”

“It may not be as much as you think, my dear.”

She briefly looked away. “The women I told you about . . . the ones I overheard . . . ?”

He nodded.

“One of them spoke about interviewing for a position with a lady in town. A lady who attends this church.”

Comprehension moved across his face. “I believe Mrs. Adelicia Acklen would be that lady’s name.” He studied Claire for a moment. “Do you have any idea who Mrs. Acklen is?”

Feeling as though she should, Claire shook her head.

Reverend Bunting glanced back at the door. “And do you know anyone in her employ? Say, someone who could give you a personal recommendation, by chance?”

Again, Claire shook her head, feeling her chances lessening by the second. “But I think I might be qualified for the position.” She lifted one shoulder and let it fall. “From what I overheard,” she added more softly.

“And you’d like to interview for it.”

She nodded. “But the interviews end today. And I need a fresh dress and a place to clean up, and—”

“Say no more, Miss Laurent. I can tell you right now that this task is far beyond my skills and abilities.”

Claire’s heart fell. “I underst—”

“But! I know of a saint whose guidance we can seek. Saint Chrissinda is her name.”

Claire looked up. “But I’m not Catholic.” She arched a brow. “And neither are you, Reverend Bunting.”

Grinning, he picked up her satchel and motioned her toward the door that led to the storeroom. “Let’s head out the back way. Chrissinda is my wife, Miss Laurent. But she’s a saint if I’ve ever known one.”

Claire gathered her things and preceded him into the storeroom, noticing how much smaller the space appeared in the daylight. “Will she object to your bringing a stranger home unannounced?”

“If my wife knew the situation and that I failed to bring you home, Saint Chrissinda would tan my backside, as we say here in Tennessee.”

Claire laughed, imagining the scene and tickled that he’d said such a thing. She paused at the back door through which she’d entered last night, feeling the need to complete her confession. “This is how I got in, Reverend. I guess someone forgot to lock it.”

Reverend Bunting touched the latch. “I didn’t forget, Miss Laurent,” he said softly. “I left it open last night—just as God urged me to.”

“Be careful how you proceed, Monroe. If you push these men too far, they may push back—like they did with your father.”

Sutton Monroe studied the blackened soil in his palm and would’ve sworn he could still smell the smoke. Charred remains of his family home—blackened chimneys and a wood-burning stove leaning crippled to one side—emerged from the rubble as though begging not to be forgotten. As if he could ever forget. He fisted the dirt tight, then let it sift through his fingers. “You’re saying I shouldn’t pursue this, sir?”

“I’m saying to be careful as you
do.
”

Hearing both warning and cautious consent in the older man’s tone, Sutton glanced back.

Sitting astride his mare, wearing his trademark tall black hat, Bartholomew Holbrook eyed him, much as his own father might have, if he were still alive. “I know better than to try to dissuade you once you’ve set your mind to something, son.” Holbrook’s sigh held reservation. “Justice may be on your side, but justice always comes with a price. And you’re all your mother has now. Remember that. Whatever price you pay, she’ll be forced to pay as well. And mark my words—it will hurt her more.” He leveled his stare. “As it will a certain young woman who shall remain unnamed.”

Sutton let his mentor’s counsel settle inside him, aware of what the venerable attorney was asking—in that indirect manner of his. Bartholomew Holbrook was renowned not only for four decades of practicing law in Nashville but also for his ability to ferret out information.

Yet Sutton had learned a thing or two from the older gentleman in their years together—like how to evade such an attempt. He wasn’t ready to discuss this particular topic with anyone. Because he hadn’t fully decided the issue within himself.

He’d hoped the few days spent with Cara Netta LeVert and her family in New York last month would have helped make his decision clearer. Easier. But it hadn’t.

Cara Netta was a fine young woman. Intelligent, thoughtful, pretty. They’d known each other for years and got along well. She possessed a dowry that had every unmarried Southern male vying for her hand. Everyone said he and Cara Netta would make a perfect pair. Frankly, he had a hard time seeing how anyone could say he would make a good match with any woman these days. He had precious little to offer a wife in terms of financial security. The war had seen to that.

And he’d be hanged before he allowed a woman to provide for him.

Cara Netta knew about his circumstances—as though it were a secret—which spoke even more highly of her character. Over recent months, they’d developed an understanding between them, one of a more romantic nature, and she’d told him, more than once, that his financial standing didn’t matter to her. But it did to him. Though he had yet to formally propose, he knew she was waiting, expecting it, as were her mother and sister.

Yet the timing hadn’t been right. And still wasn’t. Not until he knew for certain that this new government wasn’t going to take his land and rob him of his birthright. Once that was all set to rights, he would be ready to move forward with the marriage. At least that’s what he told himself.

And for the most part, he believed it.

He stared at the land that had been in his family for three generations. Laurel Bend, as his grandparents had named it. Land that would be stripped of his family name if the Federal Army had their way. In his mind’s eye, he saw where the barn and stables had once stood, and the smokehouse behind which his grandfather had taught him how to shoot.

His gaze traveled purposefully back toward the charred remains of his childhood home, and another image returned—of his father lying facedown in the dirt only yards away from where he stood now. His blood ran hot. Resolve hardened within him like steel. “Have you learned the name of the man chairing the Federal Army’s review board, sir?”

“Not yet. But he’s a high-ranking Federal officer. All the evidence has been turned over to him.” A moment passed before Holbrook continued. “One of the men on the board informed me privately—which is, of course, how I’m informing you right now. . . .”

Seeing the question in the older man’s eyes, Sutton nodded his agreement.

“He told me they were most impressed with the written defense you made on your father’s behalf. He said it was the most thorough and well-authored account they’d received to date. Which is saying a great deal.”

“I still wish they would allow me to testify in person.”

Holbrook sat straighter in the saddle, the leather creaking as he moved. “There are too many of these cases, and that would take far more time than they’re willing to allow. Besides, testifying personally makes far too much sense, which means the government would naturally oppose the idea.”

Sutton responded with a semblance of a smile, but inside his gut churned. His father had been a peaceable man. The most gentle, loving man he’d ever known. His life shouldn’t have ended the way it had. And while Sutton knew, on one level, that it wasn’t his own fault, on another, he was certain it was.

It was
his
fault his father hadn’t signed the Oath of Allegiance to the Union that day. Remembering his last conversation with his father in that regard, Sutton felt something inside him give way. He would have given anything to go back and have that conversation again.

“One last thing, son. Decisions by the review board are final. No appeals will be heard. No matter who brings it. No matter how well written.”

Sutton gripped the reins to his stallion and swung up into the saddle. Truxton snorted and pranced beneath him, eager to outrun the wind and be free. Desires Sutton understood. Only . . . what
he
yearned to be freed from was something he feared he might never be able to outrun.

Bitterness curdled inside him. The injustice of it all. The North stood determined to rob him of everything. They’d already killed his father and burned the family home. Now they wanted to take his land, his heritage, and his future. He thought of his mother. In a way, they’d taken her from him too. She would never be the same. Not after what she’d witnessed.