A Lasting Impression

to spare. She looked at the place card with her name on it, near the foot of the table, and was grateful again to be included in the adult gathering rather than joining Miss Cenas and the children in the family dining room.
    “Claire?”
    She turned and, though she told herself not to, she found herself staring. “Sutton . . .” Dressed in a fitted black suit with waist-cut jacket and tails, he walked toward her adjusting his tie and wearing an expression that made her glad she was a woman. Even if not the right one for him.
    “You’re a difficult woman to catch alone.”
    Maybe it was her disappointment talking or the jealousy goading her, but she couldn’t resist picking apart his phrasing. He was usually so well spoken. “I believe, Counselor, that what you mean to say is that I’m a woman who is difficult to be caught alone.”
    He tilted his head as if casually acknowledging his faux pas. “And yet, considering the woman in question, and her response just now, I think I’ll let my statement stand, Your Honor.”
    She would’ve laughed if he’d said such a thing yesterday, but she couldn’t today. Not with the telling tightness in her throat and with watching his own smile fade. He had such an ease about him. Such a way of just being himself that made her—and everyone else, apparently—want to be around him. To be with him.
    “Claire . . .” He looked down for a second, his brow creasing, and she felt a sinking inside, dreading whatever words would accompany that look. “My timing in this is poor, I realize. But there’s something I should have told you.” He lifted his head, and the seriousness in his gaze wrenched the knot inside her even tighter. “Cara Netta LeVert and I—”
    “Sutton! There you are.” The young woman herself appeared in the doorway. “I’ve been looking for you.” She floated toward them in a gauzy dress of pearl-colored satin, a sash the color of her eyes accenting her diminutive waist. She slipped her hand into the crook of Sutton’s arm as if the gesture were more of a reflex than a conscious action. “Oh, how beautiful!” Her gaze swept the table. “And look . . .” She picked up one of the place cards—Madame LeVert’s, which Claire had taken extra care with in sketching a street scene from Paris. “How exquisite. Mother is going to be ecstatic when she sees these! Where did Mrs. Acklen have them made?”
    “Miss Laurent made them.” Subtle pride layered Sutton’s voice. “She’s quite the artist, in addition to being a fine personal liaison.”
    Claire warmed at the compliment, especially when remembering his original opinion of her. The image of him falling backward out of the gazebo stirred up emotions she knew were best forgotten.
    “Really, Miss Laurent?” Cara Netta stepped closer to Sutton. “You sketch and paint?”
    “Yes, but not much lately, I’m afraid.” Claire managed a smile. “Time hasn’t been too plentiful in recent weeks.”
    “And are you enjoying serving as Mrs. Acklen’s liaison ? I imagine it to be a demanding position.”
    “I’m enjoying it very much, Miss LeVert. And I’m most grateful for the opportunity Mrs. Acklen is giving me.”
    “Yes, I would think so. And living here at Belmont must seem like a dream for you.”
    Claire felt an indistinct barb in the comment, yet detected nothing of the sort in Cara Netta’s sweet expression. “Belmont is exquisite, yes, ma’am. A kind of American Versailles, if you will.”
    It felt odd referring to Cara Netta as ma’am, when the young woman seemed not that much older than she was. Yet the difference in their stations in life demanded it. A difference she had been reminded of more times today than in all her weeks at Belmont thus far.
    “Miss Laurent is originally from Paris,” Sutton offered, filling in the silence. “She and her parents came to the States when she was nine. She moved here from New Orleans earlier this fall.”
    “Well . . .” Cara Netta’s smile broadened. “You’re quite the expert on the subject, Sutton.”
    Claire was thinking the exact same thing, surprised he’d remembered those details so readily. And that he voiced them in light of present company. It was obvious—to her, at least—that Cara Netta wasn’t happy with her presence.
    “Mrs. Acklen informed me again, Miss Laurent, that your talents are at our disposal while we’re here. I’d be most grateful if you’d agree to assist me with a certain . . .