A Lasting Impression

undertaking.”
    Not missing Sutton’s sideways glance at Cara Netta, Claire wondered if that undertaking would involve cleaning something . . . like a chamber pot, perhaps? “Of course, Miss LeVert. I’d be happy to assist you. Simply let me know when you wish to meet.”
    Guests began entering the formal dining room, and Cara Netta glanced behind her before turning back. “I see it’s time for dinner, Miss Laurent. It’s been a pleasure.”
    Claire looked from her to Sutton, realizing Cara Netta’s assumption, yet not feeling at liberty to correct her.
    “Actually,” Sutton said, his smile a little stiff. “Miss Laurent will be joining us for dinner, Cara Netta.”
    Cara Netta’s countenance faltered only for an instant. “Well . . . how wonderful. Then I’ll look forward to continuing our conversation over the meal.”
    Claire thanked her, then excused herself, wanting to believe the young woman’s sentiment was genuine, but something inside told her otherwise.
    Ooh s and ah s issued from Mrs. Acklen’s mother and sisters, and from Madame LeVert and Diddie as they found their places at the table. They commented on the place cards, then their gifts. The gentlemen expressed pleasure as well as they took a whiff of their cigars.
    “Thank you, Adelicia, how gracious.”
    “The handkerchiefs are beautiful, Adelicia. So lovely, all of it!”
    Mrs. Acklen fielded thank-yous with a queenly nod here and there, and Claire watched just in case Mrs. Acklen might nod her way. But she didn’t. Soon conversation filled the corners of the room, and Claire had just taken her seat—on the opposite side of the table from Sutton and Cara Netta, and a few places down—when Mrs. Routh appeared in the doorway.
    One look at the woman’s face and Claire knew something was wrong.

28

    M rs. Routh strode past Claire to where Mrs. Acklen sat at the head of the table. She leaned down and whispered, and Mrs. Acklen’s focus instantly connected with Claire’s. With an almost imperceptible rise of her brow, Mrs. Acklen signaled Claire.
    Claire scooted her chair back and started to rise, but her skirt caught beneath a chair leg and she bumped the table, causing the stemware and china to clink. Conversation in the dining room dipped to a hum as everyone turned to look. Her face hot, Claire indicated she was fine and kept her eyes down as the chorus of voices gradually regained volume.
    “Yes, Mrs. Acklen?” Claire whispered, leaning close.
    “There is a situation, Miss Laurent.” Displeasure sharpened Mrs. Acklen’s hushed voice, yet her hostess smile never wavered. “Mr. Polk has just arrived to join us for dinner. Did you not check the mail today to see if he had changed his response?”
    “Yes, ma’am, I checked. He didn’t send—”
    “Well . . .” Mrs. Acklen smiled at her mother, Mrs. Hayes, seated two places down, then lifted her water glass to her lips but did not drink. “He is very much here now and waiting in the entrance hall.”
    “I see.” Claire thought fast. “I’ll go to the dish room and get another place setting immediately and then—”
    “It would be far less obtrusive, Miss Laurent, if you would simply eat with Miss Cenas and the children in the family dining room.”
    Claire felt the prick of tears and hated herself for taking offense. “Yes, ma’am, of course.”
    “And you did think to get an extra box of cigars, I hope.”
    Claire winced. She’d almost bought an extra box but hadn’t wanted to waste the money. How foolish. “I’m sorry, but . . .”
    Just then she saw Sutton rise from his chair, his box of cigars in hand. Without knowing how he knew, she knew what he was doing.
    “Yes, ma’am.” She took a quick breath. “I have a box of cigars for Mr. Polk.”
    “Then arrange it, Miss Laurent. Quickly! ”
    Claire stood, biting back tears, and not daring to look in Cara Netta’s direction. Not when she knew the young woman was surely watching her. With every step, Claire felt the awkward attention of people trying their best to appear as though they weren’t staring, when they were—and as if they weren’t thinking, just as she was, how much she did not fit in here.
    When she reached her seat—or the seat that had been hers—a box of cigars lay by the place setting. The scented handkerchiefs were gone. As was Sutton. She was almost to the door when she remembered and stepped back to retrieve her place card, the one with her name on it. But it was gone as well.