A Lasting Impression

Sutton.
    In the hallway, she met Cordina and a host of other servants coming up the stairs.
    Dressed in black with a crisp, starched apron, Cordina carried a silver tray laden with her signature pork roast. Cordina puffed out her chest. “We got dinner all ready, Miss Laurent, and right on—” She frowned, pausing in the hall. “What’s wrong, child?”
    Claire shook her head. “I’m fine. Everything is fine. I just—” She spotted Mrs. Routh escorting Mr. Polk down the hallway, and she smiled, curtsying as he passed, a little longer than needed so he wouldn’t see her face. She rose. “I’m fine, Cordina. Now, please, carry the food on in. Mrs. Acklen is ready.”
    With a look that said she knew better, Cordina continued, her entourage following. Claire glanced into the family dining room and saw Miss Cenas with William and Claude and Pauline, but she wasn’t hungry anymore. She hurried across the grand salon, living only to hear her bedroom door latch behind her. And when she rounded the corner, she saw Sutton waiting in the darkened hallway, an unopened box of handkerchiefs in his hand.
    She couldn’t stem the tears any longer. He started to say something but she put up a hand. “Please, Sutton. Not now. I . . .” She took a breath. “I appreciate what you’ve done, but I just need to be by my—”
    He drew her into a hug and held her, those powerful arms wrapping her in safety, shielding her. Her tears came in waves, and she shook against him. She had trouble drawing breath, her sobs came so hard. It scared her at first, how deep the well of hurt went inside. And she realized the tears weren’t only because of Sutton and what had happened just then and earlier that day. It was as if every tear she’d held back and stuffed down for months—for years—was rebelling against the restraint.
    She’d tried so hard to be strong for her mother throughout the illness and in those last days. Then afterward for Papa, and for herself. But a person could be strong for only so long. And then . . .
    They broke. And something was breaking inside of her. Something she didn’t think she would ever be able to put back together again. Not like it had been.
    Embarrassed at Sutton seeing her like this, she made a halfhearted attempt to push away, but he only held her tighter. And she slipped her arms around him and held on as if he were the last solid thing in the world.
    “Claire, I’m sorry,” he whispered against her hair. “Cara Netta and I have known one another for a long time. Over the past few months, while we traveled in Europe, she and I became better acquainted. And we reached . . . an understanding between us. One I should have told you about before this.” He pulled back slightly, looking at her in a way Claire knew she wouldn’t soon forget. There was a finality in his eyes, and a sadness. “It was wrong of me not to say anything, and I apologize for that. But the reason I didn’t was because—”
    She briefly pressed a hand to his mouth. “You don’t have to do this, Sutton. I know the reason,” she whispered, her head beginning to throb. She just wanted to lie down and curl up into a ball . . . forever. “And believe me when I say . . . that I understand.”
    He searched her eyes. “You do?” he finally whispered.
    “Yes.” She drew in a shaky breath. “You and I are friends. Good friends, and I treasure that. But . . . I don’t expect any more than that.” Just as she knew he wasn’t prepared to give it.
    “Friends . . .” He said the word like he wasn’t certain he could be that to her anymore. Which she doubted too—considering the way Cara Netta felt about her.
    Slowly, he released her, a resolute set to his jaw. “Will you be all right?”
    She dabbed at her cheeks. “Yes, I’ll be fine. I’ll join you all again, after dinner. I just . . . need a few minutes.”
    He looked down at the box of lace handkerchiefs in his hand and held them out to her. She took them, feeling her tears return. She walked to her bedroom door, then paused to look back. “Sutton?”
    He stopped, and turned.
    “Thank you,” she whispered. “For . . . this. For . . . helping me.”
    The shadows in the hallway hid the precise definitions of his face, but she thought she saw him smile. “You’re welcome, Claire. That’s what friends do for each other. . . . Right?”

    “If you will permit me, Mr. Monroe, I have a rather personal and . . . bold question to pose.”
    Sutton studied