A Lasting Impression

Cara Netta, and asking Diddie—who’d been unusually quiet during dinner—didn’t seem like a good idea either.
    He spotted Claire speaking to Claude and Pauline while she slowly inched her way toward the dining room door.
    “Claire?”
    She turned, her features guarded. “Yes, Sutton?”
    The formality of her tone almost made him bristle. “I was wondering whether—” If she said no to his question, what was he going to do? He hadn’t exactly thought that through. “Whether you’re going to the opera with us tonight?”
    Her smile was instant, and telling. “No, I’m not. I’ve got so much to do here. It’s really best that I stay and get some work done.”
    He felt a stab of anger. How could Madame LeVert, or whoever had arranged for the tickets, not have thought to include her? “Why don’t you take my ticket, Claire. You know how I feel about the opera, and—”
    “No, Sutton.” She shook her head, her voice firm. “No.”
    “Oh, Diddie, tell me it’s not true!” Madame LeVert said behind them. “How disappointing. And you’ve been looking forward to this all week.”
    Sutton turned to see the women grouped together, little Pauline now with them. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
    “Diddie’s not feeling well,” Mrs. Acklen answered. “So she won’t be joining us this evening.”
    Sutton glanced at Diddie, whose coloring did look rather greenish. But he saw the opportunity and seized it. “I’m sorry you don’t feel well enough to go, Diddie. But, so your ticket won’t go to waste, perhaps we could impose upon Miss Laurent to take your place. If she’s agreeable.”
    He turned back and saw a light slip into Claire’s eyes. She smiled and nodded, and for a second, everything in the world lined up in perfect order.
    “Sutton,” Cara Netta said sweetly from across the room. “That’s so thoughtful of you, but . . . I’ve already asked Miss Cenas to go in Diddie’s stead. She’s getting her shawl and reticule right this moment.”
    Sutton’s chest went tight, especially when he sensed that Cara Netta knew exactly what she was doing, or had done. She hadn’t wanted Claire to go. Claire simply smiled, as if the mix-up were of little consequence to her, and a fierce protectiveness rose inside him.
    But what galled him most was that he was the one who had placed Claire in such an embarrassing position. “I’m sorry, Claire,” he whispered.
    “There’s nothing to be sorry about, Sutton. I honestly prefer to stay here.” Her perfect smile would have convinced anyone else. But he knew better.
    And he pledged to make it up to her somehow.

30

    C laire gently rapped on the door of the tête-à-tête room. Hearing no response, she slipped inside and closed the door noiselessly behind her. She’d been sneaking into the room in the early mornings for the past couple of weeks to read, and if she hadn’t been reading what she was reading, she might have felt a little guilty.
    Since the night she’d come undone . . . at least that’s how she thought of it—crying as she had, falling apart, and in front of Sutton, no less—she’d developed a thirst for the verses that had given her mother such comfort and hope in her final hours.
    The Acklen family Bible lay on the table before the hearth, and Claire scooted a chair closer, mindful of the carpet. Mrs. Acklen had told her in passing that the Bible never left the room, but she hadn’t said not to read it, so Claire assumed that was fine. After all, it was the Bible.
    But knowing Mrs. Acklen, she’d gone a step further and never moved the Bible from the table. She simply opened the pages, read, and when she was done, made certain the large leather-bound book was exactly as it had been.
    She checked her hands to be sure all traces of breakfast were gone. Since the LeVerts arrived, she’d begun taking the meal downstairs in the kitchen with Cordina and the other servants rather than in the dining room with the family and guests. It was simpler that way.
    Claire leaned close to the book and breathed in the scent of hand-oiled leather and years-old paper and dust. The pages crinkled as she turned them.
    Genesis, Exodus . . . She skimmed over the next few books, watching for the right name. Esther, Job, the Psalms . . .
    The Psalms had been what Maman had requested that she read from most, and Claire had read all of those again last week before moving to other books. The next time she went into town, she planned on purchasing a