A Lasting Impression

Bible of her own. Not that she went into town that often. Though time had passed and the likelihood of crossing paths with Antoine DePaul was slim, she still held a dread of that happening. How quickly all she’d worked for—and had been given—at Belmont could be taken away.
    There it was . . . the book of Isaiah .
    She’d started reading from Isaiah because Reverend Bunting had quoted from it last Sunday, and she’d liked what she’d heard. But she’d soon discovered that the first five chapters of the book weren’t nearly as uplifting as the part he’d quoted from.
    Still, she was determined to give it a fair try.
    “Chapter six . . .” She found the page and started to begin reading, then remembered and bowed her head. “Thank you, Lord, for being the Bread of Life, and for this . . . my daily bread.” She lifted her eyes, feeling quite the poet. Only, the words weren’t hers. Not originally. She’d borrowed them from a gentleman she’d heard pray aloud in church.
    She kept her voice soft. “ ‘In the year that King’ ”—she studied the name before pronouncing it—“ ‘Uzziah died I saw also the Lord sitting upon a throne, high and lifted up, and his train filled the temple.’ ” Very majestic, descriptive . . . “ ‘Above it stood the seraphims . . .’ ”
    As she read, images of angels and a temple took shape in her mind, and she pictured the scene as an oil on canvas. A scene she’d like to paint someday. “ ‘. . . And the posts of the door moved at the voice of him that cried, and the house was filled with smoke. Then I said, Woe is me! for I am undone . . .’ ”
    That word again . . . And a feeling she knew only too well.
    “ ‘For I am undone,’ ” she repeated softly, “ ‘because I am a man of uncl—’ ” She frowned, familiar with the next term too, uncomfortably so. “ ‘Unclean lips,’ ” she finished, the words resonating inside her.
    She read ahead, wincing slightly, as though the angel in the verses who had taken a live coal from the burning altar had touched her lips, instead of Isaiah’s. “ ‘And he laid it upon my mouth,’ ” she read, “ ‘and said, Lo, this hath touched thy lips; and thine iniquity is taken away, and thy sin purged.’ ”
    Movement from outside the window drew her eye.
    Diddie and Cara Netta passed. Coming for breakfast, no doubt.
    Claire recalled the “undertaking” Cara Netta had requested her help with—making a scrapbook from bits of memorabilia and pamphlets from the family’s tour of Europe. But Claire knew the real desire behind Cara Netta’s request: to put her in her place as an employee of Belmont and to regale her with all that she and Sutton had experienced together.
    Memories of the opera evening, over a week ago now, were still fresh too. She’d cried a few more tears that night after everyone had left. Then she had decided “No more.” What was done was done, and she reconciled herself to change what she could. Instead of attempting to change the impossible.
    She had work to do—projects for Mrs. Acklen, and now for Madame LeVert, and lessons with Pauline, which were coming along quite well. She hoped to have some time to sketch for herself this afternoon, to start narrowing down the choices of venue for her first painting for the auction.
    She stared out the window, waiting to see if Sutton was accompanying the LeVert sisters. But apparently he wasn’t.
    He’d been scarce in recent days. Busy with the lawsuit he was working on, she guessed, and with business for Mrs. Acklen. She wondered how the relationship was between him and Cara Netta. She saw them walking together often enough, and saw them at dinner, of course, but other than that, she avoided them as much as possible.
    It was her preference, but she also knew it was Cara Netta’s. Not that she blamed the woman. She would feel the very same, if put in Cara Netta’s position. Claire fingered the edge of the page. She imagined that—under different circumstances—she might have liked Cara Netta very much . . . if Cara Netta wasn’t in love with Sutton. And he with her.
    Drawing her thoughts back, she returned her attention to the page and soon lost herself in reading again.
    “Good morning, Miss Laurent.”
    At the voice behind her, Claire stood and spun. “Mrs. Acklen! Good morning, ma’am.” Claire glanced at the open Bible, wishing now that she’d requested permission. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
    “Yes, that’s