A Lasting Impression

apparent.” Mrs. Acklen looked from her to the Bible and back again. “What are you reading?”
    Claire decided not to respond with the obvious. “Isaiah, ma’am.”
    “Have you read it before?”
    She shook her head.
    “Isaiah is one of my favorite books. Difficult to understand in places, granted. But well worth the effort.” Mrs. Acklen’s gaze narrowed. “Do you not have a Bible of your own, Miss Laurent?”
    “No, ma’am. I . . .” Admitting to not owning a Bible made her sound like a heathen. But what could she say in response to the question? “My Bible was . . . to be packed in my trunks. So I decided to borrow yours. I hope you don’t mind.” There, that was the truth.
    “Your trunks still haven’t arrived, Miss Laurent?”
    Claire bit the inside of her cheek. “Not to my knowledge, ma’am.”
    “Well, we’ll remedy that immediately. Give your previous address to Mr. Monroe and he’ll wire a colleague in New Orleans who will check on your trunks for you. We’ll have them sent directly to Belmont.”
    “Please, Mrs. Acklen, I don’t want you to go to any trouble.”
    “Those are your trunks, Miss Laurent. Your clothes. Your personal belongings. You have a right to have them back. You cannot simply allow someone—or in this instance, some incompetent railroad steward—to take them from you. Is that not clear to you?”
    Claire held back a sigh. “Yes, ma’am. It’s quite clear.”
    “Very good. And when you’re done in here, please come to the library. I have several Bibles. I’ll give you one. I also have a task for you today.”
    Thinking of giving Sutton her New Orleans address, Claire felt more undone by the second. “Yes, Mrs. Acklen. I’ll be right there. And . . . thank you, ma’am.”
    Mrs. Acklen closed the door, and Claire sank back down in the chair. She stared at the open Bible. So much for finding hope and comfort.
    “The Bible is there, Miss Laurent,” Mrs. Acklen said, her back to Claire as she perused a bookshelf. “On the corner of the desk.”
    Claire reached for the Bible lying on a stack of mail. Somewhere toward the bottom, an issue of the New Orleans Picayune peeked out. She’d checked each issue since finding the article about her father, but to her relief, none of them had held further mention of Papa or the gallery.
    “Do you see it, Miss Laurent?”
    “Yes, ma’am, I do.” Claire picked up the tan leather Bible and read the gold-embossed name on the cover— Mrs. Joseph Acklen. “Thank you, Mrs. Acklen.” She fingered the pages edged in silver. Certainly a nicer edition than she would have purchased for herself. “I appreciate your sharing it with me. I’ll take very good care and return it when I’m done.”
    “It’s yours, Miss Laurent. As I said, I have several. I had an envelope here . . .” Mrs. Acklen searched through papers atop the library desk. Finally, she sighed. “Perhaps I left it in my bedroom. I’ll find the envelope while you arrange with Eli for a carriage.”
    “A carriage, ma’am?”
    “Yes.” Mrs. Acklen started toward the door. “I need you to go into town for me this morning on an errand.”
    Claire started to object and yet knew better. But there went any extra time for sketching this afternoon.
    Mrs. Acklen paused and looked back. “Perhaps you have another, more pressing engagement this morning, Miss Laurent?”
    Claire felt herself blush. “Of course not, Mrs. Acklen. I’m happy to go.”
    She followed her into the entrance hall, where they met Diddie and Cara Netta coming from the grand salon.
    “Good morning, Mrs. Acklen,” they said, then sent nods Claire’s way. “Miss Laurent.”
    Claire curtsied. “Good morning, ma’ams.”
    Mrs. Acklen hugged them both. “And what are you dear girls doing today?”
    “Seeing that we’re returning home in two days”—Diddie’s smile temporarily waned—“we’re going into town to shop! That will surely cheer us up.” She grinned again. “Eli’s bringing the carriage around now.”
    “That’s wonderful!” Mrs. Acklen gestured to Claire. “Miss Laurent was leaving on an errand into town on my behalf. Would you mind if she accompanies you?”
    Claire couldn’t hold back. “Oh no, I don’t want to intrude. I’m quite content to walk. It’s a lovely day. Very dry at present,” she added, directing the statement toward Mrs. Acklen. “And I’d appreciate the exercise.”
    Mrs. Acklen looked at her as if she’d grown a third eye. Diddie