A Lasting Impression

Diddie staring. As were Sutton and Cara Netta.
    A keenness slipped into Sutton’s expression. “Are you unwell, Miss Laurent?”
    She heard the question but couldn’t respond. Because at any second, the life she’d found at Belmont would be over. Antoine DePaul would see to that with swift and vicious resolve.
    Just as Sutton leaned toward her, the carriage moved forward, and the viselike grip on Claire’s throat lessened its hold.
    She took a breath. “I’m . . . fine, Mr. Monroe. Thank you.” Beyond the window, storefronts and pedestrians swept blissfully by. “I simply . . . grew a little warm, I think.”
    “Miss Laurent,” Diddie said, casting her sister a look, “if you’d rather go on home, we can. I know for a fact that Cordina was baking tea cakes earlier.”
    Claire could have hugged her. “I would prefer that, Miss LeVert. If it’s all right.”
    More than once on the way back to Belmont, Claire discreetly glanced behind them to make certain no one was following. The image of Antoine DePaul was locked in her mind, as was the reality of how swiftly her circumstances could change. She told herself that perhaps Antoine had only been looking at the Clarence. After all, his tastes ran toward the most expensive and extravagant. Belmont was the last place he would ever think of to look for her. She was safe there. She was certain of it.
    Now if she could only convince the tremor inside her.
    When they arrived at Belmont, Claire sought out Mrs. Acklen and conveyed her gratitude for the generous gift of the dresses. Then at dinner in the formal dining room, she tried to be attentive as Diddie and Cara Netta regaled everyone with the day’s events.
    She smiled on cue and commented when necessary, but inwardly she kept reliving the moment she’d seen Antoine—when he’d turned on the street and had gone so very still. She shuddered again just thinking about it.
    Mrs. Acklen rose from the head of the table. “Shall we move all this gaiety to the grand salon?” She tilted her head in Cara Netta’s direction. “After much persuasion, Miss LeVert has graciously agreed to play for us again.”
    Cara Netta dipped her head as though acquiescing to her hostess’s wishes.
    Claire stood, aware of Sutton looking her way. He silently mouthed, “Are you all right?” She smiled, but only a little, and nodded once, then looked away, wary of Cara Netta’s misinterpretation of the exchange should she notice.
    But that Sutton cared enough to inquire meant everything.
    Cara Netta played beautifully, as usual, her fingers flying over the ivories, even at the most difficult parts. Claire longed to paint like Cara Netta played. She wanted to create something that would resonate with people. That would make them stop and take notice of the portrait or landscape, a scene that would so capture their emotions they would pause and search the lower right-hand corner of the canvas and say, “Ah, yes . . . Claire Elise Laurent. ”
    Claire studied the remnants of coffee in her china cup, thinking of her Versailles and wondering where the painting was. Even more, she wished she could see it again. See her mother standing there at the edge of the garden path, half hidden behind the lilacs. Maman . . . I miss you. So very much.
    “Do you have a request, Miss Laurent?”
    Claire blinked and raised her head. Mrs. Acklen was looking at her, as was everyone else. “I-I’m sorry, ma’am?”
    “Do you have a particular piece you’d like for Cara Netta to play?”
    “She’s taking requests,” Diddie added. “And we’re doing our best to stump her!”
    One composition immediately came to Claire’s mind, and the title was out of her mouth before she’d thought it through.
    “ ‘Moonlight Sonata’?” Cara Netta repeated, eyeing Claire over her shoulder. “By that I presume you mean the first movement of Beethoven’s Sonata in C-sharp Minor. A beautiful piece, to be sure. But . . . it’s hardly a challenge, Miss Laurent.”
    “No, I suppose not,” Claire said softly, feeling stares from around the room. “But perhaps the true test of a pianist’s ability lies not only in mastering the difficult, but the simpler as well.”
    Cara Netta chuckled. “And why would that be, Miss Laurent?”
    Claire weighed her response. “Simpler music can prove as complex, perhaps more so, because one must work harder to capture the intended emotion. After all, as Beethoven said, ‘Playing without passion—’ ”
    “ ‘Is