A Lasting Impression

tad too long, hinting at reluctance and regret, told Sutton everything he didn’t want to know.

35

    C laire climbed the staircase leading from the grand salon to the second floor, one eye focused on the heavy silver service weighting the tray in her hands, the other on her footing on the plush red carpet. And all beneath Queen Victoria’s regal gaze.
    Halfway up, where the staircase divided and branched to the left and right, the portrait of England’s monarch loomed larger than life, as though the queen herself were waiting to see which direction Claire would choose. Claire wished she could stop and examine the painting. She’d never seen it up close before. But the tea service grew heavier by the second, and Mrs. Acklen was waiting.
    The split staircases were works of art in themselves—rich mahogany woodwork and intricately carved white spindles. Twin alcoves tucked into the curve of the walls, one on either side, boasted a marble bust of a man, and the other, a vase of freshly cut shrub roses.
    Choosing the left staircase, she continued to the second-floor gallery and found it quiet. Rows of narrow rectangular windows below the ceiling line ran the length of the gallery, allowing ample sunlight. Another staircase, smaller, continued upward. To the cupola, she guessed. Oh, how she would love to go up there too. She could only imagine the view . . .
    But would be able to imagine it a lot better if her arms weren’t aching !
    She carefully lowered the tray onto a side table, mindful to keep it level. No wonder Cordina had eyed her when she’d volunteered to carry the tray up herself. The heavy silver teapot, filled to the brim with steaming water, probably weighed ten pounds by itself. Not to mention the tray, the cups and saucers, sugar and milk, and the plateful of fresh tea cakes.
    Looking both ways, making sure the hallway was empty, Claire popped one of the tea cakes into her mouth. Not a very ladylike thing to do, but oh . . . Cordina’s tea cakes were delectable. Tiny little cakelike cookies covered in powdered sugar. Like Southern beignets. How the woman managed to get them so moist and all the same—
    “May I help you, Miss Laurent?”
    Nearly choking, Claire turned.
    Standing in a doorway a short distance down the hall was Mrs. Routh. Claire would’ve sworn the woman could walk through walls. Frantically chewing, her cheeks packed, she held up a forefinger, embarrassed, trying to swallow, wishing for tea but knowing if she stopped to pour herself a cup that would only make matters worse.
    Finally, she managed to choke down the cake. “Mrs. Routh . . .” Breathing as if she’d run a footrace, she wiped the corners of her mouth, aware of the suspicion in Mrs. Routh’s stare. “Mrs. Acklen requested that I meet her in her personal quarters, and”—Claire glanced around—“I was just looking for her bedroom.”
    “Really?” Mrs. Routh closed the distance between them. “Because it appeared as though you were consuming a tea cake, Miss Laurent.”
    Instinctively, Claire started to apologize, then caught herself. She had done absolutely nothing wrong. Why did she always kowtow to this woman? But she knew why—because she didn’t have the courage to stand up to her. Like the sliding of a bolt into a latch, something shifted inside her.
    She squared her shoulders and her gaze. “Mrs. Acklen requested that I meet her in her private quarters, Mrs. Routh. I offered to bring her tea, and yes, I helped myself to a tea cake just now. Which, I am certain, is not a sin.” Claire blinked, not believing she’d actually said the words aloud. And without a single stutter. More than a little proud, she tried not to show it.
    Mrs. Routh stared, her expression revealing nothing. “Your flippancy, while not at all surprising to me, Miss Laurent, is not the least bit becoming.” She spoke softly, evenly, not a hint of sarcasm in her voice. “Especially when considering your position here at Belmont.”
    Hearing that one word, Claire’s briefly lived pride faded, and the words she feared would haunt her for as long as she worked for Mrs. Acklen returned. “ You are an extension of me . . . .”
    Feeling as though she’d faced a test and failed miserably, she bowed her head. She was weary of these tense, abbreviated exchanges with Belmont’s head housekeeper, and she knew that if she didn’t do this now, she would lose her nerve. “Mrs. Routh, I realize that from the first time we met, your