A Lasting Impression

sorted, not wanting to appear as if she were trying to read them. Which of course, she was. But she didn’t want Mrs. Acklen to think she was prying. Which was a little comical, because, after all, what she was reading had been published in a newspaper.
    Many of the clippings were from the local Republican Banner and the Union and American. But there were also articles from the New York Herald and the New Orleans Picayune, as well as papers from Atlanta, Mobile, and even Paris, Rome, and London.
    They worked through the afternoon, falling into a quiet rhythm, only commenting on occasion.
    The other boxes contained cards and letters, not only those from Madame LeVert to Mrs. Acklen but from other family members as well. Hundreds of them—perhaps more. Some bundled with ribbon and string, but apparently—like the clippings—grouped with no apparent attention to date or year. As thorough as Mrs. Acklen was in other areas of her life, her correspondence, while painfully plentiful, lacked proper organization.
    Amidst the boxes of letters and cards were party invitations and wedding and funeral announcements. Claire quickly grew familiar with the various family members’ handwriting and could fairly well place the author of any given missive based solely on the handwriting on the front of the envelope.
    “I believe, Miss Laurent”—Mrs. Acklen rubbed the back of her neck, then covered her mouth when she yawned—“that we have additional folders available in the library. If not, Mr. Monroe has a supply in the art gallery. Which reminds me . . .”
    Claire sensed another project on the horizon.
    “I’ve been meaning to speak to you about the art gallery.”
    Claire stopped sorting the letters in her hand and offered her full attention.
    “I’ve never had all the art at Belmont—both in the house and the art gallery—properly cataloged. Mr. Monroe’s been after me to do that for some time, but”—Mrs. Acklen rubbed her temples, squinting—“I never seem to make it a priority. However, with your assistance . . .” She lowered her head into her hands.
    “Mrs. Acklen, are you all right?”
    She didn’t look up. “I’m fine. This happens on occasion.”
    “This?”
    “An ache in my head.” She sighed. “It starts here”—she rubbed the front of her forehead—“and then continues to the back.”
    Claire winced. “Too much reading, perhaps?”
    “Dr. Denard refers to it as neuralgia.” She slowly raised her head. Her eyes appeared fatigued, and she kept squinting, as if the late-afternoon light, though soft in the room, was painful. “Miss Laurent, would you please take all this to your room and finish there? I think we have enough for Madame LeVert’s book, don’t you?”
    “Yes, ma’am. More than enough.” Claire rose and gathered the numerous stacks sitting about the room, careful not to mix them as she placed them in the boxes and carried them into the hallway. “Is there anything I can get you, ma’am . . . before I leave?”
    Mrs. Acklen had moved to the bed and lain down. “I have some powders Dr. Denard left for me. They’re in a bowl on my dressing table, right through there.”
    Claire opened a door into what she might have called a closet, if not for the room’s ample size. Gowns and trunks abounded. She crossed to the dressing table and spotted a crystal bowl containing folded medicinal papers, similar to those that had packaged her mother’s medicine. She withdrew a translucent sleeve from the batch and felt the slight bulge of powder within.
    Careful to keep it level, she’d turned to go when a portrait on the wall stopped her in her tracks.

36

    T hree angelic faces stared back at Claire, their soft expressions so sweet, so full of hope and promise. Dressed all in white and with the same dark hair, the girls shared the identical shade of chocolate brown eyes. Similar smiles tipped their rosy little lips and lit a kindred spark of mischief in their precious heart-shaped faces. There was no question in Claire’s mind.
    Sisters.
    As if prompted by some unseen hand, Claire looked back at the doorway leading to the bedroom, then slowly to the painting again, and a knifelike pain stabbed her chest. She placed a hand over her heart as memory forced her back to the day she and Mrs. Acklen had gone riding. Bits and pieces of their conversations returned on a terrible wave. “You don’t believe I know what it feels like to lose a parent at your age. And you resent my