A Lasting Impression

insinuation that I do.”
    Claire squeezed her eyes tight, recalling her own bitter, self-centered response to Mrs. Acklen’s statement, her all-too-clear insinuation that Mrs. Acklen didn’t understand the depth of her loss. How Mrs. Acklen had looked at her . . . Claire sensed she’d wanted to say something else that day, but now she knew it with certainty.
    Because she was staring at what Mrs. Acklen hadn’t said.
    That in addition to losing her father and husband, Mrs. Acklen had lost two daughters as well, leaving pretty little Pauline as the only girl. Death was no respecter of age, Claire knew. Children died. Parents died. Loss was all too commonplace, especially these days. Until it happened to you. And then it was different.
    For some reason, she’d simply assumed that Mrs. Acklen’s wealth had insulated her from loss.
    She moved closer to the portrait, close enough to see the brushstrokes of oil paints on canvas. Masterful, how tiny little dots of color—artful smears blended with the bristles of a brush—once combined, could evoke such powerful emotion. And such powerful regret.
    “Miss Laurent . . . did you find the powders?”
    “Yes, ma’am,” Claire answered quickly. “I have one right here.”
    She kept her eyes averted as she retrieved Mrs. Acklen’s teacup and filled it halfway with tepid water from the teapot. She added the powder and stirred until the granules dissolved. She assisted Mrs. Acklen as she drank, the scene feeling all too familiar for her.
    Mrs. Acklen reclined on a bolster of pillows. “Is something wrong, Miss Laurent?”
    Claire shook her head. “No, ma’am. Nothing’s wrong.”
    Lines furrowed Mrs. Acklen’s brow. “Your maman ?” she whispered, a trace of question in her voice.
    Knowing that was only part of her struggle, Claire nodded.
    “I’m so sorry for your loss, Miss Laurent.”
    Claire bit her lip again, trying to stave off words that seemed to have a life of their own. “I’m sorry too . . .” She glanced briefly toward the closet, unable to get the image of the angelic faces from her mind. “About your daughters.”
    Mrs. Acklen’s expression clouded briefly. “Ah . . .” She sighed. “The portrait.”
    Claire exhaled a shaky breath. “And I’m sorry I said what I did to you . . . that day we went riding. The way I acted . . .” She shook her head. “I didn’t know,” she whispered, tears rising. “I just didn’t know.”
    Mrs. Acklen’s own eyes glistened. “It’s all right, Miss Laurent. It was a long time ago.”
    Claire nodded once, then thought of Pauline. “But not so long. Pauline’s not that old.”
    Mrs. Acklen briefly closed her eyes. “Pauline isn’t in that portrait, Miss Laurent. The painting is of my daughters Victoria . . . Adelicia . . . and Emma.” It seemed as if the very act of speaking their names was painful. “The portrait was painted over twenty years ago.” She managed a tremulous smile. “Before you were even born. But granted, there are days”—she took a sharp breath—“when those years feel like mere moments.”
    Claire stared. Three daughters. All passed. “They were so beautiful.”
    “And they were angels, all of them. Victoria was six and Adelicia four, when they died. Three days apart. From bronchitis and croup. Emma was only a year and a half old at the time.” Mrs. Acklen briefly closed her eyes, and Claire wondered if it was the medicine taking effect, or if it was the wash of memories. “Emma died from diphtheria nine years later.”
    “You must have grieved for them so. And your husband . . .”
    Mrs. Acklen looked over at her. “Yes, Joseph grieved with me. He loved Emma, very much. And Emma loved him. But he wasn’t her father, nor was he Victoria’s or Adelicia’s.” She gestured to a side table.
    Claire picked up the framed miniature painting of an older man. A man she didn’t recognize and who certainly wasn’t the same man as in the portrait in the entrance hall.
    “That was my first husband, Isaac Franklin. We married when I was twenty-two.” She reached for the photograph and smoothed her fingertips over the frame. “We were quite the talk at the time. He was twenty-eight years my senior.”
    Claire quickly did the math.
    “We had four beautiful children together, and seven wonderful years. Our third child, a son, lived only a few hours.” She gazed at Mr. Franklin’s face, a quiet, distant love in her expression. “Mr. Franklin passed away . . . six