A Lasting Impression

bread even before she pushed open the door.
    “Good evening, Miss Laurent!” Eli greeted her by taking her plate. And when he reached for her glass, Claire playfully held it back from him.
    “I’ll only give it to you if I can have some more of your wife’s lemonade. If there’s enough to spare.”
    He grinned, glancing across the kitchen at his wife, who was visiting with three other women. “We always have sweet lemonade at the ready, Miss Laurent. Mrs. Acklen’s orders.” He leaned closer. “And my dear wife’s as well.”
    Claire grinned. Surprised as she’d been when learning that Eli and Cordina were married, now that she’d gotten to know them better, she couldn’t imagine them apart.
    He returned with her glass filled, his shaved head boasting a sheen of sweat. True to Cordina’s word, the kitchen was overly warm. Claire thanked him and took a good long drink, then gestured to the crusted loaves lining the wooden tables. Enough for a small army. “What’s all this for?”
    “It’s going to an orphanage across town. Mrs. Acklen provides food for the children there every month. Cordina suggested we take some of her bread with us this time, and Mrs. Acklen was pleased with the idea.”
    An orphanage. Claire couldn’t remember Mrs. Acklen ever mentioning anything about an orphanage. And before this afternoon, she would’ve said she knew her employer quite well.
    She retreated back upstairs and outside to the front gardens, where she was greeted by a late October breeze—cool, but not chilling—and she welcomed it after the heat of the kitchen. The leaves on the maples atop the hills were turning. Within days the foliage would be ablaze with color. She thought of her newly arrived canvases and tubes of paint in her room, and her right hand itched to hold a paintbrush again. Soon . . .
    She walked down the hill as far as the third tiered garden, and paused to look back, picturing the evening of the LeVert reception with over a thousand people arriving in all their finery, milling about the gardens and grounds before crowding into the grand salon and other rooms. The event would begin at eight in the evening. They’d decided that much, at least. And though a waning yellow sun still hovered over the countryside this evening, she knew it would be a different story come mid-December.
    She continued on downhill, wishing now that she’d brought a wrap, but not enough to turn back.
    In her mind’s eye, she could see lanterns draped at even intervals along the curving road toward the mansion, golden light blanketing the path, welcoming visitors. And perhaps a brass ensemble situated in the gazebo nearest the house so that guests would arrive amidst the melodies of chamber music and—
    She spotted a rider coming up the road. Not needing to look twice, she walked to the edge of the path to greet him.
    “Finally,” she said, smiling up as Sutton reined in beside her. “The prodigal has returned.” She’d been waiting all week to use the term she’d learned from Reverend Bunting’s sermon last Sunday.
    “Good evening, Claire.”
    Good evening, Claire? That was hardly the teasing response she’d hoped for. And so formal. She noted the firm set of his jaw, despite the coerced smile, and his eyes lacked their usual warmth. “Is everything all right, Sutton?”
    He looked away. “Yes, it’s just been a long day.”
    She stepped closer. “If you’d like dinner, I’d be happy to fix you a plate and bring it to the—”
    “No . . . thank you. I ate in town.”
    “Oh . . .” She nodded. “Good.” The breeze that had brought cooling relief moments earlier gave her a chill now, and she rubbed her arms.
    He gestured behind him. “A statue Mrs. Acklen ordered while in Europe arrived today. A wagon is bringing it right behind me.”
    A statue! Claire peered down the road, seeing no wagon yet. And in light of Sutton’s present mood, she tried not to appear too excited. “Who is the sculptor?”
    He eyed her, then laughed, a sharp, humorless sound. “Nice attempt at indifference, but unconvincing.”
    She made a pouting face. “I’m sorry. But I love statues, and paintings, and . . . all of that.”
    “I know,” he said quietly. “I know you do.”
    His melancholy tone stirred her concern. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
    The distant squeak of wooden wheels on hard-packed dirt announced the wagon’s arrival.
    Truxton whinnied and pranced, but Sutton held the stallion steady.