A Lasting Impression

camellia.”
    “I’m sure that kept you busy, ma’am.” Eli tossed Claire a wink and leaned closer once Mrs. Acklen was a few feet away. “Are you feeling well this afternoon, Miss Laurent?”
    “Yes, I’m fine, Eli. Just a little tired.” Which wasn’t the full truth. She was exhausted. More tired than she could remember.
    Mrs. Acklen hadn’t told her until that morning that she required her assistance in town today. Who would’ve guessed giving final approvals would take so long? Claire only hoped the repairs to the floor of the grand salon had been completed as Sutton promised.
    Only the day before, they’d discovered a weakening in the floor joists beneath the salon. Workmen had been in the basement all yesterday afternoon and were back this morning when they left, pounding and hammering, carrying in reinforcement beams. Mrs. Acklen had shown surprising restraint at the news, but Claire had about come apart. And yet, she couldn’t complain.
    Even with all she had left to do in the next forty-eight hours, she was living in a dream compared to most people. It was easy to forget that, living at Belmont. But outside these grounds . . .
    While driving through the city of Nashville in a carriage that probably cost more than the majority of people made in a lifetime, it had been impossible for her not to realize how much God had given her since her arrival at Belmont. And her deserving none of it.
    “All this party hubbub will be over soon, Miss Laurent. Then you can get back to your normal work.” Eli’s brow wrinkled. “And to your painting.”
    Claire nodded, wondering if the time to truly paint again would ever come. Especially with the LeVerts arriving tomorrow. She dreaded seeing Cara Netta again.
    “You have a gift from God, ma’am,” Eli continued. “And it’s not right to hide something like that away. People need to see it. What you did for Cordina and the ladies in the kitchen . . .” He shook his head and made a sound as if he’d just tasted one of his wife’s tea cakes fresh from the oven. “It’s like they’ve got windows down there now. You don’t even feel like you’re under the earth.”
    Social etiquette forbade it, but Claire wished she could hug the man. She’d had such fun painting those white plaster walls. She’d done it late at night by lantern light when she was so tired but couldn’t sleep, and when she wanted so badly to paint but lacked the concentration to create something of real worth.
    She’d painted scenes of rose gardens with gazebos, and of statues and fountains. She even painted a scene of the servants’ brick houses all clustered together. It had been good practice for her, painting them in the style of François-Narcisse Brissaud. The paintings wouldn’t garner any prizes, by any means. Yet the smiles the women gave her each time she entered the kitchen did her heart good.
    But come March, she needed to have painted something worthy of entering into the art auction.
    “Thank you, Eli.” She covered his hand with hers, smiling when his eyes widened. “It was my pleasure. You and your wife have made me feel so welcome here. Almost like I belong.”
    He squeezed her hand right back. “The way I see things, Miss Laurent, you do belong here at Belmont, ma’am. Because if you didn’t, the good Lord wouldn’t have brought you here. He knows what you’re doing here, even if you don’t.”
    “Miss Laurent?”
    Claire looked up to see Sutton standing on the portico by the front door, and her heart did a funny little flip. Mrs. Acklen stood with him. “Yes, Mr. Monroe?”
    “Your attention, along with Mrs. Acklen’s, is required in the grand salon. We’re still having . . .” His gaze cut away from hers. “Well, you’d best come and see.”
    Her heart fell. He’d assured her at breakfast that they would get it fixed in time. But, oh, if they didn’t . . .
    She raced up the stairs, out of breath, and followed him and Mrs. Acklen through the entrance hall. The house was strangely quiet compared to the recent flurry of preparation. Bracing herself, she rounded the corner into the grand salon, and came to an immediate halt.

41

    I n the center of the room stood a statue of an angel—at least five feet tall—situated atop a polished marble platform. Her delicate-looking wings, carved from white marble like the rest of her nude body, hung folded elegantly down her back. Claire could only stare, wordless.
    “You may hold me personally