A Lasting Impression

wasn’t necessary, then realized she could hardly feel her toes. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.”
    “What do you plan to wear to the reception, Miss Laurent?”
    The question was unexpected. Claire crossed to the small wardrobe and withdrew one of her new dresses. A dark gray one that Sutton had complimented her on more than once. “I brushed it earlier this evening and shined my boots, so I’m all ready.” She presented the dress for inspection, knowing what a stickler Mrs. Acklen was for being well groomed.
    “While that’s very nice, Miss Laurent, I think I have something that might suit you—and the event—a little better. But first . . .” Mrs. Acklen draped the dress bag across the bed. “I want to remind you that I’m a stickler for adhering to propriety. You know that.”
    Claire nodded.
    “However, there are times in life when I believe that conforming to society’s expectations can be . . . confining. Even suffocating. And unnecessary.”
    Though tempted to nod, Claire wasn’t sure what she would be agreeing to, so she raised her eyebrows instead and tilted her head slightly. A gesture she’d learned from Mrs. Acklen. One indicating attentiveness without committing to agreement.
    Mrs. Acklen chuckled. “You have mastered that response quite well, Miss Laurent.” She ran a finger along the edge of the dress bag. “Allow me to speak in plainer terms. I’ve spent the greater part of my life dressed in black. And as I face my latter years, I’ve begun to wonder if the length of time associated with this tradition is ill-conceived. When I’m gone, do I want Pauline to be draped in the memory of my passing for a full year? Or two? Do I want her to continually focus on the fact that I’m no longer with her? Or would I prefer for her to mourn me, yes, but then to move on with her life and live—and dress—in such a way that would celebrate my eternal inheritance?”
    Claire sensed the question was rhetorical. But if she’d had to give answer, she would have easily chosen the latter.
    “By no means, Miss Laurent, are you under obligation to wear this dress to the reception. But I think it would be stunning on you.” She withdrew the garment from the bag. “And I sincerely hope you will.”

42

    R est assured, Mr. Monroe, we’ll make certain everything is kept safe. The guests won’t even know we’re here.”
    “Thank you, Matthews.” Sutton gripped the man’s hand and took a last look around the art gallery. All doors were locked except for the main entrance, through which a steady tide of reception guests were already coming and going. A recent theft from a home in town, and during a social gathering no less, prompted Sutton to be more vigilant than usual. “I’ll check back with you later this evening.”
    “Very good, sir.”
    Sutton stepped out into the brisk December evening and felt as though he’d walked into a fairy-tale world. Belmont was awash in a cascade of twinkling lights, and the chilly night air thrummed with anticipation. He’d been at the estate while the luminary company had installed hundreds of oil lanterns and candlelit contraptions all across the grounds—hanging them throughout the gardens, over trellises, and lining the pathways, starting at the gated entrance to Belmont and leading all the way to the front step—but the sight of them lit was overwhelming.
    It was nothing short of magical. Otherworldly.
    He made his way toward the mansion, dodging the carriages and omnibuses as they deposited guests along the front circular drive. Nashville’s finest in all their finery. He was careful where he stepped. The animals were leaving deposits faster than Zeke and the other stable hands could collect them.
    Huge cast-iron sugar kettles dotted the grounds, nestling fires to coddle guests in warmth while they strolled the garden paths or awaited entrance into the main house. Or, later, to warm them when they traded the crowded rooms and hallways of the mansion for a moment of cool night air. He took it all in. Claire Laurent was brilliant. And Adelicia Acklen would be the talk of the town for months—if not years—to come. Whatever walls she’d erected between her and her peers in the past, tonight would go far in tearing them down.
    Just as Claire had instructed, every window in the main house was awash in candlelight, and the stately harmonies of a brass ensemble—the lead trumpet’s trills clear and strong, not missing a beat—drifted toward