A Lasting Impression

letter had reported them departing for Angola Plantation, some one hundred thirty miles from New Orleans, and she’d rested easier.
    She smiled thinking of the postscript he’d included in his last letter. “ Try not to nod off during Pastor Bunting’s sermons. Though, from what I hear, the pews are quite comfortable .”
    Reading his letters was like sitting next to him, conversing. And more than once she’d found herself laughing or responding aloud to something he’d written. Between managing Mrs. Acklen’s business interests and working on the lawsuit with Mr. Holbrook—whatever that entailed—his days sounded overfull.
    But her favorite part of the letter was his closing, where he told her he was praying for her, which had prompted her to do the same for him even more faithfully.
    Two miniature framed portraits of a man and woman graced his bedside table. His parents, she presumed. The drawing of the man could well have been an artist’s rendering of Sutton in future years. The resemblance was striking. Delicate best described the woman’s likeness, the features of her face all softness and curves, no sharpness whatsoever. Beautiful . . .
    Claire smoothed a hand over Sutton’s pillow, wondering again if there was a reason beyond extended business that was keeping him away. Of one thing she was certain—leaving had been difficult for him. She’d seen it in his face, felt it in his manner.
    Which, strangely, made being apart from him more bearable.
    The rendering of the review board’s verdict regarding his family’s land had appeared in the Nashville Banner shortly after he’d left. On the front page. And it hadn’t been complimentary to his father. Quite disparaging, in fact. For that reason alone, she’d been glad Sutton had been away. Though he’d no doubt read the article by now. Mrs. Acklen had the newspapers mailed to her at Angola.
    Claire completed cataloging the pieces of art for that day, then retrieved her sketching pad and pencils and headed in the direction of the meadow. She pulled her coat collar closer about her neck, her breath fogging white in the January chill as she trod the well-worn path.
    Recent days had found a steady rhythm. Awakening before sunrise, she read in the tête-à-tête room, enjoying it when she happened across Scriptures Mrs. Acklen had underlined in the Bible she’d given her. What insight that gave into a person—reading verses they’d found especially meaningful. After breakfasting with Eli and Cordina in the kitchen, she painted until midmorning, always searching for that one perfect venue to paint for the upcoming auction. The rest of the day was spent working on Mrs. Acklen’s various projects and cataloging the woman’s priceless collection of art. But the evening hours . . . those were by far the loneliest.
    She’d already finished Alexander the Great and Thomas Moore’s Paradise and the Peri, among other selections, but reading books and writing Sutton could only fill up so much time.
    The cold air stinging her lungs, Claire followed the trail alongside the creek until she came to her favorite slab of limestone that jutted out from a hillside. She settled onto nature’s bench, the bubbling harmony of water over rock speaking an ancient tongue. She drank it in, drawn to its peaceful tranquility.
    A flutter of color drew her attention a short ways downstream, and she spotted a cardinal, the bright red of its feathers brilliant against the winter dull. The bird swooped and settled by the near bank, where a pool of water ran tranquil and deep. The bird drank its fill and fluttered off.
    Claire stared at the spot where the bird had been, remembering her mother’s last request—how she’d poured the water over her mother’s body—and still seeing the scene so clearly in her memory. An image of the The Peri rose in her mind, the angel cradling the bowl of water against her chest, and Claire instinctively swallowed. Father God, would you quench this thirst inside me . . .
    She sat for a while longer, until the sun began its evening journey, then she made her way back to the mansion, her limbs stiff with cold. Cordina greeted her inside the entrance hall.
    “Land’s sake, child, look at your cheeks. You’re frozen through.” She cupped Claire’s face in her warm hands, and Claire shivered. “I’ll be bringin’ your dinner up shortly, Miss Laurent. A package came for you. It’s on the table in the small study.”
    “Thank you,