A Lasting Impression

burned her lungs. And the thought of Sutton’s dream set her heart on fire. The thoroughbred scaled the stream as if it was a mere crack in the dirt, and she soared right with him just as Sutton had taught her.
    She couldn’t explain it, but she felt closer to Sutton in that moment than she ever had.
    She guided the thoroughbred to the top of the ridge and reined in, out of breath. Seeing Belmont below and the city of Nashville in the distance, she ached to capture the beauty on canvas. She’d painted four landscapes so far, of different views in the meadow.
    Her work was coming along—but slowly.
    She would retire at night thinking a particular painting held promise, only to awaken the next morning and see it for what it was. Something any tourist wandering the French Quarter could buy from a street artist. Good, but not nearly good enough for the auction just over a month away.
    “ Your talent simply lacks any unique quality . . . .” Though she tried to shut it out, her father’s opinion of her work rose from the grave and condemned her efforts even before the palette was wet. And a part of her wondered if maybe he’d been right.
    Maybe she was just a mediocre painter—and a copyist—after all.
    As the sun spread golden fingers over the vistas below, Claire closed her eyes tight, still seeing the views but as a concert of brushstrokes on canvas. Father, help me create something worthy. Worthy of the auction and worthy in the eyes of the critics. . . .
    But even as the words left her heart and rose upward, they fell flat. She wished Sutton was at her side. He would know what words to pray, even if she didn’t.

    Two days later saw February ushered in and the gardens of Belmont blanketed in four inches of snow. Claire brought the last two hatboxes filled with letters and mementos into the small study, determined to get through them so she could begin the memory book for Mrs. Acklen. Not to mention finish writing the biography she’d started for Mrs. Acklen’s chapter in Queens of American Society.
    On the settee before the fire, cup of Cordina’s tea at hand, she opened the first box—and saw the invitation she’d designed for Madame LeVert’s reception on top. She smiled. Mrs. Acklen must have slipped it inside before she left for New Orleans.

    Mrs. Acklen had instructed her to keep the invitation brief and elegant. Claire had shown her the draft, fully expecting her to mark it up with suggestions. But Mrs. Acklen had approved it without the slightest alteration. Reliving that sense of satisfaction, Claire set the invitation in the stack of items slated for the memory book.
    She ran across so many things that touched her heart. The funeral announcement for Emma Franklin, letters from various family members to Adelicia . . . Then her gaze fell to a newspaper clipping next in the stack. The title drew her eye—FRANCIS ROUTH ACQUITTED.
    Francis Routh ? As in . . . related to Belmont’s Mrs. Routh?
    Claire checked the date. July 18, 1842. Front page of the Nashville Banner . She skimmed the first paragraph and a flush of awareness moved through her, heavy and uncomfortable, as if she were reading a diary that wasn’t hers.

46

    C laire read the article, feeling as though she shouldn’t, and yet reminding herself—as she had before when reading these clippings—that this had been public news. Granted, over twenty years ago now.
Following a second appeal, Francis Routh of Nashville has been acquitted of a conviction in a Louisiana land fraud case that sent him to prison over two years ago. Routh was released from the Louisiana State Penitentiary on the second of this month after serving twenty-six months of a three-year sentence.
    Claire’s gaze hovered over the next paragraph, the words revealing, and starting to blur in her vision.
Having suffered from declining health since entering prison, Routh died of pneumonia last week at the home of his close associate and former business partner, Isaac Franklin. Since Routh’s incarceration, and the loss of his home and business, his wife has taken residence with Mr. and Mrs. Isaac Franklin of Fairview in Gallatin.
From the outset, Routh maintained his innocence. He is predeceased by two sons, and leaves behind his wife, Mrs. Abigail Routh of Nashville.
    The remainder of the article dealt with the alleged charges from years prior, and Claire dragged her gaze from the newsprint and stared ahead, focusing on nothing.
    Mrs. Routh’s husband. It had to