A Lasting Impression

be. . . .
    A knock on the partially opened door brought her head up. Claire quickly buried the article in the stack of clippings. “Mrs. Routh.” She forced a smile.
    The head housekeeper stepped inside the study, envelopes in her hand. Her attention flitted to the pile of newspaper clippings, and lingered. “The mail arrived, Miss Laurent.”
    “Thank you.” Claire stood and met her halfway. “I appreciate your bringing it to me.” Mrs. Routh turned to leave. She’d seemed quieter, almost distant, lately, but Claire hadn’t questioned it. Up until now, she’d simply been grateful for the reprieve.
    Claire returned to the settee and absently flipped through the envelopes, hoping Mrs. Routh hadn’t seen what she’d been reading. There was an envelope from Mrs. Holbrook—about the upcoming Women’s League annual tea, no doubt. And Claire recognized Mr. Stanton’s handwriting on another. But no letter from Sutton.
    Gradually becoming aware of Mrs. Routh still standing in the doorway, Claire tried for a normal tone. “Is there something else you need, Mrs. Routh?”
    Her expression stoic, the head housekeeper appeared as though she wanted to say something, and yet didn’t at the same time. She stood a little straighter. “I wish to convey to you, Miss Laurent, that . . .” Mrs. Routh looked as if she’d just bitten into a sour lemon. “What you did . . . for Mrs. Acklen”—she said the name with such reverence—“with the statue of the children . . .” She gestured toward the entrance hall and glanced away.
    Then, as if realizing she’d broken her own cardinal rule about needing to look at the person to whom she was speaking, she looked back. “It was a most gracious gesture, Miss Laurent.” She spoke the last words quickly, as if gritting her teeth and hoping the doctor’s needle would be swift.
    Claire was certain her surprise shown in her face. “Thank you . . . Mrs. Routh. That’s very kind of you to say. It was my pleasure to do it. I’m most grateful for all that Mrs. Acklen has done for me.”
    Mrs. Routh’s hint of a smile was almost jarring. “As am I, Miss Laurent, for her great generosity to me.” She promptly turned to close the door behind her, but not before casting one last look at the pile of articles on the settee and then at Claire.
    For several seconds, Claire stared at the closed door, having the distinct feeling that she’d sorely misjudged the woman.

    On Thursday evening, the carriage turned off the main road and Mr. Stanton’s home came into view. Claire told herself she ought not be surprised at the manor’s size and elegance. She’d known Andrew Stanton was wealthy.
    She stepped from the carriage, assisted by Mr. Stanton’s footman and with the wrapped copy of Les Aventures de Télémaque tucked in her coat pocket. A servant greeted her at the door, and Mr. Stanton met her inside the drawing room.
    He kissed her hand. “Miss Laurent, thank you for agreeing to join me here this evening. I thought it might be a nice change to have dinner at home rather than in town.”
    Claire accepted his help with her coat. “Of course. I appreciated receiving your invitation.” He’d asked to have dinner last week, but she’d been busy working to finish cataloging the pieces in the art gallery and painting every minute she could. Her gaze was immediately drawn to the paintings on the walls. All originals, as far as she could tell, and all artists she recognized. “You and Mrs. Acklen share a common love for art.”
    “More than once, she and I have found ourselves bidding against one another in an auction. She has exquisite taste.”
    “As do you, sir.”
    Andrew Stanton was a handsome man with silvering hair at his temples and a kind, open face, and conversation with him over dinner came easily. Following the meal, they retired into the drawing room for coffee where a fire burned warm in the hearth.
    She sat on the settee, and he beside her. “You have a lovely home here.”
    “Even lovelier with you in it.” He glanced away as though surprised he’d given the thought voice, and Claire felt her guard rise.
    “Miss Laurent . . .” His smile was tentative. “Claire,” he said, question in his tone.
    She gave a single nod.
    “I realize that you must look upon me as quite the older man. Which I am, compared to your youthfulness. But I believe that age and youth can sometimes complement one another. And I believe they would . . . in our situation.”
    “Mr.