A Lasting Impression

is now. And if my guess is right, she’s just ensconced herself in Adelicia Acklen’s personal quarters.”

    Claire balanced the tray as she started up the stairs from the kitchen. Mrs. Monroe had been here for a week and the woman had yet to say anything other than “Yes, please,” or “No, thank you” to her, unless she was asking for something. And then—Claire smiled to herself—Eugenia Monroe’s vocabulary increased significantly.
    Sutton felt terrible about the situation, but she really didn’t mind that much. Mrs. Monroe could be demanding, even harsh at times, and the woman obviously didn’t like her. But Claire sensed that the woman’s dislike stemmed more from Mrs. Monroe’s disapproval of her relationship with Willister than from a personal aversion.
    Once Claire reached the main level, she headed toward the guest room at the end of the hallway, passing the formal dining room. She sensed a loneliness from Mrs. Monroe, and knowing all she’d been through, felt compassion for her. Just as hundreds of brushstrokes comprised a finished canvas, people were made up of a lifetime of experiences, both good and bad. And without knowing what someone had endured, it was impossible to truly know them—and accept them—for who they were.
    That took time. And patience. And a forgiving heart, which she prayed Sutton would have with her once she told him the truth. Which she was going to do. Tonight. But she knew only too well that you could forgive someone and still decide you didn’t want to be with them.
    She’d forgiven Antoine DePaul everything, yet prayed she would never see the man again.
    She didn’t know what Sutton had planned for their evening tonight. He wouldn’t tell her. He’d only instructed her to be ready by five thirty and to wear the dress she’d worn to the LeVert reception—which had been enough of a hint to have her flying high for the past five days.
    Balancing the tray, she knocked on the guest room door.
    “Enter.”
    She turned the knob, and saw Mrs. Monroe standing by the window. “Good afternoon, ma’am. Cordina made her famous chicken and dumplings for lunch. Would you like the tray on the table?”
    “Yes, please.” Mrs. Monroe’s gaze stayed fixed on some point beyond the glass pane.
    “Are you certain you wouldn’t like to enjoy your meal on one of the front porches? It’s lovely outside.”
    “No, thank you.”
    Claire arranged the tray on the table, sneaking glances. Sutton’s mother was her height but much thinner, frailer, with hair the color of spun gold. And she bore an elegance about her that bespoke breeding and a manner accustomed to the finer things of life.
    “Will there be anything else, Mrs. Monroe?”
    “No, thank you.”
    Claire curtsied. “Good day, then.” She picked up the breakfast tray she’d brought earlier that morning and smiled as she closed the door.
    “What is it that you do when you leave here in the mornings, Miss Laurent?”
    Claire stuck her hand out to stop the door from closing and nearly dropped the tray, shocked at hearing more than three words in a row from the woman. “I paint, ma’am. Landscapes. Oil on canvas.” She righted an empty china cup on the tray. “Sometimes I go to the gardens out front. Sometimes to the meadow. Other times, like this morning, I walk to the ridge.” She nodded in the direction of the conservatory on the opposite side of the estate. “There’s a beautiful view from that hill.” She decided not to add that a person could see the Monroe family land from that vantage point.
    “Do you possess any talent?”
    Claire smiled, knowing she shouldn’t be surprised at the woman’s bluntness. “It depends on whom you ask, ma’am. Some people find beauty in what I paint and seem to enjoy it.”
    “Given we are out of time, it will have to do . . .” Her smile faded as her father’s criticism returned. Would his judgment always be a mere thought away? “But I’m certain there are others whose opinions would differ. I simply try to paint the very best that I can.” And paint as if I’m painting only for Him, she wanted to add aloud but didn’t.
    Mrs. Monroe said nothing.
    Claire thought of Mrs. Broderick, the elderly woman at the shipping company, and of her frailty and forgetfulness. But this seemed different. Mrs. Monroe wasn’t that far along in years. Assuming their conversation was over, she turned to go.
    “I used to draw,” Mrs. Monroe said quietly, still staring