A Lasting Impression

passable didn’t mean she truly knew the language.
    “Susanna, are you going to pray with me or not? The interviews end today, so this is my only chance!”
    Claire watched Susanna go to her knees beside her bossy friend and wondered how long they were going to be. She hoped not too long because she would hate to be caught hiding beneath—
    Only seconds had passed before the overly forward woman stood. Claire smiled to herself. Apparently, when attempting to sway the Almighty’s opinion, the length of the prayer was of little importance.
    “I need to go get ready for my interview.”
    Susanna rose. “I thought you said it wasn’t until noon.”
    “It isn’t! But I need for everything to be perfect. You’ve seen her in town. You know what she dresses like, how she always looks so perfect. I have to look that way too. And I need for you to help me. Please . . .”
    A tired sigh. “All right, I will. But you have to promise you’ll put in a good word for my younger brother, if you get the job.”
    The woman gave a tiny squeal. “I will. I promise. But I can’t guarantee anything.”
    Hasty steps portended their approach, and Claire lay perfectly still.
    “Your brother is going to have to work very hard in order to get that job, and then to keep it. I won’t put my reputation on the line for just anyone. . . .”
    The front doors to the church creaked open and closed again, and Claire breathed a sigh of relief.
    She waited a moment longer to make certain she was alone, then scooted out from beneath the pew, dragging her belongings with her. When she reached down to retrieve her boots, she noticed her dress. She was covered in dust! Every inch of her, from bodice to hem, including her stocking feet.
    Huffing, she brushed herself off as best she could, her plans for the day entirely altered by what she’d just learned. She hadn’t the slightest idea how she would accomplish it, but she needed to obtain an interview with . . . Mrs. Acklen, whoever that was—today! Because she needed a job, and money to pay for food and a place to live. After all, she could file and manage details and she spoke fluent French!
    She frowned. Her underskirts were so twisted, and no wonder.
    She reached beneath her dress and gave them a good rustle, then—alternately balancing each foot on the edge of the pew—she took the opportunity to straighten and secure her stockings. Feeling her corset and chemise off kilter too, she remedied that with some quick tugs and coercive boosts, then tried to make some sense of her hair. Grit and dust layered her scalp, so she knew excessive efforts there would be wasted.
    What she needed was a long hot bath, a change of clothes, and an interview with Mrs. Acklen—all before this afternoon. Which meant, she needed a miracle. Or several.
    Her gaze traveled toward the front of the sanctuary, where the two women had knelt just moments earlier. She stared, contemplating going up there and formally asking God for His help. But a niggling discomfort rose to the surface. It felt awkward, and unfair to think of asking Him for so large a favor when she hadn’t done anything even remotely worthy of such generosity.
    Feeling daunted and ill-equipped, yet already framing the petition in her mind, she turned to retrieve her boots from the floor, when she saw a man—and not just any man—leaning on the pillar at the end of the pew. Watching her!
    And judging by the wry smile tipping one side of his mouth, he’d been doing just that for quite some time.

6

    I n the space of a blink, Claire silently recounted every womanly alteration she’d just made—and her face went hot. Wishing she could turn and run, she saw the amusement in Mr. Monroe’s expression and grew warmer still. Why, of all men, did this one have to walk in on her just now? Michelangelo’s David, in the flesh, albeit fully clothed. He was taller than he’d seemed at the train station yesterday, and far more observant.
    He advanced a step. “My apologies, ma’am, if I startled you.” In the custom of Southern gentlemen, he bowed at the waist, his gaze never leaving hers. “Typically the sanctuary is unoccupied at this early hour.” The same heritage that instructed his gentility also velveted the deep timbre of his voice.
    Humor shadowed his expression, which only deepened Claire’s discomfort. Yet it wasn’t the same discomfort she’d experienced under Samuel Broderick’s leer. She wouldn’t mind this man’s attention in