A Lasting Impression

but she was determined to win her over—
    As soon as she’d won Sutton’s heart again.
    Sutton pointed to one of the gazebos in the painting. “I didn’t see this at first.”
    She knew he wasn’t talking about the gazebo but about the two people who stood inside. The images were faint, only shadows really, and one of them was about to fall out backward, in her mind, anyway.
    “They’re like hidden treasures,” he whispered. “All the little facets you’ve put into this painting. Just like the party you planned for William.”
    She hadn’t thought of that before. Hidden treasures. Like everything God had taught her in recent months.
    Following the trial, all of the fraudulent art that had served as evidence had been auctioned off. At her request, Sutton had checked several times but there was no record of her Versailles. It was as if it had never existed.
    But in a way, that was as it should be, she decided. Because that painting had never been hers. Not really.
    God had given the gift and vision of that painting to François-Narcisse Brissaud. Not to her. She had simply taken it. Not only had she stolen from Brissaud, and from the patron who bought the canvas thinking it was authentic, she’d stolen from God, the Giver of all gifts. She’d also robbed herself. Because she’d cheated herself of the blessing of having to listen for God’s inaudible voice, of waiting on His lead to show her what to create with the gift He’d given her.
    Her gaze settled on the top portion of the canvas, the part that had taken her the longest to complete. And she recalled every painstaking brushstroke, every morning she’d arisen before dawn to be on that ridge, awaiting the sun’s return, and for those precious fleeting moments she’d had to capture the beauty of the sunrise over the hill where Sutton’s family home had once stood.
    But it was the image within the sunrise she loved most, and that was barely visible. Even she had to look to really see it—a throne, high and lifted up, among the clouds.
    Sutton reached for his coat on a nearby chair. “We’d better get on over there. Or the Lady will be sending for us.”
    With twilight nearing, they walked arm in arm the short distance to the mansion. Lanterns cast a shimmering spell over the gardens and a stringed orchestra tuned their instruments on the front lawn. When Claire and Sutton reached the top step of the portico, they turned and saw the first carriage.
    Followed by another and another . . .
    From all over the country, an endless stream of guests arriving for the wedding reception of Dr. and Mrs. William Cheatham, married just over a week ago by Reverend Bunting in a private gathering in the mansion.
    Sutton sighed beside her. “Two thousand guests invited this time.”
    She laughed and shook her head. “And nearly every one of them accepted.”
    The front door opened behind them, and Eli stepped out in black coat and tails. “Good evening, Mr. Monroe, Miss Laurent.”
    Claire curtsied. “You look so handsome, Eli.”
    He bowed at the waist. “Why, thank you, ma’am. You look lovely, as always. And Mr. Monroe . . . how are you this evening, sir?”
    “I’m well, Eli. Thank you.”
    Claire continued on inside but paused when she noticed Sutton wasn’t following. She looked back.
    “Eli, I’d like to . . .” Sutton briefly looked down. “I’d like to thank you for what you said about my father a while back. And also what . . .” Sutton lifted his gaze. “What you shared with me that he said. That meant more to me than you’ll ever know.” Slowly, he extended his hand, and Eli accepted.
    Claire sensed significance to the moment and asked Sutton about it when they stepped inside.
    But he just smiled. “I’ll tell you about it later.”
    “Miss Laurent . . .”
    Claire turned to see Mrs. Cheatham in a dress of flowing white silk, a veil of Brussels point lace floating about her shoulders. In true queenly form, a diamond tiara—a wedding gift from the Emperor and Empress of France, who had been invited to the reception but who had to politely decline—adorned her head. “You look radiant, Mrs. Cheatham.”
    “I concur completely, ma’am,” Sutton added.
    “I appreciate that.” Smiling, Mrs. Cheatham turned to Eli, who now stood by Ruth Gleaning as well as an easel covered in a black drape. “I also appreciate this,” Mrs. Cheatham added, then gestured. Eli removed the cloth with a flourish.
    Claire couldn’t believe her