A Lasting Impression

eyes. Her Versailles, with her maman. “Where did you get this?” But as soon as she looked at Sutton, she knew, and she loved him all the more for it. When she drew closer, she saw it. Her name in the bottom right-hand corner. And for a brief second, she was back in her bedroom above the gallery, looking out over the French Quarter, dreaming of her name someday being on a masterpiece.
    “And to be clear, Miss Laurent . . .” Mrs. Cheatham stepped closer. “The painting is mine now. But you may view it anytime you like.”
    “What my dear wife probably hasn’t told you,” Dr. Cheatham said, joining them with Pauline and Claude in tow, as well as his own teenage children, Mattie and Richard, “is that she and Mrs. Worthington about came to blows in the bidding.”
    Mrs. Cheatham shushed him.
    But Sutton laughed. “I wish I could have seen that.”
    Wishing she could have too, Claire felt Sutton’s hand on the small of her back.
    “So much for your talent not being unique,” he whispered.
    Mattie Cheatham sidled up beside her new mother, younger Pauline in hand, and Claire could see a close bond had already formed between them. Joseph was home from school now, and he and William, along with Claude, were already luring Richard Cheatham into their pranks on the girls. A full household indeed.
    “Mr. Monroe”—Dr. Cheatham gave Sutton’s shoulder a good-natured grip—“Adelicia tells me you’re quite gifted with horses. I’ve recently purchased two thoroughbreds and would be obliged if you’d consider training them for me. As time permits, of course. I’ll either compensate you outright or legally assign you a portion of their future winnings. Your choice.”
    A smile that did Claire’s heart good broke over Sutton’s face. “I’d be honored, sir. Thank you.”
    Prominently displayed on a side table was Adelicia Cheatham’s copy of Queens of American Society opened to the page that bore Mrs. Cheatham’s picture , along with the memory book Claire had made her. But a second copy of Queens of American Society also adorned the table, opened to a different page. Claire stepped closer.
    “Have you had opportunity to read Mrs. Cheatham’s portion yet, Miss Laurent?”
    Claire turned to see Mrs. Routh beside her, the woman’s spectacles resting midway down her nose. “Ah . . . yes , Mrs. Routh, actually, I have read it.” She wasn’t about to admit that she’d written practically every word. Only Mrs. Cheatham knew that. “She’s lived a very full and meaningful life.”
    “That she has.” Mrs. Routh smoothed a hand over the opened page, her forefinger lingering on the last paragraph. “It was most gracious of Mrs. Cheatham to include such kind remarks about me.”
    Claire nodded, knowing full well what the paragraph said, and getting the sneaking suspicion that Mrs. Routh knew their employer hadn’t written it. “Mrs. Cheatham thinks most highly of you, ma’am. As do many other people. But then . . .” She met the woman’s gaze. “I hope you would know that by now.”
    Mrs. Routh closed the book and held it to her chest. “I do,” she whispered. “Just as I hope those ‘other people’ know that I think the same of them.”
    A while later, after toasts had been made to the new bride and groom and a waltz had ended, Claire spotted Mrs. Cheatham gesturing to her. Claire made her way across the grand salon and past The Peri . “Yes, ma’am?”
    “Miss Laurent, why isn’t the cupola lit and ready for our guests? I am quite certain I put that on your list.”
    “No, ma’am,” Claire said gently. “We discussed the cupola earlier this week. With the redecorating you’re doing upstairs, you expressly told me that you preferred our guests not—”
    “Apparently one of us was not listening well enough, Miss Laurent. The servants are all disposed. Would you please take care of this personally? And straightaway.”
    Claire tilted her head. “Most happily, Mrs. Cheatham.” Knowing she hadn’t misunderstood but recalling everything the woman had done for her, Claire ascended the staircase, looking for Sutton, thinking he could help her with the task. She’d seen him dancing with his mother earlier, but he was nowhere in sight now. She’d lit the lanterns up there before. She could do it again.
    On the second-floor landing, she retrieved an oil lamp and matches and continued up the stairs. She opened the door to the cupola and stepped inside.
    “It’s about time. . .