A Lasting Impression

still fell short. The buggy wound its way along the tree-studded path, past a carriage house and stables, and again Claire noted the remnants of years-old felled oak and pine, their burned-out stumps testimony to battles fought.
    Claire spotted a deer—or more rightly, a stag—lurking in the shadow of a pine. Only, this was no ordinary stag.
    Made of cast iron and capturing the true animal’s regal stance, the statue stood alert, its antlered head lifted heavenward, eternally seeking a scent on the wind. Delighted, Claire grinned as other animals appeared—dogs, lions, and several deer—all cast from iron like their dauntless leader, either nestled among the shady trees or standing watch beneath flowering shrubbery.
    The road gradually widened and turned, and the estate extended its second formal welcome in the presentation of lavish gardens containing every imaginable color. The mansion sat atop the hill, in full view, though still some distance away, and Claire drank it all in. Belmont—or Belle Monte in French, meaning “beautiful mountain”—was an artist’s paradise. And she marveled at the lengths Mrs. Acklen had gone to create such a lavish impression on her visitors.
    Three circles comprised the formal gardens, the largest circle located nearest the mansion, while its smaller counterparts descended downhill, diminishing in size. The buggy rumbled past intersecting walkways that connected the circles, and bubbling fountains overflowed amidst a sea of roses, star jasmine, and boxwood. Gardeners dotted the expansive grounds, clipping and planting, pruning and sheering.
    A tower stood a short distance away, and Claire imagined how far a person might be able to see from that vantage point. Something ahead glinted in the sunlight, and she shielded her eyes to get a better look.
    Marble statuary—too many to count at a glance—dotted the expansive gardens. Reflecting the afternoon sun, the sculptures shimmered dazzling white against the grassy carpet of green. And gazebos, standing a softer white against the late summer blooms, extended an invitation to come and rest.
    She laughed to herself. It was all so—
    “Beautiful, isn’t it?” the reverend said.
    She exhaled. “ Overwhelming was the word I was thinking of.”
    “You haven’t seen the half of it yet.” A smile lit his voice. “Right over there”—he pointed to an octagonal-shaped building—“is the bear house.”
    Claire frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
    Mrs. Bunting nodded. “The bear house, dear. Mrs. Acklen keeps wild animals on her property. Her late husband”—her voice lowered a notch—“God rest his soul, often kept a lion or tiger for the delectation of his guests and himself, or so we’ve been told. Mr. Acklen passed away before we moved to Nashville, so we never had the honor of meeting him. But—if what I’m told is correct—in recent years, Mrs. Acklen has limited her interest in larger animals to bears.”
    “And alligators, let’s not forget,” Mr. Bunting supplied.
    Claire looked to see if he was jesting. But his expression said he most certainly was not.
    The reverend gestured. “In that direction is a lake where Mrs. Acklen keeps the alligators. She had them shipped from Louisiana.”
    Claire instinctively recoiled. What type of person brought alligators all that way? And kept them at their home?
    The clomp of horses’ hooves drowned out the fountains they passed, and she spotted a marble statue, one of a young woman trimming vines about an arbor. The woman, forever fixed in stone, was missing her left hand, and all the fingers from her right, save one.
    “It was damaged in the war.”
    Claire turned to find the reverend looking at the same statue.
    “When the Federal Army took control of the grounds. Soldiers were encamped everywhere. Their generals took command of the house.” Traces of bitterness crisped the edges of his voice. “One of the last battles was fought here, around the house, then on up toward town. Most of Mrs. Acklen’s neighbors lost everything, including their homes. But Belmont came through relatively unscathed.”
    Looking out across the estate, Claire tried to imagine the scene. Soldiers everywhere, campfires burning, the chaos of battle, the smoke and echo of gunfire. Such a stark contrast to the present bliss.
    The mansion loomed ahead, and a tangle of nerves twisted inside her. She wished now that she hadn’t eaten those extra biscuits and ham at lunch.
    Reverend Bunting