A Lasting Impression

guided the mares around the wide arc of the circular drive and brought the buggy to a stop before a limestone walkway. An elderly Negro man—dressed in a dark suit with shoes shined to a high polish, his shaved head bearing a similar sheen—stood waiting.
    He bowed at the waist. “Welcome, Reverend Bunting, sir. Mrs. Bunting . . . an honor to see you again, ma’am.” He spoke with distinction, every syllable perfect.
    “Good afternoon, Eli.” The reverend set the brake, then helped his wife down from the other side of the buggy. “We have an appointment with Mrs. Acklen at half past four.”
    “Yes, sir, Reverend. Lady Acklen’s waiting for you all inside.” He assisted Claire as she stepped down.
    His hand dwarfed hers, and she noticed his fingers—thick, work worn, as ancient as his voice. Yet his grip remained oak tree strong.
    “Afternoon, ma’am.” He gave Claire a smile that demanded one in return. “I’m Mr. Eli.” He dipped his head. “Welcome to Belmont.”
    “Thank you, Mr. Eli.” Claire offered a brief curtsy, pleased when his smile edged wider. “I’m Miss Claire Elise Laurent.”
    “Yes, ma’am.” A twinkle crept into his dark eyes. “I believe you are.”
    A breath of wind stirred. And as if the mansion had whispered her name, Claire lifted her gaze in answer.
    The first things she noticed—besides the enormity of the residence—were the Corinthian columns that framed the entrance to the home. Next was the mansion’s color. Distance lent it a pinkish hue, but closer inspection revealed the stucco’s true color. A warm reddish-brown, set off perfectly by white trim. Cast-iron balconies dotted the front of the mansion, their black lacelike railing reminiscent of New Orleans and the Old Square she’d so dearly loved.
    Standing at the foot of the stairs, Claire let her focus trail from the base of one of the columns all the way up to the octagonal cupola crowning the mansion. Head tipped back, a tremor skittered through her. Both of anxiety and of possibility. So much rested on the next few moments.
    “Shall we?” the reverend asked.
    Claire turned to find him and Mrs. Bunting waiting.
    She followed them up the stairs to the ornate front entrance, mindful of the full hoop skirt and concentrating to keep from tripping on the decorative hem. Though she tried to buoy her hopes, she knew chances were good she wouldn’t be invited back, so she attempted to memorize every detail about the mansion that she could.
    Panels of etched, rose-colored Venetian glass accented the front door as well as the transoms above. Even the side panel doors framing the main entry boasted colored-glass panes of green, red, and purple. On either side of the walkway, stone lions guarded enormous cast-iron urns overflowing with blooms of purple and yellow and white, their sweet scent heady.
    Claire drank in every detail. Exquisite. Every place the eye lit, beauty dwelled.
    She glanced behind her at the opulence of the gardens—the statues, the fountains—and though she knew it was foolish, she couldn’t shake the niggling feeling she’d been there before. Then she realized what it was she was feeling. This sense of déjà vu . . .
    In many ways, the Belmont estate was a miniature American Versailles.
    The front door opened, and an older woman greeted them and bid them entrance. Her wardrobe resembled that of a well-dressed housekeeper, and though she was handsome and might even have been considered beautiful in younger years, Claire knew instantly—as one knows better than to grasp a rose stem too tightly—that this woman was not to be trifled with.
    “Good afternoon, Reverend. Mrs. Bunting.” The woman closed the door behind them and peered at Claire over dark spectacles resting midway down an elegantly slender nose. “Miss Laurent.” It wasn’t a question. “I’m Mrs. Routh, the head housekeeper at Belmont.”
    Claire curtsied, afraid for a moment she’d forgotten how. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Routh.”
    The head housekeeper’s stoic expression said she doubted that was true.
    Reverend Bunting stepped forward. “Mrs. Routh, I would consider it an honor to introduce Miss Laurent to Mrs. Acklen, if it would—”
    “None of the other applicants has required a personal introduction, Reverend.” Mrs. Routh’s tone teetered between pleasant and patronizing. “I’m certain Miss Laurent is capable of presenting herself in this situation. If not,” —she gave