A Lasting Impression

true.
    “You will wait here, please.” Mrs. Routh turned. “I’ll let Mrs. Acklen know you’ve arrived.”
    Mrs. Routh strode through the doorway to the left of the marble fireplace, the rich red-and-gold floral carpet muting her already quiet steps. Even on the black-and-white-tile-painted floor beyond, Mrs. Routh’s boots barely made a sound. And Claire imagined many an under housekeeper at Belmont experiencing moments of utter terror when sensing a presence behind them only to turn and find Mrs. Routh peering down, her dark spectacles resting at half-mast.
    Alone in the entrance hall, Claire took sum of her surroundings and her feelings of inadequacy multiplied a hundredfold. To her right a portrait hung on the wall of a strikingly handsome man dressed in a dark suit and trousers and with what was, she guessed, the Acklen tartan. The late Mr. Acklen, she assumed, had apparently been of Scottish descent. She wondered how long ago he had passed away. The Buntings hadn’t said.
    On her left hung another portrait, larger, almost life-size. A woman holding hands with a little girl. Mrs. Adelicia Franklin Acklen, mistress of Belmont, she felt certain. The woman was elegant, beautiful with her delicate cheekbones, the wide-set eyes and porcelain skin.
    But there was something about her air, in the slight tilt of her chin and the focused intensity of her gaze, qualities the artist had captured with masterful skill, that seemed to deepen her physical beauty. Almost mystified it. Making a person wonder what—or whom —had occupied Mrs. Acklen’s thoughts while the artist’s brush captured her likeness.
    Claire looked more closely at the woman in the portrait and searched her eyes. Something lingered within them, a knowledge, perhaps. Or a question. She couldn’t be sure. Artists were often much kinder to their painted subjects than nature and time had been, and she wondered . . . Was Mrs. Acklen as fair of face, and as striking and confident as the artist had portrayed her?
    Exhaling the air kept too long in her lungs, Claire looked about the entrance hall, knowing she would soon find out.
    Every inch of her view, from floor to ceiling, seeped wealth and privilege. From lavish draperies and richly patterned wallpaper, to the flowered English Wilton wall-to-wall carpet, to the marble fireplace, to the carved moldings framing a magnificent bronze chandelier, illuminated by gas, from the looks of it.
    And the plethora of oil paintings . . .
    Claire peered down the hallway where Mrs. Routh had disappeared, found it empty, and took two cautious steps toward a side room containing well-appointed bookcases. The library . . . She peeked inside, and felt her pulse edge up a notch.
    Two landscapes adorned the wall above the desk, painted with such realism she felt she could almost step right into them. Breathtaking in color, the paintings depicted lush Italian countrysides with vineyards ready for harvest. She chanced another step closer to gain a better look and spotted a statue in the corner.
    She couldn’t contain her smile.
    Though not as large as Ruth, the piece also was one she recognized. Rebecca at the Well. It was a C.B. Ives, she was almost certain. A shudder of excitement whisked through her. Belmont Mansion wasn’t merely a home. It was an art gallery.
    Giddy with excitement, she wondered what other treasures were tucked away in this—
    Footsteps sounded in the hall.
    Heart in her throat, Claire bolted back to the spot where she’d been standing, slightly out of breath and certain whoever was coming would hear the thud of her pulse.
    A young girl entered through the opposite doorway through which Mrs. Routh had exited. Her skin was the loveliest tawny brown and her lithe shape dallied on the cusp of womanhood. Spotting Claire, she stilled. “Good afternoon, ma’am.” Her voice was feather soft, her drawl its only weight. “May I be of assistance?”
    Claire smiled at the girl’s question. She was well spoken for one so young. “I have an interview with Mrs. Acklen. Mrs. Routh requested that I wait here until she returns. My name is Claire Laurent.”
    The girl ducked her head. “Mine’s Eva. Eva Snowden.” Eva’s gaze lifted decidedly from Claire’s, a measure of formality having left her voice. “You got mighty pretty hair, ma’am,” she whispered, glancing behind her before continuing. “How do you get it to do that?”
    Claire touched her hair, wondering what it was doing and whether she