A Lasting Impression

had time to fix it before Mrs. Routh returned. She glanced at herself in the gilded mirror above the fireplace, and frowned. “I’m not sure what you mean.” Her hair looked like it usually did. Except maybe nicer, with Mrs. Bunting’s touches.
    Eva peered to one side. “How you get it to curl that way? And stay?”
    “Oh . . . that. ” Claire smiled. “It curls naturally. But it isn’t nearly as pretty when it rains.”
    Eva nodded, as though imagining the results in her mind. “Goes all wild? Like a soured mop?”
    Claire blinked, unsure how to respond . . . and having no time to.
    Mrs. Routh strode through the doorway. She stopped abruptly by the statue of Ruth, and peered down. “Eva?”
    “Yes, Mrs. Routh?” The young girl’s voice heightened with respect.
    “What is this?”
    Claire looked at the carpet where Mrs. Routh pointed, then back to Eva, who was already closing the distance.
    Eva knelt and picked up a single piece of straw. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Routh. I guess we missed that one, ma’am.”
    “Yes, that would seem to be the case.” Mrs. Routh’s mouth thinned, her patience apparently having done the same. “One would think you would have had ample time to have cleaned up the mess by now. After all, the statue was delivered last night.”
    Claire saw the hurt on Eva’s face and felt for the girl—until Mrs. Routh’s comment registered. “Delivered last night . . .”
    Claire looked from Mrs. Routh to the statue again, her thoughts spinning as memory pulled her back to the train station yesterday. And to the crate. And to the man helping unload it. Her eyes narrowed. What were the chances that Ruth Gleaning was the—
    No . . . It couldn’t be. And yet . . .
    Monroe had said something to the workers about helping them unload the crate later that evening. And about the statue within being carved by an American sculptor. And Randolph Rogers was an American sculptor .
    The scale of possibility tipped with a jarring clang—and not in Claire’s favor.
    Sutton Monroe knew she was guilty of unlawfully entering a church building and then spending the night curled up on one of its pews like some common vagrant. Earlier that day, she’d wanted to thank him. Now all she could do was pray he had no connection whatsoever with Belmont, or Mrs. Adelicia Acklen.
    Because if he did, she had the feeling he wouldn’t be nearly as trusting as Reverend and Mrs. Bunting, who were helping her largely—she knew—because of that silent nudge the reverend had felt to leave the door to the storeroom open.
    A door that had also opened this one, and which Sutton Monroe could slam shut with a single word. Which would mean that her interview for the position of liaison was over before it had even begun.

10

    C ome with me, please, Miss Laurent. Mrs. Acklen is waiting.”
    Claire blinked, heart in her throat. “Y-yes, Mrs. Routh. Of course.” Managing a halfhearted smile in Eva’s direction, she followed, stealing a last look at the statue and hoping her suspicions about Sutton Monroe were unfounded.
    “ Today would be preferable, Miss Laurent.”
    Turning back, Claire discovered Mrs. Routh already a good six strides in front of her. She hastened her step, her heels clicking on the black-and-white-tile-painted wooden floor.
    They passed a cantilevered staircase that rose from the grand salon opening before them. The spacious room’s vaulted barrel ceiling and double colonnade of Corinthian columns were a work of art in themselves. A mural painted in pastel tones covered the expanse of the ceiling, giving the room a larger, more open feel. Mrs. Routh turned to the left and Claire did likewise, but not before chancing a quick look behind her.
    Plush red carpeting—that her boots would likely never touch—accented the mahogany stairs. Halfway up, the staircase divided and spiraled to the left and right before continuing to the second floor. So elegant . . .
    Working to keep pace with Mrs. Routh, Claire imagined what it would be like to attend a party at Belmont. To descend those stairs to the swell of stringed music and the lilting conversation of guests, bronze chandeliers flickering with gas flames, china and crystal—
    Mrs. Routh stopped abruptly by a set of glass-paneled double doors, and Claire nearly ran into her backside. She took a quick backward step to compensate, but Mrs. Routh’s heavily lidded gaze communicated plenty.
    Mrs. Routh rapped softly on the glass pane, then turned the knob