A Lasting Impression

a quick, pathetic little death. And with good reason. She had, in fact, organized a library. Her family’s, which had consisted of thirty-eight sad little volumes and a ponderously large dictionary. She’d been only five at the time, so the feat—completed on her own initiative—had seemed quite an accomplishment.
    Before viewing it through Adelicia Acklen’s eyes.
    Claire licked her dry lips, then wondered if that was poor etiquette. “I’m fluent in French, and have been told that I’m quite gifted in communicating. Although . . .” Her self-deprecating laugh came out more like a high-pitched squeak. “I’m certain it doesn’t appear that way at the moment. Lastly, I also possess excellent handwriting. I’d be happy to demonstrate, if you’d like.”
    Interpreting Mrs. Acklen’s lack of response as a clear no , Claire waited, wondering if she should continue or simply excuse herself and flee the mansion without a backward glance.
    Silence thundered in her ears, and it was all she could do not to give in to the stranglehold of emotion tightening her chest.
    Following an excruciating pause, Mrs. Acklen reached for her teacup. She took a sip and set the cup down again, then drew an unhurried breath and exhaled. “Miss Laurent . . . am I to understand by your lack of provision up to this point that you also came to this interview without the requested recommendations?”
    Through sheer willpower alone, Claire maintained the woman’s gaze. What had she been thinking, coming here? But that was just it. She hadn’t known where here was. Nor had she known how demanding a woman Adelicia Acklen would be. “No, Mrs. Acklen. I’m sorry. I did not bring recommendations with me. I’ve only recently arrived to Nashville, so I haven’t had the opportunity to—”
    To what? Everything she thought of to say felt like a flimsy excuse. Either that, or a partial lie. And worse, she sensed Mrs. Acklen knew it too.
    The silence grew thicker, and Claire felt the hot prick of tears as her hopes for this interview, and what it could have meant for her, came to a crashing halt. But she would not cry—she bit the inside of her cheek—not in front of this woman who had probably never shed a tear in her privileged, wealthy life.
    Staring at her hands twisted tight in her lap, Claire thought of the man’s portrait in the entrance hall, and knew she wasn’t being fair. Yet, look at all this woman had. How could someone like her understand what Claire was feeling?
    The hollow ticktock of a clock somewhere in the room marked off the seconds.
    This wasn’t the way she’d thought her life would turn out. She couldn’t exactly pinpoint, in that moment, what she’d dreamed it would be. She only knew this wasn’t it. Three months into her nineteenth year, and she had no family, no home, no means of provision. Everything she owned was in her satchel at the Buntings’ home. She didn’t even have a place to sleep tonight. And she could encroach upon the Buntings’ kindness for only so long.
    Feeling Mrs. Acklen’s intense stare, she sensed the woman was waiting for an explanation as to why her valuable time had been wasted. And rightly so. No matter how curt Mrs. Acklen had been with her, Claire knew she’d wasted both of their time.
    Apology was on the tip of her tongue when she spotted a magazine peeking from beneath a cushion on the settee where Mrs. Acklen sat. Recognizing the cover, she felt a twinge of tenderness.
    Godey’s Lady’s Book.
    The monthly publication had been a favorite of Maman’s and hers for years. They’d read it together and had traveled the globe through the magazine’s collections of stories and poems. They’d delighted in learning about fashion and culture from around the world. Seeing the magazine—and learning that a woman like Adelicia Acklen read it too—brought both a warmth, and a renewed yearning for her mother.
    Despite the shambles of her interview, Claire knew she was qualified to be Mrs. Acklen’s liaison . And something inside her whispered that this wasn’t an accident, her being here, her having overheard those women in church earlier that morning. If only Mrs. Acklen knew what she’d been through to get to this moment, and how much the opportunity meant to her. How much she needed the job, the opportunity to start over again.
    And what better place to pursue her own art than Belmont? She would be surrounded by timeless works of beauty that could—and would, she felt