A Lasting Impression

But you must understand, I had nowhere else to go. I know no one in this town, and . . . my funds are rather limited at present.”
    Sutton studied the carpet beneath his boots, Miss Laurent’s last statement reverberating inside him like a warning bell.
    “Very well, Miss Laurent. And is the church where you met Mr. Monroe?”
    “Yes, ma’am. I was readying to leave—after not having disturbed anything in the sanctuary—when I turned around and . . . saw him standing there.”
    As Miss Laurent told of their encounter—her reflections on the moment similar to his—Sutton smiled as he relived it again in his mind. He’d opened the side door to find this young woman—a very beautiful young woman— arranging herself and her undergarments. Not something he typically saw in a sanctuary. Or anywhere else, for that matter.
    The sanctuary being a place of worship wasn’t what had drawn him there that morning, and other mornings. Rather, it was revisiting the place where so many of the men—and boys—he’d known, his friends, had died following battle. And the place where he’d lain, staring up at the rafters, wondering if he would die too.
    “You stated earlier that you came from New Orleans, Miss Laurent. Why exactly did you leave?”
    A long pause followed Adelicia’s question.
    “I would have stayed in New Orleans, ma’am . . .” Her voice was hushed, sad sounding. “But staying wasn’t an option any longer. Maman—my mother—passed away six months ago. And my father . . . he—” Miss Laurent’s voice caught.
    Sutton found himself leaning forward. Listening. Waiting.
    “He died most unexpectedly. I received word of his passing only after I arrived in Nashville.”
    Sutton bowed his head, feeling like an intruder now—especially knowing she knew he was there.
    “Please accept my sincerest condolences, Miss Laurent.” Adelicia’s voice held uncustomary softness. “Both on your most recent loss, and the loss of your maman. ”
    Recalling how quickly his own life had changed with the news of his father’s death, Sutton felt for Miss Laurent and what she was going through. A familiar sense of loss resurfaced—for his father, for Mark Holbrook, and so many others. At least now he knew why she’d worn such a frightened, lost look earlier that morning. If she was telling Adelicia the truth, he quickly reminded himself.
    Which, for the most part, he thought she was. But as an employee of Mrs. Adelicia Acklen, he was paid to not trust easily. Because if Miss Laurent really was in mourning, why wasn’t she wearing mourning garb?
    “I hope you will understand my need to ask this, Miss Laurent. But if what you’re saying is true, why are you not dressed for mourning?”
    Sometimes it frightened him how much he and Adelicia thought alike.
    “My only mourning dress was soiled just before I left New Orleans. And as I said earlier, ma’am, I arrived in Nashville yesterday. My trunks were shipped separately, so I temporarily find myself without my wardrobe. In fact, this dress I’m wearing belongs to Mrs. Bunting.”
    “Yes . . . I recognized the ensemble when you entered the room.”
    Sutton shook his head. Adelicia. Always frank.
    The silence lengthened.
    “Miss Laurent . . .” Adelicia sighed. “I appreciate you telling me all of this. You’ve been very forthcoming, and your honesty is to be commended. However, again, in light of the specific duties this position requires and of your lack of experience in—”
    “Mr. Monroe? You doin’ all right, sir?”
    Sutton turned to see Cordina eyeing him from across the room.
    He’d forgotten he’d left the door to the entrance hall ajar, and seeing her wary expression, he felt even more uncomfortable. Because he knew Cordina. And that dubious look of hers told him she knew he was eavesdropping.
    And furthermore, the hand perched on her ample hip said she did not approve.

12

    S utton crossed the central parlor to where Cordina stood, not wishing for Adelicia or Miss Laurent to hear him. “Yes, Cordina. I’m fine, thank you. Mrs. Acklen is interviewing someone, and I was . . . waiting to see if she needed my assistance.” Belmont’s head cook didn’t need to know his real reason for standing there. Though she knew just about everything else that went on at Belmont.
    Cordina nodded toward the sitting room. “You ain’t trustin’ whoever it is with Mrs. Acklen, are you, sir?”
    He curbed a smile, accustomed to her blunt—and