A Lasting Impression

who he wholeheartedly agreed was hiding something.
    He only hoped the young woman’s motivation for being at Belmont wouldn’t prove damaging to the estate, or to Adelicia. Because if it did, he would personally see to it that she paid the price in full. Not that Claire Laurent would have much of a reputation left once Adelicia Acklen was through with her.

13

    B est watch them boots, Miss Laurent. With it rainin’ buckets like it is, you might wanna give them another good brushin’ ’fore you step inside here, ma’am. The Lady’s got some mighty nice carpet and rugs layin’ around.”
    Claire looked down and saw traces of mud still clinging to her heels, and quickly did as the Negro woman bade, her insides knotted tight. Just as they’d been since she left Belmont yesterday.
    She’d awakened in the Buntings’ guest room during the night and had broken out in a cold sweat, the realization of what she’d done hitting her full force. She heard again what Mrs. Acklen had said. “If you fail to meet my expectations, you’ll be terminated immediately.” But it was what Mrs. Acklen had said next—about seeing to it she would never work in Nashville or Tennessee again—that sent a shiver up Claire’s spine.
    Perhaps working for the richest woman in Nashville—or maybe Tennessee, for all she knew—wasn’t going to be the key to achieving her dreams after all. Yes, Mrs. Acklen prized art and had connections in that realm. But original pieces were what she, and everyone else, truly valued. What would Adelicia Acklen do to her if the woman ever discovered that her personal liaison was a forger? Or had been . . .
    Claire ran the soles of her boots across the boot brushes again, feeling her palms go sweaty. The woman who had answered the door—a cook, Claire guessed from the freshly starched apron she wore—had introduced herself just seconds earlier, and Claire knew she should remember her name. But with the tussle of nerves inside her, she’d already forgotten.
    She was just thankful it wasn’t Mrs. Routh. The head housekeeper scared her almost as much as Mrs. Acklen did.
    “You got yourself some tiny little feet there, Miss Laurent.”
    Claire managed a smile, liking the way the woman pronounced her last name— Lowrent —with a rich drawl that somehow drew the name into three syllables. Papa would have corrected the woman’s enunciation immediately. Which, oddly, made Claire determine never to do so.
    Certain that the bristles from the boot brushes were about to poke through to the bottoms of her feet, Claire checked the soles of her shoes again.
    “Looks like you done got it all this time, Miss Laurent.” The woman grinned. “We could just ’bout eat offa’ them now, I reckon. Now get your bag there, missy, and come on in outta the wet.”
    Claire retrieved her satchel, catching a last glimpse of Reverend Bunting’s buggy as he guided the team up the lane. She appreciated his and Mrs. Bunting’s kind offer of lodgings last night. Though she’d scarcely slept a wink.
    Stepping across the threshold of the mansion, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was stepping into an animal’s lair—of her own disastrous making. The opulent beauty of the mansion hadn’t changed overnight, but her realization of the seriousness of her predicament had. And she only had herself to blame.
    Despite her fears and the endless possibilities of what could go wrong whirling in her head, she was determined to make the most of her opportunity. But her first assigned duty—to plan a birthday celebration for Mrs. Acklen’s recently turned eleven-year-old son, William—was already challenging that intent.
    Not having met William, she’d tried to imagine what a boy of his age and upbringing would enjoy. She believed the ideas she’d prepared to present were rather creative, things she would have adored when she was his age. And she knew Mrs. Acklen could well afford the expenditures.
    Claire followed the woman through the entrance hall, taking in the ever lovely and stone-silent Ruth. The door to the library was closed, and she wondered if Mrs. Acklen was inside working. She hoped Mrs. Acklen wasn’t waiting on her.
    She was arriving much later than planned. The inclement weather and muddy roads hadn’t helped any, but it was a stop at the train station to check on the arrival of her trunks that had caused the delay.
    After a quick perusal of the ledger, the porter had said they had no record of her