A Lasting Impression

trunks arriving. But if they had, by chance, arrived, Claire knew they would have been delivered to Broderick Shipping and Freight, according to Antoine’s instructions. When the porter asked where to send her trunks, she’d nearly answered Belmont, then caught herself, not wanting to risk that Antoine would try to visit her there. She assured the porter she would stop back in a few days.
    Claire followed the apron-clad woman into the grand salon. A savory whiff of herbs layered the air, and Claire inhaled. “Something smells delicious.”
    “That’d be my pork roast, Miss Laurent. I baked it with rosemary and thyme picked fresh from the garden this mornin’. ’Bout melts in your mouth. But you’ll find that out soon enough.” She paused and gestured to an out-of-the-way corner. “Just stow your bag right over there for the time bein’. They’s all waitin’ on you.”
    Claire stilled. “Waiting on me? Who’s waiting on me?”
    “Mrs. Acklen and her children, and Mr. Monroe. They’s all in the family dinin’ room down the hallway here. Ain’t been there long, though. They’s still workin’ on their soup.”
    “Working on their soup? But I didn’t realize . . .” Panicking, she shoved her satchel into the corner and started hand-pressing the wrinkles from her dress. She glimpsed the splotches of mud staining her hem and grimaced, trying to remember . . .
    She was certain Mrs. Acklen hadn’t mentioned anything about dinner. She’d simply said to arrive sometime during the afternoon. Oh . . . Claire cringed. Late on her first day! The look Mrs. Acklen was going to give her . . .
    “Calm yourself down there, missy.” The woman gently touched her arm. “Ain’t nothin’ to get worked up over. It’s only dinner, child. And they’s eatin’ a mite early on account of the Lady goin’ out this evenin’.” Smiling, she puffed out her generous bosom as though making airs. “She be goin’ to a fancy opera in town.”
    Claire shook her head. “But I’m not properly dressed for dinner, and I—” Seeing a mirror, she chanced a quick look, and sucked in a breath. The curls she’d worked so hard to tame were a mass of frizzy ringlets. What had the young girl asked her yesterday, about what her hair did when it got wet? “Goes all wild? Like a soured mop?” Claire tried to tuck the curls back into place, but with little success.
    The sharp tinkle of a bell sounded.
    “That’s the Lady,” the woman whispered. “That means they done with their soup and they ready for the main course.” She winked and took hold of Claire’s hand, her grip firm, like a man’s. “We’ll just serve you up right alongside the pork roast. Come on now.”
    Claire had no choice but to follow.
    Feeling smaller with each step, she found herself clinging to the woman’s hand. Just before they entered the dining room, the woman loosened her grip, and Claire let go. All eyes turned, and conversation around the table fell silent.
    “Miss Laurent is here, Mrs. Acklen. You asked me to bring her on in, ma’am.”
    The woman’s introduction urged Claire forward.
    Claire curtsied and lifted her head. Her gaze brushed that of Mr. Monroe’s, then quickly found its way back there again, and lingered. Wearing a black coat with freshly starched white shirt and cravat, he looked nothing less than dashing. Claire gathered he would be attending the opera too.
    Mr. Monroe stood, as did the two boys seated beside him, one of whom looked considerably older than the other and who bore a striking resemblance to the man in the portrait in the entrance hall. Claire’s gaze swept the table.
    Mrs. Acklen, donned in a stunning blue dress, was seated at the head, her attention unyielding, her expression inscrutable, and her brief up-and-down gaze . . . telling. To her left sat a young girl whose silky dark hair was caught back in a decorative-beaded band. Her eyes were dark and inquisitive. Beside the girl perched the youngest boy seated forward in his chair as if ready to spring at any moment. His eyes were the identical shape and striking brown of his siblings’.
    “Welcome, Miss Laurent.” Mrs. Acklen, her smile gracious, motioned Claire toward the empty chair directly across the table from Mr. Monroe. “How lovely that your schedule has finally allowed you to join us.”
    Hearing the subtle reprimand, Claire halfway wished she could announce that on the way the Buntings’ buggy had overturned in a horrific accident, and that