A Lasting Impression

though she could tell Mrs. Routh still wasn’t overjoyed about her being hired.
    Claire paused just inside the doorway leading to the grand salon, still not believing she was actually living in such a place—for the time being.
    Pale moonlight bathed the salon in silver shadows, and not a sound stirred the silence. Something about standing in the middle of this grand mansion filled with people sleeping all around was comforting. She’d always wished she’d come from a larger family, and she envied the Acklen children’s sibling relationships far more than their privileged upbringing.
    Her hunger dictating her first destination, she crossed the salon, the moonlight allowing her to pick her way around the tables and chairs arranged in groupings about the room. Not for the first time, she admired the nearly life-sized painting of Queen Victoria hanging at the head of the staircase landing leading to the second story. The royal red of Queen Victoria’s robe appeared gray in the dim light. She’d been surprised at the enormous size of the portrait but not at its presence in this home. Especially not with the royal connections Mrs. Acklen seemed to enjoy.
    She continued down the hallway toward the family dining room, stopping when she reached the stairs leading down to the kitchen in the basement. Mrs. Routh hadn’t included the basement on her abridged tour, and Claire felt a little daring at the thought of venturing down there on her own.
    She peered down the dark stairwell, thinking she heard the rattle of a pan. Mrs. Acklen had invited her to join the family for breakfast whenever she desired, but Claire had a sunrise walk in mind and needed a day-old biscuit or corn muffin—and a cup of coffee, if possible—before she set out.
    She held the rail as she descended to the first landing, then peered down and around the corner to see a faint glow from beneath the kitchen door. The hope of sustenance urged her on. She felt for the doorknob in the dark, couldn’t find one, so finally gave the door a little push. It swung right open.
    The comforting aroma of eggs and bacon greeted her, as well as the promise of coffee, but she wasn’t prepared for who was standing at the stove. “Sutton!”
    He turned, wearing a somewhat guilty look. “Shhhh . . .” Smiling, he held a finger to his lips. “If Cordina catches me in here again, I’m a goner.”
    Claire giggled and let the door swing shut behind her, surprised at how delighted she was to find him down there. “What are you doing up so early?”
    “Couldn’t sleep. And you?”
    She shook her head. “Me either.”
    “You hungry?” He pointed to a bowl of fresh eggs on the counter.
    “Starving.”
    “Here—” He gestured her closer. “Keep stirring this, and I’ll crack a couple more.”
    Claire did as he asked, feeling as though they were getting away with something. And it felt rather good. The kitchen was surprisingly well lit, with oil lanterns affixed to the walls. Only three flickered with a flame, but the white plastered walls seemed to multiply their efforts. “I meant to ask you yesterday . . .” She assumed a more formal tone. “How was the opera Wednesday evening?”
    He sighed. “Long, and wasted on me.”
    She laughed again, stirring as he added the two eggs he’d whipped in a separate bowl. He lifted the lid on a second pan set off to the side, revealing eight slices of bacon fried up brown and crisp.
    She peered up at him. “You’re a tad hungry.”
    “Always. But I’m willing to share.” He transferred the slices of bacon to a plate. “What about you? Do you enjoy the opera?”
    Claire kept her gaze on the scrambled eggs, reliving a tinge of the “out of place” feeling she’d experienced at dinner her first night at Belmont, yet she was determined not to show it. “Actually . . . I’ve never attended an opera.” She made a face. “But I’m guessing it would probably be wasted on me as well.”
    He flashed a smile, and she knew she’d said it convincingly enough. She was getting better at masking what she didn’t want others to see. She scooted the pan off the burner. “The eggs are ready.”
    “And so are”—Sutton grabbed a towel—“these.” He opened the oven door and withdrew a pan of golden brown biscuits.
    Claire looked from him to the pan, then back again. “Where did you learn how to cook? Most of the men I’ve known”—not that she’d known that many, she realized, thinking mainly of her father