A Lasting Impression

seeds of a new nation, but I . . .” He took a steadying breath, remembering that last conversation with his father. “I convinced him otherwise, telling him that to sign would be a betrayal to his family and friends. But most of all . . . to me. And in the end, he paid the price that I alone should have paid.”
    “Mr. Monroe, you are not responsi—”
    He held up a hand. “Don’t,” he whispered. “If you were in my place, you would feel the very same way.”
    Her expression sobered. She bowed her head.
    “And for what it’s worth, ma’am, in my eyes, God could have still burned that cotton even as you were fighting to save it, if that had been His desire. But He allowed you to salvage it, and to sell it. All for a divine purpose, I believe.”
    “And what purpose would that be, Mr. Monroe?”
    He shook his head, reaching for the door handle. “ That, Mrs. Acklen, is between you and your Maker.”
    He closed the door behind him. And as he lay in bed a while later, alone in the guest quarters of the art gallery with nothing but priceless paintings and statues for companions in the opposite wing, he pushed every bruising thought from his mind, and grasped at the first pleasant one within his reach.
    Claire.
    It was natural for him to think about her, he told himself. They were colleagues, after all. And friends. He let the word friend settle inside him. It didn’t adequately describe his feelings for her, and he knew it. But picking at the thread of that thought would only lead to frayed ends.
    Cara Netta’s most recent letter lay on the bureau and he knew he needed to answer it. She would arrive soon, and he wasn’t nearly as enthusiastic over the prospect of seeing her again as he should have been. Not with where they supposedly were in their relationship. In fact, part of him was dreading her arrival, which prodded his guilt.
    He raised up, punched his pillow a couple of times, and tried to get more comfortable.
    “I had no idea you were so well-informed about the world of art.” Adelicia’s comment to Claire replayed in his mind. As did what Mrs. Routh had said to him.
    It wasn’t that Claire knew how to paint so well that bothered him, it was that she’d not mentioned anything about it. Not a word, that he could recall. And it seemed far too much of a stretch that someone so gifted at painting—and apparently “well-informed about the world of art” —would just so happen to end up working for the richest and, arguably, most influential person within the art community in Nashville, Tennessee.
    And possibly, the whole of Dixie.

20

    P aintbrush in hand, Claire turned in her chair to check the clock on the mantel. If only she could make time stand still. The week had flown by far too quickly, and so much remained to be done. It was Friday evening. The party was tomorrow at one o’clock, precisely eighteen hours away, and she still had three joujou and four bombonnière left to paint, plus all the clues for the scavenger hunt to write and hide.
    Still, she was enjoying every minute of the preparation. Especially the painting. And Mrs. Acklen’s affirmation, which she prayed boded well for her retaining the liaison position. Mrs. Acklen had approved the theme, the party favors, the invitations, the menu—every last detail. Even William seemed excited about the plans for the day.
    Claire arched her back and blew a curl from her eye. The muscles in her right hand started to cramp, so she paused to flex her fingers, then painted an A on the next joujou, adding some elegant swirls for richer depth.
    Holding the toy by the edges, she carefully turned the joujou over and began painting the other side. Her eyes watered and she blinked to clear them, knowing the image of this mansion would be forever emblazoned on her memory now that she’d painted it dozens of times.
    Minutes later, a knock sounded on her bedroom door.
    “Captain Laurent?”
    She smiled. “Come in, Willister.”
    No response.
    Tempted to try and outwait him, she decided they didn’t have the time. “Come in, please, Sutton.”
    The door opened without delay. “Reporting for duty, Captain Laurent.” He came alongside her and offered a mock salute.
    She grinned. He’d bestowed the silly nickname after he’d heard her enlisting the help of numerous servants during the course of the week. “At ease, Corporal.”
    “Corporal? Yesterday I was a lieutenant.”
    “Yes, but yesterday you brought me a piece of pumpkin