A Lasting Impression

hall.
    Mrs. Acklen emerged, oil lamp in hand. A gentleman followed, one Claire remembered having seen at the party earlier that day.
    Mrs. Acklen paused in the doorway. “Mrs. Routh. Miss Laurent. Did I miss the notice for our gathering?” She smiled in an almost jovial manner.
    “No, ma’am,” Mrs. Routh answered, her tone having thawed by a degree. “I’m taking care of my nightly duties, and Miss Laurent was on her way to the kitchen, it would seem.”
    “Ah, yes, Miss Laurent.” Mrs. Acklen shone the lamp in Claire’s direction. “We missed you at dinner. Cordina said you’d gone to lie down. I hope you’re feeling more rested?”
    “Yes, ma’am. I am. Thank you.” She sneaked a look at the gentleman who was watching Mrs. Acklen with rapt attention.
    “Well, I’m glad to hear it. Because come Monday morning”—Mrs. Acklen gave her a pointed look—“we have much work to do.”
    Claire stared, wondering if Mrs. Acklen meant what she thought she meant. “A-are you saying that I—”
    “Yes, Miss Laurent. Congratulations, I’m granting you the position.”
    Having hoped and prayed she would hear those words, Claire could hardly believe them. And judging from Mrs. Routh’s stoic expression, neither could she. “Thank you, Mrs. Acklen. I promise, I’ll work hard every day and do my very best.”
    “Yes, yes, Miss Laurent.” Mrs. Acklen nodded. “And I’ll accept nothing less. Now go get your dinner. Cordina said she was going to leave you a plate by the stove.”
    Claire fairly floated down to the kitchen and retrieved her plate and a glass of milk, then slipped back up to her room. Wishing she could tell Sutton the news, she guessed he probably knew already.
    She made quick work of the pork chop, sweet potatoes, and black-eyed peas, and ate every crumb of the corn bread Cordina had slathered with butter. She licked the melted butter from her fingers, certain nothing had ever tasted so good.
    Full as a tick, as she’d heard Eli say, she changed into her gown and blew out the light, wishing she could have talked to Sutton again before going to bed. As she turned back the sheets, she glanced out the window. And stilled.
    Down below, in the same area where she’d seen Zeke digging, someone knelt in the dirt, digging just like Zeke had. She crept closer to the window, keeping her head down, glad her lamp was extinguished. She watched, and waited. For what, she didn’t know.
    Whoever was down there was taking their time digging and then smoothing the dirt out again. Then it occurred to her. They weren’t digging. They were burying. The person stood and Claire’s breath caught. Sutton! She recognized his stance, his walk.
    He moved a few feet over and repeated the process she’d just witnessed, and her thoughts turned to Zeke and how the boy had told her he’d found coins buried down there, among other things.
    She watched Sutton reach into his pocket, then drop something—a coin, she assumed—in the hole, then smooth the dirt over again, looking from side to side as he did. Who would have thought . . .
    As it turned out, Sutton was the apparent inspiration behind her brilliant idea for the theme of William’s party. Smiling, she shook her head to herself and crawled between the sheets, then rustled her legs beneath the covers, trying to get warm.
    Silvered slats of moonlight fell across the room, moving with the tree limbs outside her window as they bent and swayed in the wind. She wished she could tell Sutton the truth. In the same breath, she also wished—as silly and as farfetched as it sounded, even to her—that he cared for her the way she was beginning to care for him. Even though she knew she shouldn’t.
    Because nothing would ever come of it. Because how could you love someone you didn’t know? And Sutton didn’t know her. Not really. And if he did, he wouldn’t like what he saw. Because everything he stood for—integrity, honor, defending the law—she had smeared with disregard.
    She hadn’t blatantly lied. But she hadn’t been truthful either. Was telling a lie and not telling the whole truth the same thing? She didn’t think it was. But right now, in that moment, they felt the same.
    Because if she were to tell Sutton the truth—about her past and the paintings she’d forged, and her family’s gallery where they had sold them—she knew in her heart that he would believe she had lied to him, and to Mrs. Acklen. And he would be right. And she would be