A Lasting Impression

Orleans Picayune ? Not that hard to believe, she realized, considering Mrs. Acklen had plantations in—
    A headline caught her eye, and her heart skipped a painful beat. MAN SLAIN IN ROBBERY ATTEMPT. Holding her breath, she scanned the article and—cruel though it seemed—she was relieved to discover it was about a man killed during an attempted robbery of a mercantile and wasn’t about her father, as she’d feared.
    Calming, she checked the date on the newspaper. September tenth. She counted back. The day she’d arrived in Nashville. Unable to resist scanning the rest of the paper, her gaze flew over the column headings on the front page. Then she moved to the second page, and the third. By the time she reached the back page, she was allowing herself to believe—
    A headline at the very bottom siphoned the breath from her lungs even as the miles between her and her old life disappeared. The last column, the last article on the right. And so few words. She could almost read them at a glance.
GALLERY ROBBERY AND SLAYING

As previously reported, thieves robbed the European Masters Art Gallery in the French Quarter and absconded with an extensive art collection of undisclosed worth. Art dealer and part-owner, Bernard Gustave Laurent, first reported as being stabbed in the robbery, died Friday evening following complications from his injury. Private interment held Saturday.
    Claire’s eyes burned, a dozen different emotions roiling inside her. The greatest being panic! What if Mrs. Acklen or Sutton were to read this and see her father’s name? Or what if they already had? Yet she knew if they’d read it, they would have said something to her by now. Neither were shy of confrontation. On the heels of panic came regret—that she hadn’t been there to bury her father.
    But what surprised her most was the pity she felt. This was her father’s legacy. This brief newspaper article. So succinct, so impersonal. Like a footnote or an afterthought.
    From nowhere, Antoine DePaul’s deceivingly handsome face appeared in her mind. Nothing within her ever wanted to see that man again. Not after tasting what life was like beyond his and Papa’s reach, beyond the walls of that gallery where she’d felt so—
    The sound of a door closing somewhere beyond the small study bulleted Claire off the settee. She had to hide the newspaper before Mrs. Acklen—
    The door to the small study opened.
    “As usual, Mrs. Routh had everything in order,” Mrs. Acklen said, turning to close the door behind her. “So Joseph will know with full assurance that his absence is greatly felt here at home. Now, where were we, Miss Laurent?”
    Standing by the settee, Claire laid the Godey’s Lady’s Book atop the pile of magazines where she’d hidden the newspaper, for the time being. “You were reviewing the dictation from this morning, ma’am.” She handed Mrs. Acklen the papers, her heart still pounding.
    But Mrs. Acklen didn’t start reading. “Miss Laurent, please do take extra care with where you place the fountain pen.”
    Claire quickly retrieved the pen from where she’d laid it on the desk.
    “I’m overly protective of this secretary, I realize. But it’s a treasured antique. A gift from my father.” Mrs. Acklen smoothed a hand over the flawless rich cherrywood. “The desk came over on the Mayflower . My father had it restored for me upon the occasion of my eighteenth birthday. Remarkable to think that when the desk came into my possession, it was already well over two hundred years old.”
    “It’s lovely,” Claire said, checking to make sure none of the ink had leaked out.
    “Yes, and I’d like to keep it that way.” Mrs. Acklen perused the notes, nodding as she did so. “Your handwriting is impeccable, Miss Laurent. But I do believe a course in shorthand would be prudent. The skill would serve you well, and would save you a good deal of soreness.”
    Only then did Claire realize she was rubbing her right hand. “I’m fine, Mrs. Acklen, honestly. But I’d be happy to learn it if you think it’s important.”
    “What I think, Miss Laurent . . .” With a sigh, Mrs. Acklen crossed the study and opened a window. A lusciously cool breeze wafted past the heavy brocade curtains. “I think we’ve been cooped up inside this room far too long this week. A taste of fall is in the air, and I’d very much like to take advantage of it.” She turned back, a glimmer of challenge in her eyes. “By any chance . . . do