A Lasting Impression

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    “Are you finding time for painting these days, Miss Laurent?”
    Claire heard far more than simple inquiry in Mrs. Acklen’s question. “No, ma’am, not yet. But I hope to in coming weeks.”
    Sutton had informed Mrs. Acklen about her desire to paint professionally, Claire felt certain, and about her reaction to learning of the auction for new artists come spring. He would have viewed the advisement as part of his job, which she understood. “I give you my word, Mrs. Acklen, my aspirations in that area won’t interfere with my responsibilities to you.”
    “Thank you for that assurance, Miss Laurent. I’ll be sure to hold you to it.” Mrs. Acklen looked over at her. “And while I would venture to say that you do possess talent, it takes years of practice to perfect the expertise needed to garner any level of recognition at the new artists auction. I would hate for you to set your hopes too high.”
    Well, that answered the question of whether Sutton had told her. Feeling adequately warned, and humbled, Claire let the subject die.
    As they rode on, she sneaked a look at Mrs. Acklen. Adelicia Acklen carried herself with such poise and confidence. Had the woman always possessed those attributes? While Claire still felt every bit the employee—as well she should—she’d also come to feel a certain intimacy with Mrs. Acklen, privy as she was to the woman’s thoughts and preferences.
    The amount of correspondence Mrs. Acklen received, and responded to, was dizzying. The woman’s mind never seemed to stop. She’d set dates for dinners and afternoon teas for the next three months, rattling off guest lists and menus and verbiage for invitations, including what color stationery she preferred, and whether she wanted roses on the table because they were so-and-so’s favorite, or whether gardenias or orchids. And the birthday party favors had been so well received, she wondered whether Claire would paint another set of the candy boxes for her next ladies’ tea. And come spring, she wanted to host a ball “the likes of which Nashville has never seen.”
    Claire took a deep breath and tilted her face toward the sun, letting the warmth soothe her overfull mind. If a boy’s birthday party had taken that much time and planning, she could only imagine the work it would take to orchestrate a ball. It was months away, of course, but there was another event quickly approaching.
    The LeVert family’s visit. Barely over a week away. She’d all but forgotten about it in the blur of party planning.
    While Mrs. Acklen hadn’t assigned her any official duties in regard to the LeVerts’ upcoming visit, she had commented that Madame LeVert would have need of transcription. Claire had no idea how long the mother and daughters would stay. But according to Cordina, who knew everything, they had stayed a full two months on their last visit to Belmont. Cordina spoke very highly of the entire family, but it was Cara Netta—the young woman who had shared the onion soup with Sutton in Paris, per Mrs. Acklen—who Claire looked forward to meeting most.
    And least, at the same time.
    Mrs. Acklen guided Bucephalus left toward a treelined path, and the stallion snorted and sidestepped as though eager to be given free rein. But Mrs. Acklen held him on course. Claire admired her handling of the spirited stallion, just as she admired the stallion itself. Magnificent creature. Fit for a king. Or a queen, in this instance.
    The trail grew narrower, and Claire guided Athena to fall in behind. The mare whinnied, apparently taking offense at being made to follow. “Bucephalus is a beautiful animal, Mrs. Acklen.”
    “He is, isn’t he? I named him after Alexander the Great’s horse. My father first read me the story of young Alexander when I was but seven years old. Even then, I found myself inspired. You’re familiar with the account, I’m sure.”
    Claire’s face heated, and she sat straighter in the saddle, glad Mrs. Acklen couldn’t see her. “No, ma’am. I’m not.”
    “Oh . . . well, we’ll have to rectify that. My father saw to it that I was schooled in the classics. He read them to me every night. He was such a gifted storyteller. After all these years, I can still remember how his voice sounded as I rested my head against his chest, curled up in his lap, listening as he read. His voice was so rich and deep. He captured all the characters so perfectly.”
    Mrs. Acklen’s description painted a vivid picture, and