A Lasting Impression

days,” Mrs. Acklen said, glancing back. “You’re not experiencing any lingering pain from your fall?”
    Your fall . . .
    That’s how everyone—even the servants—referred to her pitiful attempt to jump the corral fence. “No, ma’am. No pain whatsoever. The bruise on my hip is healing nicely and the headache is gone. Dr. Denard said I could commence riding again in a couple of weeks.”
    “Mr. Monroe is going to teach you to jump, I hear.”
    “He told you?”
    “He mentioned it. Mr. Monroe’s a skilled rider and an excellent teacher. He’s trained several of my thoroughbreds. Which, when you consider that his formal training is in the law, makes for an interesting combination in a man.”
    Claire couldn’t have agreed more.
    “Mama?” Pauline peeked her head in the doorway. “Is Miss Tavie here yet?”
    “Not yet, dear.” Mrs. Acklen crossed the study and kissed her daughter on the forehead. “But soon. I’ll have Mrs. Routh notify Miss Cenas after Miss Tavie arrives so you can give her and her daughters each a welcome hug. Now hurry on back to class. I look forward to hearing what you learned over dinner.”
    Pauline nodded, tossing Claire an excited grin before she skipped away.
    Claire thought of the get-well drawings the children had given her just after her fall. Pauline’s pastel-colored drawing featured a fairylike character clad in a pink dress who floated precipitously in the air. Claude’s picture, Claire decided, was far truer to form and depicted her soaring headfirst over the fence, mouth wide in a gaping scream.
    William, sans picture—since he was “too old for such childish undertakings”—had simply asked if she would demonstrate to him how it happened again. She’d socked him playfully in the arm and had received a grin in return.
    For feeling so out of place when she first arrived, Claire had to admit she felt more a part of things now. Certainly not like one of the family. Or even an equal. But accepted. As if she was beginning to belong. And it felt . . . wonderful.
    “A new project for you, Miss Laurent . . .” Mrs. Acklen reached to straighten a lace doily draped over the back of the settee. “I want you to teach Pauline the basic skills of sketching and watercolors. I believe she possesses a giftedness for the creative arts, and while Miss Cenas’s knowledge of art history is extensive, her skills at drawing are lacking.”
    “I’d be honored to teach Pauline, ma’am!” Claire thrilled at the prospect of having the girl as a pupil, and even more at Mrs. Acklen’s trust in her.
    “It will only be for a month or so, mind you—until master artist Giovanni Domenico from Italy takes guest residence at the gallery in town. Then Pauline will go there to be tutored in the techniques of oil on canvas. But I believe some helpful bits of instruction from you in the rudimentary aspects would be a worthwhile foundation to her lessons with him.”
    As the reality of Mrs. Acklen’s request sank in, Claire worked to hide her disappointment. Mrs. Acklen wanted her to teach Pauline the basic skills—which clearly meant that her employer didn’t consider her capable of teaching a six-year-old anything else.
    But Giovanni Domenico, a master artist, giving instruction to a six-year-old? Wealth certainly did have its privileges. “Of course, Mrs. Acklen. I understand. I’ll look forward to working with Pauline in that regard.”
    “Very good.” Mrs. Acklen ran a hand over the bronze statue of Bucephalus on a side table, her expression growing pensive. “How many responses have we received to date for the tea in November?”
    Claire glanced down at her notes, already knowing the answer, but not eager to relay the information. She’d sent out thirty invitations for the tea the Monday following William’s party, and every other day, it seemed, Mrs. Acklen requested an update. “We’ve received four so far, ma’am. . . .” And those from Mrs. Acklen’s mother, two sisters, and Mrs. James Polk, a close family friend, though she withheld that detail. “But it’s still early yet. The tea is a full month away.”
    Mrs. Acklen said nothing, and Claire sensed she was more than a little hurt by the lack of timely replies. Frankly, Claire didn’t understand it. What woman would turn down an invitation for tea from Mrs. Adelicia—
    “A carriage!” Mrs. Acklen gave a tiny gasp. “They’re here!” Smoothing the front of her dress, she exited the study without a