A Lasting Impression Page 3

  The door leading from the kitchen to the gallery flew open.

  “Uncle Antoine!” Claire released her breath in a rush. “Where have you been? Papa’s hurt. He’s bleeding and needs—”

  “I know. The physician’s on his way.” Three long strides brought Uncle Antoine beside them. His clothes, always pressed and stylish, were rumpled and stained. A gash marred his upper left cheek. The skin around the cut was swollen and purpling.

  Claire rose, her legs none too steady beneath her. “What happened? Who did this?”

  Uncle Antoine shot a look down at her father, who looked away.

  Claire scoffed. “One of you needs to tell me. I deserve to know what—”

  Uncle Antoine grabbed her wrist, hard enough to make her wince. “You must listen to me, ma chère. Very carefully. We have little time, and none for your foolish questions.” An unfamiliar edge razored his voice. He let go of her and pulled a leather pouch from his coat pocket. “Everything you need is in here.”

  She stared at the pouch, then back at him, realizing what it contained. What it meant. Her mother always carried a similar pouch whenever the two of them left on “surprise adventures,” as her mother had called them when Claire was younger.

  “No,” Claire heard herself whisper, the word out before she could think better of it.

  Surprise sharpened Uncle Antoine’s expression.

  Claire hadn’t moved an inch but she felt off balance, as if the rug had been ripped out from beneath her, yet again. Ironic . . . This life she would have traded away just an hour earlier suddenly held meaning and familiarity she wasn’t eager to throw away, despite its many unhappy parts. “I’m tired of running, Uncle. Of moving from place to place.” She included her father in her stare. “I know I can’t stay here, but I don’t want to do this anymore. I’ve told you that, Papa. And you said yourself that no one knows I’m the one who paints them. I could move somewhere else in town, and—”

  “You’re not listening, Claire.” Uncle Antoine’s voice lacked any trace of warmth. “We don’t have time for this conversation. They could be back any moment.” He glanced at the door. “It’s not safe for any of us here. Not after today.”

  Claire squared her shoulders and willed her voice to be as strong and as certain as his. “And I don’t think you’re listening to me, Uncle. I know Papa never has.” Her throat suddenly felt like sandpaper. “If you and Papa want to go and do this somewhere else, then go. But I’ll no longer be a part of it.” She swallowed, nearly choking on the words, and at the fury she saw in her uncle’s face. “I’ll make my own way. I’ll—”

  His hand came from nowhere, hot across her cheek. Claire would have fallen had he not grabbed her arm.

  “Listen to me.” Uncle Antoine pulled her close. “You’re going, ma chère. It’s for your own good. You must trust me in this. Your passage has been arranged. Now stop acting like a spoiled child and go pack your satchel.”

  Her face on fire, Claire felt as though she were looking at a stranger. Never had he spoken to her in such a manner, much less laid a hand on her. His gaze was flat and unyielding, and slowly, the pieces of an all-too-familiar puzzle jarred painfully into place. “You knew. . . .” Truth narrowed her eyes, and she saw it reflected in his. “That’s why you were gone so long this time. Back north . . . You knew we were leaving again. And yet you—” He’d lied to her. Just like Papa. “You promised,” she whispered, tears knotting her throat. “You promised we wouldn’t—”

  “Antoine’s right, Claire. You’re acting like a child.”

  Tears blurred her vision. She dragged her gaze back to her father.

  His features were stony, without the least hint of remorse. “You’ve known this day would come again.” He clutched the blood-soaked rag to his side. “I’m only grateful your maman isn’t here to see this. Your selfishness would have pained her.”

  Claire blinked. Her selfishness? And this from her own father, who hadn’t said a word when Uncle Antoine slapped her.

  Uncle Antoine loosened his hold on her arm. “Family was most important to your mother, ma chère. She would want us to stay together. You know that.”

  Claire looked down to where he held her and, as she had earlier that day, felt something rend deep inside. Forcing a nod, she looked back, hearing again what her mother had whispered over and over in her fitful laudanum-induced sleep—“Be careful who you love . . .” Whether her mother had meant it as a warning for her, or perhaps as a reminder to herself, Claire didn’t know. But for the first time in her life, she realized it was possible to love someone whom you thought loved you in return. Only to discover . . . that they didn’t. And maybe never really had. “Where are we going . . . Uncle?”

  Uncle Antoine relaxed, his expression conveying relief that she’d come to her senses. “Far from here, ma chère. Your father and I will follow shortly. We have . . . business to attend to first.” He raised his hand, slowly this time, and touched her cheek. It was all Claire could do not to turn away. “Je suis désolé,” he whispered. “I lost my temper. But only because I’m so worried about you.”

  Claire said nothing.

  Finally, he motioned. “Now go, pack a satchel. Only what you need. A carriage will be here anytime. And, Claire . . .” He gave her a quick downward glance.

  Claire did likewise and cringed at what she saw.

  “. . . be sure to change your dress.”

  Upstairs in her room, Claire lit an oil lamp, her hands shaking. She fumbled with the buttons on her bodice, mindful of the clock on the mantel.

  She caught sight of herself in the mirror, and the reflection was one she wouldn’t soon forget. Betrayal, anger, and hurt darkened her eyes. And a weariness that went bone deep.

  She stripped down to her chemise and underskirts, then scrubbed her hands and face in the basin on the wash table. The water was tepid, the air warm, but still she felt a chill. Wishing she owned another mourning dress, she searched the wardrobe for the darkest dress she could find. A deep russet would have to do. She made a mental list of items to pack in her satchel.

  How could she have been so foolish? So gullible. So . . . taken in. She should have seen this coming. She expected such behavior from Papa. But from Uncle Antoine? His actions resulted in a whole different kind of hurt.

  And what of the men who had attacked her father and stolen the art? What if they came back? Or discovered she was the forger? What would they do to her?

  Hurrying faster, she wrestled with the tiny pearl buttons on the front closure of her dress, finally choosing to leave the ones at her collar unfastened. She pulled another dress from the wardrobe, rolled it up and shoved it in the satchel, then pushed down the swell of emotion rising again inside her.

  Hands shaking, she hurriedly tucked the remaining items from the bureau drawer into her satchel, along with her mother’s locket watch. Then she turned to get the painting.

  But her Jardins de Versailles was gone.

  An hour later, standing on the deck of the Natchez, Claire watched the lights of shore grow dimmer, swallowed up by dark of night. The boat shuddered, its enormous paddlewheel churning the murky waters of the delta, its steam engines roaring, sending vibrations through the wooden deck beneath her as it forged a steady path northward up the Mississippi.

  She gripped the boat’s side rail, numb with exhaustion and fear. Hot, silent tears slipped down her cheeks. She sneaked furtive glances at the passengers around her, her mind still on the men who had pillaged the gallery earlier.

  But no one even looked her way.

  All the art—gone. No telling how much money it represented. How would her father and Uncle Antoine recover from such a loss? Maman had tried to persuade her father to take out insurance on the more expensive pieces, but Papa had said that would only encourage inquiries, which could lead to suspicion, which could lead to their ruin.

  But it seemed ruin had found them anyway.

  The moon hung full and bright, its light stretching ou
t across the water, rippling and breathing in the wake. The air was so redolent with brine she could taste it in the back of her throat.

  A part of her had wanted to stay and take care of her father. Though, as she’d waited at the gangplank with Uncle Antoine standing beside her—she lifted a hand to her cheek, the sting long gone but not the hurt—she’d realized that the desire sprang more from a sense of obligation than from tenderness. The stark truth of that distinction had been sobering. Still, she prayed he would be all right.

  The physician had arrived only moments before the carriage. “Your father’s lost a great deal of blood, Miss Laurent. But he’ll be fine, I assure you.”

  “You’re certain?” she’d asked.

  The physician nodded. He wasn’t the same doctor she’d seen in town before. He was younger, more succinct in manner. “I’ve no doubt. So journey without concern, ma’am.”

  Claire frowned, listening to the waves lap the hull. How had the physician known she was readying to travel? Then again, she guessed he’d overheard her conversation with Uncle Antoine. Their exchange had been revealing.

  Tennessee.

  That was where he’d said they would find their new start. And in Nashville, of all places. She’d glimpsed parts of that city two years earlier, when they’d passed through Nashville on their way to New Orleans, and it had hardly seemed like the Athens of the South, as Uncle Antoine called it. Her clearest memory of Nashville was of how despondent the people appeared. Discouraged and beaten. Even the land itself had seemed in mourning, if that were possible.

  The rain from earlier in the day returned, and she found refuge inside the steerage cabin. The cabin was long and dimly lit. Rows of benches bracketed narrow aisles, making the space feel smaller than it was. There were few passengers, and most of them male.

  Claire sought a bench on the far end of the room and claimed a spot near the only family—a father and mother with four small children. She folded the coat she’d brought along and used it as a makeshift pillow, then closed her eyes, feeling the sway of the boat and imagining she was in a hammock, the kind her father had promised for years that he would buy for them.

  But never had.

  A day and half later, the Natchez steamed its way into port in Mobile, Alabama. Parched and famished, her food supply depleted, Claire disembarked and located the train station. After taking care of personal needs, she hurried across the street to the general store.

  The first train whistle hadn’t sounded yet. She still had time.

  She chose a sleeve of crackers wrapped in brown paper and a drink, and a wedge of cheese from a case on the counter. Thinking better of it, she turned and discreetly counted the money in her change purse, then started to put the cheese back—and paused.

  She was so hungry. . . .

  Almost two days remained before she would reach Nashville. She’d told Papa and Uncle Antoine she needed more money, but they’d insisted they’d given her enough.

  She glanced around but saw no one. She looked at her open reticule, then back at the cheese. Then at the store’s fully stocked shelves. Surely the proprietor did well enough that he wouldn’t miss—

  With swift decisiveness, Claire returned the cheese and withdrew her hand as though it might be burned. I will not do this anymore. No more deceit. No more stealing. Or lying.

  “Will there be anything else, ma’am?”

  Startled, Claire turned. The apron-clad proprietor wore a smile, but something in his features told her he’d seen what she’d been about to do. She lowered her head. “No, thank you. This will be plenty.” Face heating, she counted out the coins, with a penny left over.

  The train whistle blew. Twice.

  Twice? Looking out the window, she saw the porter hoisting the step stool onto the passenger car. She turned to grab her purchases and her reticule slipped from the counter. Its contents scattered across the floor.

  Gritting her teeth, she knelt and snatched up the items, then grabbed the cloth bag the gentleman held out. “Thank you, sir!”

  His kindness never dimmed. “God be with you, ma’am.”

  Claire ran for the train, calling out to the porter. He gave her a low-browed warning, and by the time she found an empty bench in the last car, the train had long pulled away from the station.

  Shaky with hunger, she reached into the cloth bag for the package of crackers and—

  Her hand closed around something.

  Slowly, not trusting her sense of touch, she withdrew a wedge of cheese wrapped in wax paper, along with the crackers and her drink. Still feeling a slight weight at the bottom of the sack, she peered inside and saw the coins she’d paid.

  Tears threatening, she recalled the proprietor’s parting words. “God be with you, ma’am.” She ate the crackers and every morsel of cheese, vowing to repay his kindness. She didn’t know how or when, but someday, she would do something kind for someone else, the way he’d done for her.

  She leaned her head against the window, the rhythm of steel wheels against iron rails lulling her to rest. She wondered how her father was, all while wishing her ticket could take her far, far away from both him and Uncle Antoine, though it was difficult to even think of him as such anymore. She touched her cheek, a spike of anger returning. With each passing minute, as the distance separating her from them mounted, so did her resolve to stand up to them both, and to make a fresh start for herself.

  She withdrew her mother’s locket watch and checked the time, then touched the miniature likeness of her mother’s face. So pretty . . . She’d always liked it when people had said how much they favored each other.

  The rocking of the train gradually conspired with her full belly until her eyes slipped closed. “God be with you, ma’am . . .” She hoped what the proprietor had said was true. That God was with her. But even more, that He knew where she was headed.

  She wished she’d thought to pack the Bible she’d read from to her mother during those last days, the one she’d been issued at boarding school. But she hadn’t even thought about it. Until now. Although she couldn’t remember the Scriptures themselves, she remembered how the words, the promises, had comforted her mother. And her too.

  Sleep swam toward her, and as the waves of drifting consciousness carried her farther out, she found herself wanting to trust that remembered peace, wanting to believe that the Author of Life had a plan for hers.

  And the following afternoon, when she stepped onto the station platform in Nashville, she wanted to believe it more than anything else in the world.

  3

  Claire followed the flow of passengers outside onto the train platform, pausing only after she’d picked her way through the crowded station. A late-day September sun hung hazy in the west, and a breeze wonderfully absent of smoke and soot brushed warm against her neck. Without a doubt, every speck of sand and dirt between Louisiana and Tennessee was now embedded into the pores of her skin. Either that, or layering her bedraggled curls.

  Every inch of her itched, and ached, and felt utterly and completely spent. She was relieved to have finally arrived, and yet—staring out across the city of Nashville—she wasn’t.

  Surely this must have been a beautiful city, even charming, before the war. Yet she couldn’t escape the sense of loss and defeat. Rows of buildings, constructed mostly of brick but with a few clapboard thrown in, huddled the narrow streets. The majority of structures were vacant, windows boarded up. Those not were cracked and broken, long since abandoned, by the looks of them. Some blocks away, a church steeple, barren of decorative touch and lonely on the horizon, rose like a bewildered beacon.

  Street signs, what few there were, leaned to one side, bent and stooped beneath an invisible weight. And where trees had once flourished—she could imagine stately poplar and sycamore dotting the nondescript streets even now—the dirt sprouted burned-out stumps and piles of rubble and debris. And the people . . .

  Their expressions mirrored their surroundings.

  Soldiers sti
ll clad in the uniform of a once-proud army stood in clusters of two or three, the gray woolen fabric now tattered and threadbare, coats hanging limp on their too-thin shoulders. Negroes populated the streets—far more than in New Orleans—yet not one of them wore the exuberant smiles of recently freed men and women. On the contrary, their countenances mirrored the same despondency as those of the broken men who had fought—at least in part—to keep them enslaved.

  Only a month ago, she’d read in the New Orleans Picayune that the state of Tennessee had finally been readmitted into the Union, over a year after the war had ended. But looking out over the city, seeing the lingering aftermath of war, Claire couldn’t escape the feeling that the battle was still being waged.

  And this was where Papa and Uncle Antoine had chosen to come?

  She reached into her reticule for her mother’s locket watch to check the time, and her fingers brushed against a piece of paper. She pulled it out. The address Uncle Antoine had written down on a torn piece of stationery. From one of his many trips, she knew. This one to New York, to the Perrault Gallery. New York was a place she never wished to visit again either. However, in comparison to Nashville . . .

  Uncle Antoine had instructed her to report to the residence as soon as she arrived, and assured that she would be well taken care of until they joined her. Papa had said the same just before she’d boarded the carriage. But with nearly five hundred miles separating her from them now, she didn’t feel the same pressure to comply as she had the night she’d left.

  And yet . . .

  She had no arrangements other than the ones already made, whatever those were. And no money left either, having spent the few coins she’d had on meager rations of food along the way. Standing there, satchel in hand, her brief dream of independence and adventure puddled pathetically at her feet, and her choices narrowed to one.