A Lasting Impression Page 4

  “Sir?” She flagged down a porter. “Would you be so kind as to give me directions to this address?”

  “Surely, ma’am.” He glanced at the paper. A brow rose. “That’s a ways from here, but not a bad walk on such a pretty afternoon. And a nice part of the city too. Lots of shops and galleries.”

  Encouraged by his comments, Claire focused as he told her the way, drawing a map with her mind’s eye. She thanked him and set out but had barely reached the end of the station platform when an oversized wooden crate being unloaded from one of the freight cars drew her attention.

  As did one of the men beside it.

  The man definitely wasn’t an employee of the railroad, Claire surmised—not with the expensive cut of suit he wore. And not with the way the other men looked to him for instruction.

  “Careful, gentlemen. Please!” Shedding his suit coat, he came alongside the dockworkers and lent his strength as they eased the crate down the ramp. Judging by the strain on the men’s faces, the crate’s contents were considerable.

  “Care to inspect it, Mr. Monroe?” a dockworker asked, wiping his forehead. A trace of Ireland lilted his voice. “Before we load it on the wagon, sir?”

  “No, that’s all right, Jacobs. We’ll do that out at the house. If there’s a problem, I’ll contact the gallery.”

  The gallery? Claire took a step closer, grateful for the signage partially concealing her curiosity.

  “This one came all the way from Rome, sir?” a worker asked Mr. Monroe. “Rome, Italy?”

  “It did.” Monroe smiled. It was an easy gesture, one that seemed to come as natural to him as breathing. “But the sculptor is an American.”

  An American . . . Claire strained to see writing on the side of the crate, anything that might yield more information, but she saw nothing.

  “I ain’t hardly believin’ that, sir,” another worker chimed in, his drawl rich with the South, his skin dark as burnished coffee and glistening in the sun. “That fine lady, she crosses that big ocean only to go and buy somethin’ one of our fellas made. . . .”

  “One of our fellas . . .” Claire grinned, pleased to see Mr. Monroe doing the same.

  Monroe tipped each of the workers and shook hands with Jacobs, gripping his forearm like older men sometimes did, even though he was younger than Jacobs by half. It was a friendly gesture, sincere, intimate. Which was surprising given Monroe’s obviously high social rank. What wasn’t surprising was to learn he was married.

  “That fine lady . . .” Mr. Monroe’s wife, Claire guessed. Still, she found it far more appealing to imagine that the fine lady was his mother, or older sister, or perhaps a rich elderly aunt. It made the world a much more interesting place.

  Emboldened by her invisibility, she studied him more closely.

  Handsome could’ve been used to describe him, but that would have been like calling Michelangelo’s David “adequate.” The fact that watching this man summoned the naked statue of David to mind made her blush. But not enough to look away, or to keep her from smiling.

  Taller than average and of strong build, Mr. Monroe had an ease about him, a sincerity. And he moved with an unassuming confidence that drew a person’s attention, not unlike his smile.

  Monroe picked up a leather satchel, much like the one Uncle Antoine carried for business. “I’ll look for the wagon later tonight, and will help you unload it.” He strode to a waiting carriage. And quite a conveyance it was, for quite a man. . . .

  He climbed inside the carriage, and with two raps of his hand on the door, the driver slapped the reins.

  Not sure why, Claire waited until the carriage was a good distance down the street before she moved from behind the sign and continued on her way. How she wished she could see the contents of that crate! A statuary of some sort, because Mr. Monroe had mentioned an American sculptor. Carved from marble, most likely. But perhaps molded of brass.

  Her imagination sparked, she combed through the American sculptors she was familiar with and quickly settled on one. She giggled aloud.

  What if the crate contained a statue by Randolph Rogers! The very possibility quickened her step. How exciting that would be. And how expensive the statue must have been. Rogers’s fees were handsome enough, she knew, but to ship something of that weight all the way from—

  Hearing the thread of her own thoughts, Claire resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She was getting far too carried away. Oh, but it was good to feel this way. To feel so light inside. Almost . . . carefree.

  Half an hour later, she located Elm Avenue, a quaint street lined with shops, tucked off a busier thoroughfare. But when she reached her destination, she paused to check the address in the written instructions, wondering if she’d misread it.

  She looked down, then up again.

  The address number matched the number on the brass plate over the threshold. While Uncle Antoine hadn’t said what they would be doing in Nashville, she’d assumed his and Papa’s business would be the same. Maybe, hopefully, she’d been wrong. Not that it mattered for her in the long run. She was more determined than ever to break free of their plans for her. Though she had no idea how to go about that yet.

  Taking a deep breath and hoping—trusting—God had a plan, she opened the door.

  4

  Good evening, dear. How may I help you?”

  Closing the door behind her, Claire smiled at the elderly woman seated behind the desk. “Good evening, ma’am.” She set her satchel down, glad to be free of the weight. “I’m here to see a Mr. Samuel Broderick, if he’s available. My name is Claire Laurent. I believe Mr. Broderick is expecting me.”

  The woman frowned, looking a bit lost. “That name doesn’t sound familiar to me, dear. I’m sorry.”

  Claire’s hope plummeted. She glanced back at the stenciling on the store’s front window. “This is Broderick Shipping and Freight Company, is it not?”

  “Yes, it is!” A bright smile replaced the woman’s vagueness. “And I’m Mrs. Broderick!” She reached over and patted Claire’s hand with exuberance. “It’s so nice of you to drop in and say hello, dear. My husband’s not here right now, but I’ll be sure and tell him you stopped by to visit. Saturday afternoons are so very busy for us, you know.” The woman’s smile never dimmed, but clearly, she expected Claire to leave.

  Knowing she shouldn’t stare, Claire was unable not to. She got the distinct impression that sweet Mrs. Broderick wasn’t quite “all in the moment.” And it wasn’t only because this happened to be a Monday. She hated to press the woman for more information, but under the circumstances, she had no other choice. “Do you happen to know when your husband will be back? It’s urgent that I speak with him.”

  “When my husband will be back . . .” Mrs. Broderick whispered, blinking. She looked down at the desk, and began straightening the already tidy stacks of paper. The vague look crept back into her features. “I . . . I don’t think he’s coming back. My Samuel . . . he’s . . .” She pressed a hand to her chest and let out a cry. “Oh dear . . .”

  Claire raced to the other side of the desk, afraid the woman was about to faint. “Mrs. Broderick, are you all—”

  “Mama!” A man appeared through a side door, moving with a swiftness that belied his tall stature. “What are you doing down here?” His tone firm, he slipped an arm around his mother and patted her shoulder. He glanced at Claire, then looked back a second time, his gaze more encompassing this time, and not altogether gentlemanly as it inched downward.

  Claire knew the buttons on her bodice were fastened but couldn’t resist checking, just to be sure. When she looked up again, he looked away.

  “It’s all right, Mama,” he whispered. “I’m here. Take some deep breaths. . . .”

  Mrs. Broderick did as she was told, leaning against her son, appearing calm again.

  Claire took a step back, feeling awkward and yet responsible, and more than a little tired. The days of travel were catching up to her. “Please, let me offer my apologies. I
didn’t mean to upset her.”

  “It’s not your fault. Don’t blame yourself.” He shifted his considerable weight and pointed in Claire’s direction, as though having just figured something out. “If I’m right, and I’m guessing I am . . . you’re Miss Laurent.”

  For reasons Claire couldn’t explain, she wished she could say no. “Yes, I am.” She knew she should probably be relieved that this man knew her name, because that meant he’d been expecting her, which meant she was where she was supposed to be, according to Uncle Antoine’s plan. But she couldn’t shake the overwhelming feeling that she was not where she belonged. Already guessing his name, she asked anyway. “And you are?”

  “Samuel Broderick. The second,” he added in a way that made her think he was attempting to impress her. Unsuccessfully so. “I inherited this business from my father . . . who passed away a few years ago.”

  Claire gave a little nod. “I’m sorry about your father, sir. And about your husband, Mrs. Broderick.” She included the matron in her nod.

  Mrs. Broderick straightened, her attention fixing on Claire. “Do I know you, honey?”

  Claire smiled. “My name is Claire, Mrs. Broderick. We met just a moment ago.”

  It looked as though a light came on behind the woman’s eyes. “Ah . . . You’re the woman that nice man told us about. I overheard him and my son talking about you.” She took hold of Claire’s hand, looking as though she might cry again. “I’m so sorry to hear about your fa—”

  “Time to get you back upstairs, Mama!” Mr. Broderick stepped between them and took hold of his mother’s arm. “You know how you love dinner!” He guided her toward the door, talking over his shoulder. “I’ll be back down in a few minutes, Miss Laurent. Then you and I can get better acquainted.”

  Claire waited, moments passing, and she fought the urge to leave. Getting better acquainted with Samuel Broderick wasn’t at the top of her list, much less even on it. She got a prickly feeling being around the man, and Maman had counseled her often enough to listen to that inner voice. If she’d had anywhere else to go—or means to pay for a hotel—she would have left without a backward glance.

  Surmising from the quality of furniture in the office and the general surroundings, she guessed that Mr. Broderick ran a profitable business. Her question was: How did operating an art gallery in Nashville figure into a partnership with a freight company?

  Broderick returned moments later and bolted the front door. Claire got a shiver as the lock thudded into place but told herself it was for naught. After all, she saw through the window that other shopkeepers were closing as well.

  “Mama’s a real sweet woman, Miss Laurent. But you’ll have to forgive her. Sometimes she doesn’t think too clearly.”

  Claire nodded, not really knowing what to say.

  “May I offer you something to drink? I’ve got tea and coffee or”—he smiled a tight smile—“something a little stronger that’ll help cure the ails of travel. . . . Along with a warm bath, perhaps. I can draw one for you upstairs.”

  Claire blushed even as she cringed. “What I’d really appreciate, Mr. Broderick, is to know which boardinghouse Mr. DePaul arranged for me to stay in. I’m exhausted from traveling and would like to get settled.”

  “Oh . . .” He laughed as though he were embarrassed, though she doubted he was capable of being such. “There’s no need for a boardinghouse, Miss Laurent. Mr. DePaul and I agreed that you’d stay here with me until they arrived. And”—he glanced toward the stairs—“with my mother, of course. Here . . . let me show you to your room.”

  Not at all eager to go anywhere with the man, Claire weighed her options and reluctantly followed him upstairs. The residence portion of the building was more spacious than she would’ve thought, and just as nice, if not nicer, than the business downstairs. Broderick Shipping and Freight did indeed fare very well.

  She followed Samuel Broderick, the second, down the hallway to a room at the far end. He pushed the door open and entered ahead of her.

  She fingered the lock on the door and found it to be broken.

  “Oh yes.” He moved closer. “I’ve been meaning to fix that. I’ll get right to that tomorrow.”

  Nodding, Claire put some distance between them and ran her hand over a sturdy rail-back chair just begging to be wedged beneath the doorknob. But the bed . . . Already, she could feel herself curled up between the sheets. The bed looked heavenly.

  “Mr. DePaul told me you’re a gifted artist. And that your work”—his tone held a hint of amusement—“is very much in demand. DePaul seemed eager for you to resume your painting. He said several requests are waiting to be filled. And when you’re done”—his expression turned conspiratorial—“your paintings will be shipped all the way from Europe, arriving with certificates of authenticity, of course.”

  Claire eyed him, hearing her earlier suspicions about Papa’s and Uncle Antoine’s intentions confirmed. She guessed—at least in part—what Broderick’s role would be in the scheme. Forging the shipping documents. An integral part of what they did, she knew.

  But—she promised herself yet again—they would be doing it without her.

  “I hope you’ll be comfortable here, Miss Laurent.” Mr. Broderick’s gaze moved over her, warming in a way that made her skin crawl.

  Not wanting to encourage further conversation, or anything else, Claire stood straighter, trying to appear more confident than she felt. “I’m very tired, Mr. Broderick. I believe I’ll just turn in for the night.”

  He glanced toward a footed tub situated in the corner. “I’ll be happy to draw you a bath, if—”

  “No—thank you. I’m fine.”

  “Perhaps in the morning, then.” His smile came slowly. “If there’s anything you need, anything at all, all you need do is let me know. My bedroom is right across the hall.” He pointed. “And I’m a light sleeper.”

  Wishing she had somewhere else to go, Claire decided to seek other lodgings first thing in the morning. “Thank you, Mr. Broderick. I’ve got everything I need.”

  Claire closed the door and laid her reticule on the dresser. She looked around for her satchel, then exhaled, gritting her teeth. She’d left it downstairs by the desk.

  After waiting for several heartbeats, she opened the bedroom door a fraction of an inch, then another, and peered down the hallway. She did not want to risk further interaction with her host.

  The hallway was empty, and she was halfway to the stairs when voices drifted toward her. She hesitated, then made a mad dash by an open doorway, praying she wouldn’t be seen.

  Feeling a little foolish that she was tiptoeing down the stairs, as though she were doing something wrong, she crossed the room and retrieved her satchel. A burnished glow from outside caught her eye, and she paused for a moment to peer out the window.

  Gas lamps lining either side of the street burned brightly, the flames flickering orange-gold within the smoky glass. So pretty against the purple dusk. It made her homesick for—

  Her hand tightened on the leather handle. Homesick for what? A place to call home? For Maman? Always . . . For Papa, and the relationship she’d always wanted with him but had never had? Perhaps . . .

  Unwilling to give those thoughts further rein, she tiptoed back upstairs. She paused at the top of the second-floor landing, listening for any sign of her overly friendly host.

  “It just seems right to me, Samuel, that she be told about such a thing.”

  Claire grew very still.

  “She will be told, Mama. When that nice man comes back. You remember Mr. DePaul. He brought you flowers and candy. He said in his telegram that he wants to be the one to tell her. That we’re not to say anything about it. He knows best, and we need to respect his wishes.”

  Claire didn’t move for fear the creak of a floorboard would give her away. Uncle Antoine wanted to tell her something himself. But what? From inside the room, came the clink of dishes and shuffled steps. At any moment, she expected Mr. Broderick t
o walk into the hallway and discover her standing there. And then what would she—

  “And be nice to her, Mama. We’re supposed to keep an eye on her until he comes again. He made that clear. She’ll be helping to take care of you now. Won’t that be nice? No more of my cooking. And you’ll have another woman to talk to.”

  Claire frowned. Helping to take care of Mrs. Broderick? And cooking?

  A light sigh, then the creak of a rocker. “All right, Samuel. But I still think a daughter deserves to know her father has died.”

  Claire blinked, her world grinding to a halt. She heard the words all too clearly but had trouble making them make sense. An instinctive step backward—

  And nothing but air met the heel of her boot. She dropped the satchel and grabbed for the handrail. And missed. She slipped a step, then another, before gaining hold. The satchel slid down the stairs and landed at the bottom with a thud. Heavy footsteps sounded, and Broderick appeared at the top of the stairs.

  “Miss Laurent! Are you all right?” He reached her and practically lifted her up the stairs.

  “My father,” Claire whispered. “A daughter deserves to know her father has died.” The words kept replaying in her mind, and what little air there was seemed to evaporate.

  “Here—” His arm came tight about her waist. “Let me help you to your room.”

  Claire tried to push him away, but he was strong, and insistent.

  “I’m sorry you heard that. But . . .” He led her into the bedroom and over to the bed, where he sat beside her. “I received the telegram this morning. I’m so sorry you had to find out this way.” He stroked her back, his hand caressing, moving downward.

  Claire scooted away. “Don’t!” She put up a hand. “Please, just leave me—”

  “You’re upset, as well you should be.” He moved and slid an arm around her shoulders again. “I know what it’s like to lose a parent.”

  Claire tried to stand, but his arm tightened around her. Only then did she realize he’d closed the door to the bedroom.