A Lasting Impression (3 page)

She’d heard all of this before, and while she was grateful for everything her mother—and father—had given her, she also knew their efforts hadn’t been
only
for her benefit. They were for his. Her mother had said as much. Her mother had said a great many things in those last days. Whether it was the laudanum speaking or the truth finally breaking free, Claire couldn’t be sure.

But she wanted to believe that her father had her best interests at heart. After all, he was her
papa.

Staring up at him, seeing the hard set of his shoulders, his iron resolve, she felt the fight within her drain away. She opened the door, then remembered and held out her hand, feeling like a beggar and resenting him all the more for it.

Her father pressed three coins into her palm. One more than usual. She turned without a thank-you or a good-bye.

“Enjoy your time at the café, but don’t be gone overlong. We have work to do this evening.” His tone had lightened, falsely so. It always did when she acquiesced. “And be sure to bring home a sweet for Uncle Antoine and me.”

Claire halted midstride. “Uncle Antoine is back?”

He nodded as though the news were inconsequential, when he knew it was anything but. “He’ll be here shortly to assist me. I’ll ask him to stay so you can say hello, if he has time. Now hurry on.” He gave a swift wave. “Leave the business details to us. That’s where
our
talents lie.”

Claire cut a path across the brick-paved street, pushing down the well of hurt inside her, like always. She dodged wagons and carriages as they rumbled past, hoping to reach her destination before the swollen skies delivered on their steely threat.

They’d lived in New Orleans for two years, the longest they’d lived anywhere since arriving in America, and the city had finally begun to feel like home. Which probably meant they would be moving soon. Just the thought of moving stirred a dread inside her.

Uncle Antoine had promised her he wouldn’t let that happen again, that he would dissuade her father from making that choice. But she knew only too well how strongheaded Papa could be.

Uncle Antoine.

Feeling a portion of her angst drain away, she waited for a carriage to pass before crossing the street. Uncle Antoine had a way of easing the tension between her and Papa.

Close to her father in age, Antoine DePaul was no more related to her than she was to Louis XVI, but she adored him as though he were family. He traveled frequently, and business had called him back north for well over a month now. Too long. She could hardly wait to see what latest fashion boot he’d purchased. Alligator boots were his trademark, but upon a recent trip to New York, he’d purchased ostrich and anaconda. Only Uncle Antoine . . .

Turning the next corner, she purposefully inhaled, and wasn’t disappointed. The comforting scent of yeasty beignets and chicory-laced coffee strummed the heartstrings of her childhood home and triggered such vivid memories. And that with Café du Monde still over a block away.

Her spirits began to lighten, as they always did when she ventured outside and took walks, when she was away from the gallery.

She recalled the first time she’d laid eyes on Antoine DePaul—in New York City, upon their arrival in America ten years ago. She’d thought him so tall and dashing. He could make her laugh without even trying. Such a lucky twist of fate, meeting him as quickly as they had after disembarking. And he having recently arrived from France as well. “A small world, even in this very large and new one,” Papa had said. An experienced art broker himself, Uncle Antoine had a charm about him that seemed to draw patrons—and female admirers—by the dozens. He had soon become her father’s business partner.

And, eventually, like a member of their family.

With a crack of thunder, the gray skies unleashed their weighty promise, and Claire made a mad dash for the café’s striped awning. Feeling a little like a drowned rat and knowing she probably looked the part, she shook the moisture from her skirt and tucked her damp curls into place as best she could.

“
Bonjour, madame!
” She smiled at the woman behind the counter and placed her order, glad to see the café wasn’t overcrowded.

Balancing two beignets on a plate along with two bagged for home, she grabbed her coffee and found an empty table. A previous patron had left behind the day’s paper, so as she scanned the news, she relished the pastries between sips and licked the powdered sugar from her fingers, careful that no one was watching.

After a while, she folded the paper and laid it aside and enjoyed the last of her coffee. She brushed the powdered sugar from her lap, but the black fabric of her only mourning dress was reluctant to give up the dusty white. Had it really been six months since her mother had died? It seemed like much longer, and yet also like yesterday.

Seeing the rainfall had subsided, she started for home at a leisurely pace, surprised at how quickly dusk was approaching and at how warm and heavy the air still was. With purpose, she turned her thoughts toward which piece of art, if any, her father might have sold in her absence.

She thought of her
Jardins de Versailles
but knew it was safe for another day or two, at least. Because a painting from François-Narcisse Brissaud, a lauded “master artist of Paris” whose work was highly sought after, couldn’t very well be sold in a New Orleans art gallery with the oils still tacky to the touch.

The majority of their patrons came into the gallery requesting copies of famous paintings. Once Papa received their deposit, she gladly filled their requests, signing her own initials—all that he would allow. Americans seemed to love anything and everything European, and owning a well-rendered copy of a renowned European artist’s work was quite in vogue.

Doing that didn’t bother her. In fact, she enjoyed it. Because those people
knew
they were buying a copy. A fake. A forgery.

But when someone came in and purchased the work of acclaimed artist François-Narcisse Brissaud—whose style her mother had studied relentlessly and learned to imitate, as had Claire
—
they believed they were getting something of real worth.

But in truth, the artist’s name on the canvas was as counterfeit as the documents her father and Uncle Antoine forged attesting to the painting’s authenticity. What they did was wrong, and she knew it. It was stealing.

She never understood
why
her mother had agreed to do it in the first place. Maman had never said, and Claire hadn’t forced the issue, even at the end. It had seemed a trivial question as life painfully and surely ebbed away.

She still remembered, some years back, the first time she’d seen a landscape her mother had painted, but with someone else’s name on it. At the age of eleven, she thought someone had made a mistake. Or that the man—whoever he was—had forged her mother’s work.

Shortly thereafter came a series of boarding schools. But by the age of seventeen, she knew the truth. And when her
maman
had grown too ill to hold the paintbrush herself, Claire had forged her first painting—and the name François-Narcisse Brissaud at the bottom—with her father standing close behind her.

The weighty mantle her mother had worn for so many years had been bequeathed to her. And the
responsibility,
as her father called it, hung heavy and rough on her shoulders.

With every step closer to home, she felt herself tensing.

When she was away from the gallery, away from her father, she almost felt like a different person, living a different life. When, for the rest of the time, she only wished that were true. She had to find a way to make him listen, to make him understand.

Surprisingly, she didn’t have to think long about what she wanted to say.
“Papa, I’ve decided I’m going to keep this painting of Versailles. I’ll pay you for it, if you insist.”
Though she didn’t know how she would manage that. He handled the finances, and earnings from the gallery had been slow in past months, he’d told her repeatedly, even though paintings were selling.
“But I’m keeping it. And what’s more, I won’t be party to this any longer. I’ll paint whatever you want me to paint, as long as it’s
my
name I sign on the canvas.”
There. She exhaled. The words flowed so easily when she wasn’t standing in front of him, when he wasn’t staring her down.

She entered through the kitchen. The building was quiet, and she felt a stab of disappointment. Had Uncle Antoine already left? Had she missed him entirely?

She plunked her reticule down on the kitchen table, along with the bag of beignets. Dinner needed to be started, but she wasn’t hungry. Yet she knew Papa would be. She opened the door to the gallery and peered inside. A single candelabra flickered on a bureau against the wall, leaving the bulk of the room to shadows and dusk. “Papa?”

She noticed that
The Duchess of Orléans—
a reproduction of Alexandre-François Caminade’s original that she’d painted two months ago, signed with
her
initials—was absent from its easel. The pedestal beside it displaying
Nydia, the Blind Flower Girl of Pompeii,
a small-scale original statue by Randolph Rogers, renowned sculptor and her personal favorite, was also empty.

Apparently, it had been a very profitable afternoon.

She’d scolded Papa when he’d bought the Rogers statuary. It was much too expensive a piece for them to purchase without a confirmed buyer, yet he’d done it anyway, saying that it was wise to have a true original on hand every now and then. And it would appear he’d made a sound decision for once, selling it in only a week’s time.

She shook her head, turning to go find him. How smug he would be about it all too, reminding her how he’d—

Something crunched beneath her boot. She looked down. Shards of glass, everywhere.

Then she heard a low moan coming from somewhere behind the door.

Slowly, she gave the door a push, the creak of hinges sounding overloud in the silence. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. Then she spotted him across the room, lying facedown on the floor.

“Papa!” She ran to him, broken glass splintering beneath each step. “Papa, are you all right?” She bent close and gave his shoulder a shake. No response. “It’s me, Papa. Claire . . . Can you hear me?”

His breathing was labored, as though he were in pain.

With effort, she turned him onto his back, as gently as she could. He groaned, and she flinched, afraid she was hurting him. She shoved her hair back to keep it out of her face, and felt a dampness on her hands, something sticky.

She looked down, and felt the room tilt.

A dark stain soaked the front of her father’s shirt, the same stain slicking the palms of her hands. Her head swam. Dreading what she would find, she tugged the hem of his shirt from his trousers to reveal a gash in his abdomen. Judging from the loss of blood, the wound was deep.
Oh, Papa . . .

“Open your eyes,” she whispered, heart in her throat. “
Please,
open your eyes.”

He didn’t.

She raced to the bureau and grabbed a stack of fresh polishing cloths from a lower drawer, and then the candelabra. She needed to apply pressure to the wound—she knew that much. The arc of candlelight followed her movements, flickering and sweeping across the burgundy-papered walls. Wherever the light fell, the room took on a pinkish glow.

Something caught her eye, and Claire stilled.

She squinted and raised the candelabra higher, wanting to make sure that what she was seeing—or wasn’t seeing—was real. But it was.

Every piece of art in the gallery was gone.

2

C
laire shivered, feeling as though she and her father weren’t alone. Yet clearly, no one else was in the room. She worked to stanch the blood flow, questions pressing. Who had robbed the gallery, assaulted her father? Who would chance such a bold undertaking on so busy a street? And where was Uncle Antoine?

But the most disturbing question, the one she couldn’t silence—like the pounding at the back of her head—was what had her father done? What kind of
deal
had gone wrong that someone would do this to him?

Based on experience, she knew better than to think him innocent.

Wetness slicked her hands, and she knew she needed to get help. To get a doctor. But she couldn’t leave her father alone.

“Claire . . .” Her father’s eyelids fluttered open.

“Yes, Papa.” She slipped her hand into his. “I’m here.”

He blinked as though having trouble focusing.

“What happened, Papa? Who did this to you?”

His grip tightened with more strength than she would have thought possible. Uncertainty furrowed his brow. “You’re not . . . hurt?”

She shook her head. “No, Papa. I’m not hurt.”

The briefest trace of a smile . . . then he tried to sit up.

“No, you need to lie still,” she urged. “Don’t move. You’re bleeding. You need a physician.”

“What I need”—he winced, each breath hard-earned—“is for you to leave here. Now! It’s not safe for—”

“I’m not going anywhere, Papa. Except to get you a doctor.”

Despite her efforts otherwise, he pushed himself up to a sitting position. Sweat poured from his face. “Men . . . were here, Claire. Men”—he grimaced and huffed a humorless laugh—“who were
less
than satisfied with their purchase of one of the Brissaud paintings.”

Claire tried to read the look in his eyes. “Do you mean . . . they
know
? About . . . the forgeries?” She could barely say it aloud.

“They suspect.” He stared hard, his jaw rigid. “They asked who painted them.”

The air left her lungs. “W-what did you tell them?”

“No one knows about you—yet.” He exhaled. “Which is why you must leave. If they come back and find you here—”

A floorboard creaked above them, in her bedroom, and Claire went cold inside. “Papa, what should we—”