A Lasting Impression (5 page)

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

C
laire 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 still 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.

“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

G
ood 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.”