A Lasting Impression

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 out 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