A Lasting Impression

But she’d done it. And, God forgive her, she would do it again if it meant providing money for her mother’s medicine. If it meant buying a chance that her maman might still be alive.
    But to think that her mother had lived with that same anvil of shame for so long . . . The guilt her mother had carried became undeniably clear the day before she’d passed.
    Claire sank down onto a flat lichen-covered rock and drew her legs up against her chest, still able to see her mother lying in the bed so clearly.
    “Water,” her mother had whispered, and Claire felt a flush of emotion as the folds of memory loosened and smoothed, offering up recollections of those final hours like jewels on a blanket. Claire had filled the cup and held it to her lips. But her mother shook her head. So Claire dipped a fresh cloth in the cool liquid and sponged her fevered forehead and face. But again, her mother objected, tears coming. It broke Claire’s heart to see her cry. Her mother never cried. And when Claire held the water to her mouth again, her mother had whispered something she hadn’t understood. . . .
    “Pour it over me,” she’d begged, and Claire had stared down, not understanding, believing the laudanum had addled her mother’s reasoning. But her mother had known what she was asking, even if Claire hadn’t, at the time. So Claire had done exactly as her mother asked. Cupful by cupful, she’d poured the water over her mother’s frail body until the mattress was soaked and her mother was weeping. But tears of contentment this time, not of frustration. “Merci beaucoup, l’amour de moi,” Maman had whispered, a peace easing the traces of pain and illness from her face.
    A peace that still eluded Claire, but that she craved with everything in her.
    Claire wiped her cheeks and looked around. The meadow was empty, and from where she sat, she could barely see the top of the mansion. She was alone. She recalled how straightforward and honest Sutton’s prayer had been, and wanted to word her request to God just like that, as if He were right beside her. But the words that came to mind seemed forced.
    No, more than that. They seemed coercive. Like she was trying to bargain with God, convince Him that she was worth His time and attention, when really, deep down, she knew the opposite was true. Because she knew what she was. A fake. A forgery. Not good enough. And it wasn’t the paintings she was thinking of any longer. It was her.
    She sat for a while, wishing away the fear inside, wishing she could feel the sun’s warmth on her heart as she felt it on her face.
    By the time she started back, she guessed it had to be approaching nine o’clock. She’d thought of other ideas for William’s party on her walk, but none seemed worthy of presenting to Adelicia Acklen. But the idea would come. It had to.
    As she neared the mansion, she was tempted to take a brief detour to explore the building Sutton lived in, the one housing the art gallery. But work came first.
    A carriage pulled up to the front of the mansion, and she slowed her steps. She didn’t think the carriage belonged to Mrs. Acklen but couldn’t be sure. The woman had several. When two gentlemen climbed out and young Pauline and Claude ran down the steps to greet them, Claire decided to find a door leading in through the back. She didn’t want to chance interrupting a meeting between Mrs. Acklen and her guests.
    Behind the mansion, rolling hills and meadows extended as far as she could see. Off to the side, between the manor and the stable and carriage house sat five brick cottages, identical to one another, all lined up in a neat row, clustered alongside a bank of unwieldy pines. She assumed the servants lived in them and couldn’t help noting the contrast between those structures and others she’d seen made of rotting plank wood and timber. It made her feel better about Mrs. Acklen, in a way. And still . . .
    Brick or timber, it didn’t change what the people who lived inside those structures were. Or had been. From what she’d seen since coming to Nashville, the war might have abolished slavery, but it hadn’t eliminated the scar. Or even started to close the wound.
    Continuing on around, she spotted a Negro boy crouched beneath a tree some distance away, nine or ten years old, judging from his size. He dug in the dirt with something. A broken stick, perhaps. Suddenly he stilled, bent low, and reached into the hole he’d made. He felt around and pulled