A Lasting Impression

expression.
    Claire hadn’t moved an inch but she felt off balance, as if the rug had been ripped out from beneath her, yet again. Ironic . . . This life she would have traded away just an hour earlier suddenly held meaning and familiarity she wasn’t eager to throw away, despite its many unhappy parts. “I’m tired of running, Uncle. Of moving from place to place.” She included her father in her stare. “I know I can’t stay here, but I don’t want to do this anymore. I’ve told you that, Papa. And you said yourself that no one knows I’m the one who paints them. I could move somewhere else in town, and—”
    “You’re not listening, Claire.” Uncle Antoine’s voice lacked any trace of warmth. “We don’t have time for this conversation. They could be back any moment.” He glanced at the door. “It’s not safe for any of us here. Not after today.”
    Claire squared her shoulders and willed her voice to be as strong and as certain as his. “And I don’t think you’re listening to me, Uncle. I know Papa never has.” Her throat suddenly felt like sandpaper. “If you and Papa want to go and do this somewhere else, then go. But I’ll no longer be a part of it.” She swallowed, nearly choking on the words, and at the fury she saw in her uncle’s face. “I’ll make my own way. I’ll—”
    His hand came from nowhere, hot across her cheek. Claire would have fallen had he not grabbed her arm.
    “Listen to me.” Uncle Antoine pulled her close. “You’re going, ma chère. It’s for your own good. You must trust me in this. Your passage has been arranged. Now stop acting like a spoiled child and go pack your satchel.”
    Her face on fire, Claire felt as though she were looking at a stranger. Never had he spoken to her in such a manner, much less laid a hand on her. His gaze was flat and unyielding, and slowly, the pieces of an all-too-familiar puzzle jarred painfully into place. “You knew. . . .” Truth narrowed her eyes, and she saw it reflected in his. “That’s why you were gone so long this time. Back north . . . You knew we were leaving again. And yet you—” He’d lied to her. Just like Papa. “You promised,” she whispered, tears knotting her throat. “You promised we wouldn’t—”
    “Antoine’s right, Claire. You’re acting like a child.”
    Tears blurred her vision. She dragged her gaze back to her father.
    His features were stony, without the least hint of remorse. “You’ve known this day would come again.” He clutched the blood-soaked rag to his side. “I’m only grateful your maman isn’t here to see this. Your selfishness would have pained her.”
    Claire blinked. Her selfishness? And this from her own father, who hadn’t said a word when Uncle Antoine slapped her.
    Uncle Antoine loosened his hold on her arm. “Family was most important to your mother, ma chère. She would want us to stay together. You know that.”
    Claire looked down to where he held her and, as she had earlier that day, felt something rend deep inside. Forcing a nod, she looked back, hearing again what her mother had whispered over and over in her fitful laudanum-induced sleep—“ Be careful who you love . . . ” Whether her mother had meant it as a warning for her, or perhaps as a reminder to herself, Claire didn’t know. But for the first time in her life, she realized it was possible to love someone whom you thought loved you in return. Only to discover . . . that they didn’t. And maybe never really had. “Where are we going . . . Uncle?”
    Uncle Antoine relaxed, his expression conveying relief that she’d come to her senses. “Far from here, ma chère. Your father and I will follow shortly. We have . . . business to attend to first.” He raised his hand, slowly this time, and touched her cheek. It was all Claire could do not to turn away. “ Je suis désolé, ” he whispered. “I lost my temper. But only because I’m so worried about you.”
    Claire said nothing.
    Finally, he motioned. “Now go, pack a satchel. Only what you need. A carriage will be here anytime. And, Claire . . .” He gave her a quick downward glance.
    Claire did likewise and cringed at what she saw.
    “. . . be sure to change your dress.”
    Upstairs in her room, Claire lit an oil lamp, her hands shaking. She fumbled with the buttons on her bodice, mindful of the clock on the mantel.
    She caught sight of herself in the mirror, and the reflection was one she wouldn’t soon forget. Betrayal,