A Lasting Impression

by Tamera Alexander

  Sutton angled his chair away from hers so he could watch her as she spoke. She told them in detail about the gallery, her parents, and when she’d first learned about what they did. Then she described her years at boarding school before she returned to work in the “family business.”

  “How many paintings did you personally forge, Miss Laurent?” Holbrook asked.

  Sutton could see her lips moving the way they always did when she counted to herself.

  “I’ve painted Jardins de Versailles five times, including this one. And maybe another twenty, perhaps twenty-five, canvases over the course of the last two years. That doesn’t count the paintings I copied for people who knew they were buying a copy.”

  “Did you ever sell these paintings yourself?” Sutton asked, hoping what her answer would be.

  “No, Papa always did that. And he made me leave the gallery when he was hosting those clients.”

  “So you never saw those patrons?” he followed up. “Or would be able to identify them?” Or they you, he thought.

  “No.”

  “So you forged paintings over the last two years?” Holbrook continued.

  “I started once my mother became ill, shortly after I finished boarding school.” She spoke of the closeness with her mother, and the absence of comment about her father spoke even louder. “The doctors’ fees and the medicine were expensive. I told Papa that I thought she would get better if we sent her to a sanitarium. He said those cost a lot of money, so I worked harder and painted faster. But . . .” She shook her head. “He refused to send her.”

  “And she died?” Mrs. Holbrook asked, her voice hesitant.

  Claire nodded. “Almost a year ago now.”

  “I’m so sorry, dear,” Mrs. Holbrook whispered. “You must still miss her very much.”

  “I do. But sometimes, when I hold a paintbrush, I feel her with me.”

  Mrs. Holbrook held out her right hand. “This was my mother’s wedding ring. I feel the very same about her when I wear it.”

  A semblance of a smile touched Claire’s lips but didn’t linger. “My mother gave me her locket watch before she died, but I lost it the first night I got to Nashville.” She sighed. “I went back to the shipping company some days later to find it, but . . . it was gone.”

  “Shipping company,” Holbrook said, his wiry brows arching.

  “Yes, sir,” Claire answered. “That was the afternoon you and I first saw each other. At Broderick Shipping and Freight.”

  “What?” Sutton leaned forward. “You saw her at—”

  Holbrook’s hand went up. “You may take me to task later, Mr. Monroe, for my choice to withhold that information from you. But after seeing how thoroughly enamored you were with Miss Laurent at the reception that night, I thought it best, and I still stand by my decision.”

  Sutton felt Claire look over at him, but he didn’t look back.

  “Now . . .” Holbrook returned to Claire. “I remember that afternoon well, Miss Laurent. But I had no idea you had a connection with that company.”

  “I didn’t—and don’t. I was simply there looking for my reticule. Mr. Broderick had made unwelcome advances my first night there, at which time I grabbed my satchel and left. It wasn’t until the next morning in church, where I met Sutton, that I even remembered I’d left my reticule behind.”

  Sutton had never met Samuel Broderick, but already he looked forward to throttling the man. “Claire . . . what were you doing there that first night? Why did you go there to begin with?”

  “Because that’s where my father and his business partner had arranged for me to stay when I first arrived in town.”

  Sutton exchanged a look with Holbrook. “Your father had a business partner?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what is this partner’s name, Miss Laurent?” Holbrook asked.

  “Antoine DePaul.”

  Sutton got a sinking feeling, and witnessed the same in Holbrook.

  “What is it?” Claire asked. “What’s wrong?”

  Sutton looked at Holbrook for permission and received a nod.

  “Claire, the lawsuit Mr. Holbrook and I have been working on all these months, and that you’ve been so faithful to pray for me about . . .”

  She got a wary look.

  “We’ve been working with investigators to track fraudulent art on behalf of a client. Several clients now, actually. We’ve been gathering evidence for an upcoming trial. But the man we’ve been looking for is Sebastian Perrault. Does that name sound at all familiar to you?”

  She shook her head.

  Sutton nodded. “The majority of forgeries in this country in the past decade can be traced back to this man and his wide net of constituents. Perrault owns several galleries, all of which are quite small, except for the Perrault Gallery in New York.”

  A puzzled look swept her face. “Wait . . .” Her gaze drifted. “Perrault Gallery . . . New York. I remember seeing that name. . . .” She turned back, her eyes brightening. “That very first night in Nashville. The directions Antoine had written down for me were written on a piece of stationery with that gallery’s name on it.”

  Sutton tried for a grateful look. “Unfortunately, that doesn’t establish a connection between the two men. Perrault does an enormous amount of business with galleries both here in the United States and abroad.”

  “How well do you know this Antoine DePaul, Miss Laurent?” Holbrook asked, watching her over tented hands. “What kind of man is he?”

  “I’ve known him since I was nine, or I thought I did. He was almost like a member of our family.” Her sigh held regret. “And like an uncle to me. He traveled a lot, more in recent years. And when he took trips, he always brought home gifts.” Her eyes narrowed, and she gave a humorless laugh. “Though, looking back . . . he always spent the most money on himself. He had a penchant for boots.” She shook her head. “Alligator was his favorite.”

  Sutton sat forward. He and Holbrook stared at each other, and slowly began to smile. Even Mrs. Holbrook, who’d been quiet throughout, straightened in her chair.

  “Fastidious dresser,” Sutton said, recalling a remark in a deposition he’d read from a witness. “And always prided himself on . . .”

  “His boots,” Holbrook finished with him. “Vanity . . . thy name is Sebastian Perrault. Or . . . Antoine DePaul.”

  Claire looked between them. “You think Antoine is . . . Perrault?”

  “I would bet my best black hat on it, Miss Laurent. Now, you said that DePaul arranged for you to stay at Broderick Shipping and Freight. I assume DePaul arrived in Nashville sometime after you?”

  Claire nodded. “He was staying with Samuel Broderick. I saw his belongings the day I returned for my locket watch. I’m assuming he’s still there.”

  “Authorities have been watching Broderick’s store for weeks now.” Sutton sighed. “No sign of the man.”

  “Then this will be of interest to you both,” Claire said, her expression tentative. “Antoine DePaul saw us at the opera the other night, Sutton, and . . . he visited Belmont yesterday.”

  Sutton nearly came out of his chair. “Perrault was at Belmont?”

  “I was going to tell you this morning, but . . . you had already left. He came to pressure me into painting for him again. When I told him no, he threatened to expose my past to Mrs. Acklen if I didn’t give him five hundred dollars.” She leaned forward. “I had already determined to tell you and Mrs. Acklen the truth, Sutton, even before he came. I give you my word.”

  Sutton felt Holbrook watching him, waiting for his response, and he nodded. “She’s tried several times to talk to me about something, but . . . we kept getting interrupted.” He looked over at her. He wanted to add that perhaps she could have tried harder to tell him about this, but the brokenness in her eyes wouldn’t let him. “Did Antoine DePaul say anything else?”

  “When I said I didn’t have access to that kind of money, he said he would contact me within the week.”

&n
bsp; Sutton and Holbrook exchanged glances again, and Sutton guessed they were thinking the same thing. Sebastian Perrault would be contacting Claire again. And if Claire would help them—which her behavior now gave him every reason to believe she would—they were closer to catching Sebastian Perrault than they’d ever been before.

  Only, Claire was going to get caught in the process too.

  53

  May I ask . . . what will happen to me?”

  With her head bowed, Sutton couldn’t see Claire’s face, but he heard the fear in her voice. While part of him wanted to reassure her that all would be fine, the attorney in him couldn’t. Not knowing what he knew. Seeing Holbrook’s almost imperceptible nod, Sutton turned to her.

  “Claire . . .”

  She looked up at him, her desire to be strong clearly written in the rigid set of her jaw, but not the least convincing to him.

  Pulling his emotions inward, he focused on the facts. “Forgery is a crime punishable by federal law. However, due to the specifics of your situation, it could be said that you find yourself in a rather advantageous position, considering the arguable duress under which you painted the forgeries and your obvious effort to leave that life behind. Any responsible jury deliberating—”

  “Jury?” she asked.

  “If it comes to that, yes.” From his peripheral vision, he saw Holbrook nod. “But any responsible jury will take all of that into consideration when determining their verdict, especially if the defendant—you, in this case—aids in providing evidence. Which—”

  “I’ll do whatever you want me to do,” she said quickly, scooting forward in her chair. “I’ll tell you everything . . . I was going to anyway.” Her eyes grew misty again. “I know what I did was wrong, so please don’t hear me saying otherwise. At times, especially when my mother grew more ill, I felt as though I didn’t have a choice. But we all have choices. I know that now. And I’d like to think that, if put in that situation again, I would make better decisions next time.”

  “And that,” Sutton said, “is why I believe a jury will render a more lenient verdict in your case.”

  “I agree with Mr. Monroe’s assessment, Miss Laurent.” Holbrook rose and slowly straightened to his full height. “And you’ll need to be willing to testify against Sebastian Perrault in court, which means facing him again.”

  “That won’t be a problem for me, sir.”

  Sorting through the revelations of the past hour, Sutton studied Claire as Holbrook questioned her further. She’d been fighting to keep her mother alive, doing whatever she needed to do to make that happen. Another woman came to mind—along with images of wagons loaded down with cotton—and the similarities in the two women were undeniable.

  “If it becomes necessary, Miss Laurent,” Holbrook continued, “as it well may, can you prove that you painted that Brissaud?”

  “Yes, sir. I can. Brissaud is known for painting a certain venue many times, but each time he includes something different. I included my mother in this canvas. She’s painted down to the left, in the garden.”

  Sutton shook his head, joining in. “A touching gesture, Claire, but unconvincing in a court of law.”

  Her chin lifted. “In a moment of frustration with my father, I signed this particular canvas. If you were to scrape off the paint on the bottom right corner, you’ll see my signature beneath the forged one. And if that isn’t enough, look on the back of the canvas. I had to make the tiniest patch on the bottom right-hand corner. It will be evident . . . to the trained eye.”

  Accepting the challenge, Holbrook got up and left the room, and returned minutes later, satisfaction on his face. “One of the investigators would like to speak with you, Miss Laurent. But not here. At his office.”

  Claire stood. “May I ask what will happen to the painting?”

  Sutton held her chair. “It will be confiscated as evidence and presented in the trial. Why?”

  “It has special meaning to me, that’s all.”

  Holbrook laughed softly. “I’m afraid it has special meaning to the Brissaud collector who bought it three months ago in New York too. Before he realized it was a fake, and that his investment was lost.”

  Claire frowned. “Will he be able to get his money back?”

  Sutton felt the question directed to him. “That’s part of what will be determined when we go to court.” Then it occurred to him. “Claire, do you have any idea what the ‘Brissaud’ out there sold for?”

  She shook her head. “It was stolen the night I left New Orleans.”

  Sutton paused before opening the door. “Your Jardins de Versailles sold at auction in New York for almost four thousand dollars.” Her mouth fell partially open, as did Mrs. Holbrook’s. “So from where I’m sitting, I just got a steal on An American Versailles.”

  Never in all his years of knowing Adelicia and working for her had Sutton seen the woman so quiet. So still. So utterly and thoroughly shocked. He knew the feeling.

  Only the sound of Claire’s voice and an occasional soft cry as she recounted her story marred the otherwise thick and heavy silence. Sutton sensed it took everything she had, but she sat posture perfect, head held erect as she wept.

  He stood slightly behind her, having declined to sit, preferring to be where he could watch them both. As surprised as he’d been to learn what Claire had done, her poise and grace under the pressure of the past two days had impressed him. She’d given deposition after deposition with never a complaint. And with never a differing fact.

  But he knew she’d been dreading this meeting with Adelicia.

  “So let me say again, Mrs. Acklen, how very sorry I am for withholding the truth from you and for placing you in the position that I have. I’m so grateful—” Claire’s voice broke, and a moment passed before she regained control—“for the opportunities you gave me while I was here at Belmont. And for the way you opened your home, and yourself, to me. I wish I could be repaying you with something other than embarrassment and . . . public ridicule.”

  Already, the newspapers had grabbed the story, and of course, since Claire was Adelicia Acklen’s personal liaison, the articles had both captured the front page. The stories were factual, for the most part, and were rife with the terms counterfeit and fake.

  Claire bowed her head, finished with her part. But Adelicia still stared. Sutton wished she’d say something. The silence felt piercing and double-edged, even to him.

  He and Claire had spoken at length about what she’d done but not at all about them. He loved her. He couldn’t deny it and didn’t want to. In that regard, nothing had changed. Inwardly, anyway. Yet they needed time to work through everything.

  But one thing he was certain of—the Claire Laurent he’d grown to love was not the same person who had painted those forgeries. She’d given him a letter containing her thoughts after she’d heard the question so clearly in her mind, though letter wasn’t quite the word for what she’d given him. It was really more of an outpouring of her heart onto the page, an outpouring that gave him deeper insight into her as a person, and an intimate look into her heart. And he treasured both.

  As much as he’d thirsted for vengeance in his own situation, he ached for mercy now in Claire’s. Justice wasn’t as cut-and-dried as he’d once thought, and undeserved mercy held far greater appeal than ever before.

  Adelicia drew in a breath and slowly exhaled. “Miss Laurent . . .”

  Claire lifted her head.

  “When I hired you as my personal liaison, I entrusted you not only with my personal and business affairs, but with my children, my family, my servants, my home, and my reputation. You ate at my table, you slept in my house, you sat beside me in church. Did I, or did I not, tell you that you would become an extension of me? That when people saw you, they would see me. That everything you did would reflect upon me. Does any of that sound familiar to you, Miss Laurent?”

  Sutton knew Adelicia was within her right to speak in such a way to Claire, but a part of him still flinched,
wanting to protect Claire. Wanting to defend her.

  “Yes, Mrs. Acklen,” Claire said, her voice soft, laden with respect. “You did, ma’am. And I tarnished that image. I’m deeply sorry.”

  Adelicia rested her hands on the desk, the feminine gesture oddly paired with the steel of her manner. “One thing I have learned in my life is that there are no private mistakes for people who live in the public sphere. Everything we do is subject to criticism. One must learn to live above all that, Miss Laurent . . . even when it cuts so deeply you think the wound will not heal.”

  Sutton detected the slightest waver in Adelicia’s voice at the end, though her countenance denied it.

  “It will heal, Miss Laurent. God himself will soothe the balm over the hurt, if you let Him. You will recover and move on. And you will be stronger for the scar.”

  Sutton knew that people—some of them Adelicia’s peers—were reveling in this embarrassing situation for her. He also knew that, somehow, Adelicia would use it and harness it for the betterment of herself and her estate, just as she always seemed to do.

  “And something you should remember for the future, Miss Laurent,” Adelicia continued, her tone instructive. “Let no one define how you see yourself . . . save God alone. See yourself through His eyes and His strength, and you’ll see who you can be despite being who you are.” A dark brow rose. “But see yourself through your own eyes, and you’ll be left to question, and to doubt, subject to the whims and wishes of others who will not have your best at heart. As experience has taught you in a rather harsh manner.”

  Moments passed, and finally Claire stood. She moved to the side of the desk, and with a grace and humility that caused Sutton to suck in a breath, she curtsied deep, her head bowed low. Adelicia’s chin trembled the slightest bit before Claire rose and wordlessly walked to the door.