Memories of a man she’d never truly known . . . and yet had always struggled to live without.
Her memories of him were clouded and murky, much like the Seine. Yet she remembered the feel of her father’s hand enfolding hers. The tone of his voice as he used words to paint mental portraits describing how the early morning light played against the ripples of the water, rewarding the observant onlooker with multifaceted prisms of color.
Though only five when he left, she recalled how he’d made her feel as they’d walked the canals together—cherished, chosen, loved.
Véronique studied the small portrait of her maman. She had sketched the curves of her mother’s face from memory, just as she did everything. Another gift from the Giver, her mother had called it. The ability to see something once and commit the tiniest details to memory. To store it deep inside, kept safe as if locked away in a trunk, to be taken out and painted or sketched at a later time.
At least that’s how it used to be. She hadn’t lifted a brush in months, not since her mother had grown ill.
But she couldn’t blame that solely on her mother’s illness—unflattering critiques about her work from a respected instructor had contributed. She’d been at the Musée du Louvre, copying portraits of the masters along with other students, and the instructor’s criticism had been especially pointed. “You’re merely trying to impress us, Mademoiselle Girard, when you would be better served staying within the bounds of conventional artistry. You are here to learn from the masters, and their techniques. Not give us your interpretation of their paintings.”
His assessment stung. Though the criticisms were not new, and were partly founded in truth, his public declaration that her work was not worthy of distinction and that her talent was lacking did nothing to bolster her confidence.
Wind rustled the trees overhead.
Véronique’s gaze trailed the luminous shafts of sunlight as they slanted across the grave, turning the marble a brilliant white against the drab brown of an over-dry summer. As far back as she could remember, a place existed deep inside that remained incomplete, wanting. Surely God had granted her this gift of painting with the purpose of meeting that need.
Yet since her mother’s death all attempts at filling the void with it had fallen grossly short of the mark.
The emptiness within spawned the jolting reminder of her mother’s last request. “I want you to do what I never could, Véronique. Go to him. . . .” Véronique had wanted to turn and run, but her mother’s urgency had rooted her to the bedside. “Find him. . . . I know your father is still alive.” Her mother’s eyes pooled with tears. “Do this for him, for yourself. . . . Your papa is a good man.”
Her mother’s gaze had trailed to the table by the bed and settled upon a stack of letters. Once white rectangles, now yellowed with time and bearing marks of oft-repeated readings, the bundle was tied tight—too tight it seemed—and with a ribbon Véronique didn’t remember seeing before. “They are no longer my letters, Véronique. They are yours.” A tear had slipped down her mother’s left temple and disappeared into her hairline. “In truth, they have always been yours. Take them. Read them, ma chérie.”
She couldn’t refuse her mother at the time, but Véronique didn’t want the letters. She didn’t need to read them again. She already knew of her father’s promises to send for his young wife and their five-yearold daughter once he was settled in the Americas—once he’d made his fortune in fur trading.
But Pierre Gustave Girard had never sent for them.
Christophe chose that moment to rise from his quiet vigil and offered his arm. Véronique stood and slipped her hand through, willing the voiceless question hovering at the fringe of her thoughts to be silenced once and for all.
Paris was her home. How could her mother have asked her to leave it to go in search of someone who had abandoned them both?
Christophe walked slowly down the cobbled path, shortening his long stride in deference to hers.
The shaded bower they walked beneath, courtesy of canopied trees, encouraged the chirrup of crickets long after the creatures should have fallen silent in the summer’s warmth. Lichen clung to the graves, frocking the rock surfaces in blankets of grayish green. Iron gates of mausoleums barred entrance to keyless visitors, even as the chains hanging from their doors drooped beneath the weight of their mission.
“How can time move so slowly in one sense, Christophe, when there seems to be such a scarcity of it in another?” Her question coerced a smile from him, as she knew it would.
“Always the poet and artist’s perspective on life.” He looked down at her. “Something I have aspired to understand but have failed miserably to do.”
“And give up your realism? Your ability to” —she tucked her chin in an attempt to mimic his deep voice—“‘see the world as it truly is, not as others see it’?”
Christophe shook his head, smiling. “Oh, for the memory you have, ma petite. To so fully capture both phrases and images with such distinguishing clarity. You never forget anything.”
“That is not true, and you know it. My thoughts are easily scattered these days, and I often forget things.”
“Ah yes, you forget to eat when you’re painting late at night.” His look turned reprimanding. “Or when you used to paint. You forget to quench the flame as you fall asleep reading” —he snapped his fingers—“whatever foreign poet it is that you’re so fond of.”
She slapped his arm, chuckling. “You remember very well what his name is.”
“Oui, I know the master John Donne. But why must he be . . . English?”
She giggled at the way he said the word. As though it were distasteful.
Pausing, he looked down at her. “It’s good to hear you laugh, ma petite.” He started down the path again. “Let’s see, where was I?”
“I believe you were listing my faults. And none too delicately.”
“Oui, mademoiselle. But it is an extensive list, non?” His tone mirrored his smile. “Just the other day, when you forgot to put sugar in Madame Marchand’s tea, I thought we might have to convene the parliament to decide your fate.”
She smiled while cringing inwardly, thinking of Madame Marchand, the family’s matriarch. Six years ago Lord Marchand had transferred Véronique’s services to his elderly mother after his only daughter, to whom Véronique had served as companion since childhood, had married.
Madame Marchand had reminded her of the sugar oversight no less than four times the day of her grievous error. And without uttering another word, the woman had prolonged the reprimand in proceeding days through short, punctuated glares—starting first with the sugar bowl then slinking to Véronique.
She sighed and shook her head. “I’m afraid my mind has been elsewhere of late.”
“But I have saved the worst of your faults for last.” Christophe stopped and she did likewise. “You continually forget others’ shortcomings even when they’ve purposefully set you at naught. You extend grace where none is due. . . .” He grew more serious. “And you, along with your dear maman, have always given the Marchand household the best of service, regardless of Madame Marchand’s ill temper and demanding disposition. The ungrateful, aging . . .”
Her eyes widened at the name he assigned to Madame Marchand, but she would’ve been lying if she denied having thought the same thing on occasion.
They rounded the corner and she spotted one of Lord Marchand’s carriages waiting near the entrance. She had walked the two-mile distance that morning, enjoying the time to think—and to be out from under Madame Marchand’s scrutiny. “Is Lord Marchand’s requested meeting so urgent, Christophe?”
He kept his focus trained ahead.
The seriousness in his expression caused her smile to fade. “Has something happened?”
He aided her ascent into the carriage, climbed in beside her, and rapped the side of the door; the driver responded.
Véronique wanted to press the matter but held her tongue. Pressuring Chris
tophe had never met with success. Quite the opposite, in fact.
The driver merged the carriage onto a main thoroughfare and chose an avenue running adjacent to the Musée du Louvre and the Seine. The river arched through the center of town, its dark waters murky and pungent from the daily deluge of rituals from the city’s inhabitants.
Véronique pushed back the velvet curtain from the window to allow movement of air within the carriage, aware of the shadow stealing across Christophe’s face.
He leaned forward and rested his forearms on his thighs. “There are things I must say to you, and I ask that you allow me due course, ma chérie, before you offer response.” He glanced back at her. “Or I fear I will not be able to complete my task.”
His tone held unaccustomed solemnity, which provided ample motivation to fulfill his request. Wordless, Véronique nodded.
“Within hours Emperor Napoleon is to declare war on Prussia. Lord Marchand has secretly received word that Prussia is mobilizing an army even now. No doubt they’re finding Spain a willing alliance. Lord Marchand—” The carriage came to an abrupt halt. Christophe glanced out the window before continuing, his voice lowered. “Lord Marchand predicts the dispute will be far reaching. Already our patron has made plans to depart for Brussels within the week, and . . . I am to accompany him. His entire family will be journeying with him as well.”
Suddenly the reason behind Christophe’s reticence became clear. She gently touched his arm. “I don’t want to leave Paris, Christophe, now of all times. But if—” The carriage jolted forward, and resumed its pace. “But if Brussels is where the family must go, then I’ll happily accompany Madame Marchand. I’m certain it won’t be for long, and that this . . . blow our country has suffered will be quickly resolved.”
He nodded just as the carriage jolted forward, then resumed its pace.
The look he gave her made her feel like a naïve schoolgirl. “It’s not that simple, Véronique, for many reasons.”
The lines of his brow deepened, and she sought to ease his worry.
“I’ll be fine. The trip to Brussels might even be good for me. And once we return everything will be—”
“Madame Marchand has informed our patron that she has no plans for you to accompany her.”
His voice came out flat and final, and Véronique felt as though someone had suddenly cinched her corset two sizes smaller. She tried to draw breath. “But I . . . I don’t understand.” She shook her head. “I’m . . . her companion.”
Christophe’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve been informed that . . . Madame Marchand has already arranged for a new companion to escort her to Brussels.”
Véronique moved her lips but no words would come.
The carriage turned onto the cobbled road leading to the Marchand estate.
The discovery of her reduced rank—whatever her position might be—encouraged the emotion to rise in her throat. Véronique swallowed against the knot of anger and tears, and struggled to find the positive in this situation, just as her mother would have urged her to do. “Am I to assume that the remaining staff will stay and maintain the home’s readiness for the Marchands’ return?”
He didn’t answer. His lips formed a tight line.
“Christophe,” she whispered, growing more unsettled by the second. “We have always been honest with each other. Tell me what my new position is.”
Staring at the floor of the carriage, he exhaled an audible breath. “After this week, you will . . . no longer be employed within the Marchand household. He has secured a position for you in the household of Lord Descantes, and they depart for England straightaway.”
When summoned to Lord Marchand’s private study that same hour, Véronique gathered her remaining nerve and willed the frenetic pace of her heart to lessen. She always found the formal nature of Lord Marchand’s study intimidating, and the latching of the oversized door behind her compounded her unease.
She spotted Christophe standing by the far window, his back to her. Lord Marchand had requested to meet with him first, and relief filled her, gathering that Christophe would remain for her meeting as well.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Girard.” Standing behind his desk, Lord Marchand motioned for her to sit in one of the mahogany gondola chairs opposite him.
She paused long enough to curtsy, and then chose the seat that put her in Christophe’s direct line of vision. If only he would turn around.
Lord Marchand said nothing for a moment, his hesitance giving her the impression that what he was about to say required great effort. “Monsieur Charvet has informed me that the two of you have spoken, Mademoiselle Girard. And that you are aware of the change in circumstances.”
She nodded, wishing Christophe would look at her.
“Before I continue, let me say that it was of utmost concern to me to locate a position for you that would reflect my appreciation for your years of excellent service, mademoiselle.” Regret flickered across Lord Marchand’s face. “As well as for your mother’s,” he added with surprising tenderness. “Therefore, my request that you be placed with Lord Descantes’ family.”
“Merci beaucoup, Lord Marchand.” She coerced a smile, glad that Christophe had confided to her about the Descantes family in the carriage earlier. She remembered having met the couple at a formal dinner once. Lord Descantes, severe in his countenance, was in fact most kind, and his wife his equal in that regard. “I’m greatly indebted to you for using your influence for my benefit.”
Lord Marchand held up a hand. “It is not only my influence that gained you the position, but also Monsieur Charvet’s. He put his own reputation on the line when he recommended you. You may be naïve to the ways of parliament, but no doubt you are aware of agreements made between alliances.”
She nodded.
“Negotiations are reached, deals are struck and sealed, all with a single handshake. Nothing more. The integrity of a man’s word is the binding force of that contract. Nothing need be written because the man’s reputation, the man himself, is the guarantee. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”
“Certainly, your lordship,” she answered. Whatever had transpired, the position with the Descantes family would be binding. If she chose not to work for them, there would be no other position for her, and it would compromise both Lord Marchand’s and Christophe’s reputations.
“You’re a bright young woman, Mademoiselle Girard. It is one of the reasons I handpicked you to be companion to my daughter all those years ago. Francette never had much initiative on her own. I think it partly due to the loss of her mother at such a young age, but I also blame myself. As her only parent, I gave her too much, too easily.”
Véronique had long considered this to be true, but of course had never voiced the thought.
“So I sought to locate a companion who would challenge my daughter, inspire her by example.” Lord Marchand’s smile held endearment. “And I did not have to look far, for I found that child living right here in my own home. You did those things for Francette.” A knowing look moved over his face. “You did what I never could.”
Lord Marchand’s last phrase, coupled with something in his expression, made Véronique sit straighter in her chair. “Lord Marchand, I—”
She fell silent at the look he gave her.
“Véronique . . .” A sigh escaped him. His expression became aggrieved. “I would ask that you not interrupt me, mademoiselle, as I lay out the circumstances to you.”
Surprised by his informal address and reminded of her place in this home, Véronique nodded, wordless. Twice in one day she had received such an admonishment.
“As Monsieur Charvet informed you earlier today, you do indeed have a position with the Descantes. You will serve as tutor and companion to each of their four daughters. But what he did not know, and what I intentionally withheld from him, is that the family will not be traveling to England.”
He paused, and the moment seemed to pause with him.
Véronique stared across t
he desk at this man she’d known all her life, and yet had never really known. Christophe turned, drawing her attention, and the look in his eyes communicated one single overriding emotion—anger.
Queasiness slithered through her midsection. The air in the study suddenly grew thick and moist.
“Your mère and I . . .” Lord Marchand kept his gaze confined to the ornate desk behind which he sat. “We often conversed late in the evenings, here in this room. Over the years, we became . . . friends. Nothing beyond that,” he added quickly, as though reading Véronique’s thoughts. “But I grew to care very deeply about your mother. She loved you more than her own life, Véronique. She shared with me her dreams for you, her hopes. And toward the end . . . her regrets. I made your mother a promise before she died.”
Véronique found it difficult to breathe, much less remain seated. Her mother’s last request played over in her mind. “I want you to do what I never could.”
She rose slowly, fisting her hands to ease their shaking. She heard herself asking a question, while somehow already knowing the answer. “To what destination will the Descantes be traveling?”
Lord Marchand rose and came around to her side of the desk. So close, yet maintaining a respectful distance. “They are bound for the Americas, ma chérie. They leave for Italy one week hence, and you are to accompany them. Lord Descantes will conduct parliamentary business there for some weeks—perhaps longer, and then you will travel with them to the Americas, to a place by the name of New York City. When you arrive, your service to the Descantes family will be concluded, and someone will meet you to take you the rest of the way.”
Véronique looked between Lord Marchand and Christophe, numb with shock, feeling betrayed and yet absurdly protected at the same time. “The . . . rest of the way?”
Remembered Page 2
