Remembered

by Tamera Alexander

  She touched the cameo—a gift from her father to her mother— at the base of her throat and felt a twinge of homesickness tighten her chest.

  The clerk chose that moment to turn, and reacted with a grin. “Good day, ma’am. Welcome to the Baird and Smith Hotel. How may I serve you?”

  Returning the smile, Véronique couldn’t help but stare. The girl’s flawless skin, combined with long black hair and violet-colored eyes made for a striking combination. To discover such etiquette, not to mention grace and beauty, in this unrefined territory took her by surprise. She’d experienced far less cordial greetings in the finest establishments in Paris, and from older, more experienced staff no less. She approached the desk. “I would like a room, please. And my length of stay is undetermined as of yet.”

  A long pause, attributable no doubt to the unexpected accent.

  The clerk recovered quickly. “Of course, ma’am. We have several rooms available and would be happy to accommodate you, however long your respite with us.” The girl couldn’t have been more than thirteen or fourteen, but her mature voice and manner—obviously coerced but with a genuine-sounding intent—lent her an older air, and Véronique liked her instantly. “Would you prefer a ground-level room or accommodations on an upper floor?”

  Again Véronique detected the slightest touch of rehearsed formality in the girl’s tone, hinting that she might be trying to appear older than she looked. Véronique smiled. How well she understood that desire. Feeling adventuresome, she lifted a brow in silent question. “I will trust your recommendation, mademoiselle.”

  That earned her another grin. “Then I’ll be pleased to see you installed into room 308.”

  Cringing inwardly, Véronique smiled. She should have known it would be the uppermost floor.

  The girl made note of the room number in the registry, then turned the leather-bound book around and indicated where to sign. “That’s a corner room. It’s the hotel’s nicest and will give you the best view of Willow Springs. You can even catch the sunset over the mountains if you lean out the window a bit.”

  Véronique’s grip on the quill tightened just hearing the suggestion. The clerk lifted her slender shoulders and let them fall again. “Plus it doesn’t cost a penny more.” She quoted the price of the room, which included breakfast served in the dining area off to her right.

  “That will be most adequate. Thank you.” Véronique signed the register, purposefully leaving the departure date blank. The prices quoted for lodgings were reasonable, and she still had ample funds. Lord Marchand and Lord Descantes had both been most generous in their provisions; the combined amount had more than covered her expenses since parting ways with the Descantes family in New York City.

  Before she left Paris, Lord Marchand had explained that additional provisions would be waiting for her in an account at the bank in Willow Springs. He’d further explained that he would continue to provide for her needs on a regular basis. Exactly what “regular basis” meant, she wasn’t certain, and she made mental note to visit the bank soon. But for now, her funds were more than sufficient.

  Reassurance of her financial standing prompted an odd question in her mind, one she was none too eager to answer—should she have cause to seek employment in Willow Springs, for what kind of position did her skills qualify her to fill?

  Though not an accomplished musician, she had learned to play the piano alongside Francette, being the girl’s companion. But Véronique anticipated little call for that talent in Willow Springs. The same was true for having learned how to serve as an assistant to the hostess for a formal dinner party of a hundred or more guests, or how to mingle among the elite at political balls and hold intelligent conversation with other companions to wives and daughters of foreign dignitaries—everything considered important to know for the companion to the daughter of a lord in parliament, but seeming of little use in this foreign country. And certainly of no use in this remote territory.

  Véronique returned the pen to its holder beside the ink bottle, determining not to dwell on what she couldn’t change. Instead, she drew inspiration from the hotel clerk’s warm welcome. “My name is Mademoiselle Véronique Girard. To whom do I owe the pleasure of such a gracious greeting this afternoon?”

  The girl dipped her head. “My name is Lilly. Lilly Carlson, ma’am.” Those violet eyes of hers danced.

  “And are you the proprietor of this fine establishment?”

  Lilly giggled. “No, ma’am . . .” She hesitated and added more quietly, “I mean, Mademoiselle Girard,” mastering the pronunciation the first time. The girl learned with efficiency. “I help Mr. and Mrs. Baird in the afternoons, and some mornings. I’m working to save money for a new t—” She paused and glanced away. When she looked back, shyness clouded her former sparkle. “I help with the laundry and the dishes and greet the guests, on occasion.”

  Véronique nodded, watchful. “My only hope is that Monsieur and Madame Baird are paying you well, mademoiselle. An employee responsable is worth a goodly sum.”

  Whatever the reason for the girl’s hesitancy seconds before, it vanished. Her countenance brightened once again. “I’ll go get the key to your room and show you upstairs. And . . .” Lilly paused again, her pretty mouth forming a delicate bow. “Would you like me to draw you a hot bath?”

  Véronique wanted to hug the child. “That would be heaven. Merci. My trunks should arrive here in a short time.”

  She nodded. “I’ll have them carried up to your room.”

  As Lilly disappeared back through the side door, laughter coming from outside drew Véronique’s attention. She stepped closer to the window for a better look.

  Bertram Colby stood on the boardwalk a few feet away, speaking with another man. The stranger’s back was to her, but the sound of his deep laughter carried through the open window. She could hear their voices but not the specifics of their conversation.

  Standing at least a head taller than Monsieur Colby, the man was broad shouldered and possessed a manner that bespoke familiarity. And kindness. He turned toward her then, and Véronique found her interest substantially piqued.

  Monsieur Colby’s voice lowered. He looked away, still speaking, and the taller gentleman reached out and laid a hand on Colby’s shoulder, nodding. Apparently Monsieur Colby had crossed paths with a trusted camarade, and that spoke most highly for the man.

  The sound of a door opening brought Véronique’s attention around.

  “I’ve got your key and have water warming on the stove for your bath, Mademoiselle Girard.” Lilly joined her by the window.

  “Thank you, Lilly.” Véronique motioned in the direction of Bertram Colby and his friend. “What do you know about that gentleman standing there?”

  “Mr. Colby? Everybody knows—”

  “Non, non, my apologies,” Véronique whispered. “I have made Mr. Colby’s acquaintance. I was referring to the other gentleman.”

  Lilly shook her head. “I’ve never seen him before.” A mischievous grin crept over her pretty face. “And I think I’d remember if I had. He’s a mite easy on the eyes, isn’t he?”

  Although not familiar with Lilly’s phrasing, Véronique understood her tone and agreed wholeheartedly, though wasn’t about to admit such aloud. She nudged Lilly with a shoulder and gave her a playful smile. “How is it that you take notice of such things, ma chérie? That man is far too many years your senior.”

  Innocence swept Lilly’s face. “Oh, I wasn’t talkin’ about me, Mademoiselle Girard.” The tiniest flicker of a gleam entered her eyes as she turned. “I was looking at him for you.”

  Véronique chuckled and stole a last glance out the window before turning and following the girl upstairs. She felt more at ease on her first day in Willow Springs than she’d ever expected to, especially when the real journey still awaited her. “I think I would be wise to keep both of my eyes on you, Lilly Carlson. You are youthful, to be sure, but by no means are you still a child.”

  Thoughts of Christ
ophe sprang to her mind, bringing memories of home. The longing for Paris was always close. That never changed, no matter the miles distancing her from her dearest friend, or from the Marchand home, or from everything familiar.

  What was so foreign in that moment was the sudden and unexpected connection she felt to this place—and to the father she’d never really known. She thought of the letters her mother had received from Pierre Gustave Girard, and of a particular missive in which he had informed them he was turning from fur trading to mining. “The streams and rivers no longer yield sufficient trappings, but there is opportunity in mining in these grand mountains. Many have found their fortune already, and I hope soon to be among their number.” In a subsequent letter he had described his new profession but his words hinted at having been carefully chosen. And even as a young girl, Véronique had gathered that mining was a dangerous occupation.

  That envelope, nested with others at the bottom of one of her trunks, bore a handstamp with this town’s name, and a date registering almost twenty years ago. But would that letter’s journey back to its birthplace prove to be any more fruitful than the years of waiting she and her mother had endured?

  Lilly reached the third floor and chose the left hallway.

  Formerly lost in her thoughts, only then did Véronique notice it—the girl’s irregular gait. Véronique paused briefly on the thirdstory landing, her gaze dropping to where Lilly’s dress swooshed around her ankles. The sole of the girl’s right boot was markedly thicker than the left, and badly worn on one side. Lilly managed a smooth enough stride given the variance, but her compensation wasn’t enough to completely disguise the limp. Or the brace that framed the heel of her boot and extended up her leg.

  From the fleeting grimace on the girl’s face, Véronique guessed that the stairs were a struggle for her.

  Lilly paused at the last door on the right, and Véronique did the same, wanting to inquire but daring not. Lilly turned the knob and indicated with a flourish of her hand for Véronique to enter first.

  Decorated in soft florals of yellow with accents of crimson and green, the room provided a warm welcome, though it wasn’t a third the size of her private quarters in the Marchand residence. But it would suffice for now, until more suitable quarters could be arranged. Véronique sighed and stretched her shoulders, both weary and hopeful, but mostly thankful to have finally reached Willow Springs and to be done with that portion of her journey.

  “This is the only room in the hotel that has a bay window.” Lilly crossed the cozy quarters and pushed open the window, opening the shutters halfway. “Come and take a look.”

  Véronique didn’t budge. “Yes, I am certain it boasts an excellent view, as you claim. Perhaps I’ll look another time. I’m rather fatigued at the moment.”

  “Oh . . . of course. I’m sorry.”

  Regretting the apology she heard in the girl’s tone, Véronique sought to make up for it. “Thank you, Lilly, for giving me such a warm reception. Your kindness has helped to shorten the distance I feel from my home.”

  “And . . . where is your home?”

  “France. I was born in the city of Paris. I have lived there all my life.” Véronique ran a hand over the simple blocked quilt covering the bed. “Until now,” she added softly.

  A look of wonder brightened Lilly’s eyes, as did numerous questions. But to the girl’s credit, she didn’t pursue any of them.

  Véronique studied the girl as she crossed to the door. Not only smart, but sensitive as well. Such intelligence and beauty in one so young; yet beneath it all she sensed a fragility the girl kept well masqué, most of the time. And what was it the girl was saving for? She’d almost admitted as much downstairs moments ago, before catching herself. Perhaps a new bonnet, or a dress. All niceties a girl of her age would rightly desire.

  Véronique laid aside her parasol and reached into her réticule for some coins. “This is for you, Lilly.”

  Lilly stared at her outstretched hand. “Oh no, ma’am. You don’t need to do—’ ’

  Véronique took the liberty of pressing the coins into her palm. “An employee responsable is worth a goodly sum . . . remember?”

  Lilly looked at the money, and gave a shy nod. “Thank you, Mademoiselle Girard. I’m much obliged.” She paused at the threshold, her hand on the knob. “I’ll knock on your door as soon as your bath is drawn. It shouldn’t take me long, and the water closet’s only two doors down from yours.”

  Véronique scanned the room, only now noticing that it was without private bathing facilities. Recalling Lilly’s comment that this was the nicest room in the hotel, and thinking of the girl’s impediment, she masked her true feelings and offered her thanks as Lilly closed the door behind her.

  She unbuttoned her jacket and moved to hang it in the armoire, then noticed the dust covering the garment. Shaking it out as best she could, she caught her reflection in the mirror. Her hair was still arranged atop her head, minus a few curls slipping free, but there was something else about her image that made her pause.

  Stepping closer to the mirror, she decided what it was.

  My eyes.

  Smoky brown in color, they appeared dull, lifeless. She thought of Lilly’s flashing violet eyes and their brilliance, contrasted them with her own, and came up lacking. Truth be told, the girl possessed the exact coloring Véronique would have chosen if the Maker had granted her choice.

  Sighing, she turned away and withdrew the few remaining pins from her coiffure. Her hair fell down her back. She massaged her neck and shoulders. This journey had been enlightening in so many ways, and humbling in others.

  Being employed by Lord Marchand had afforded her and her mother a way of life she’d taken for granted, having known nothing else. The household staff had seen to all of her basic needs. Her clothes, only slightly less fine than Francette’s, had been sewn by the Marchands’ personal family seamstress and when soiled would disappear only to reappear the next day, freshly laundered and back in her armoire. Until forced to leave Paris last summer, she’d never realized how pampered an existence she had lived, and how much she had depended on the security and familiarity of that life to make her feel safe. To tell her who she was.

  She moved closer to the window, careful not to get too close, and gave the shutters a push to allow the cool breeze greater entrance. That was one thing she’d quickly come to appreciate about this Colorado Territory—no matter how warm midday grew with the coming spring, the evenings summoned a welcome cool. She breathed in and detected a sweetness on the air—a pleasant fragrance, yet unfamiliar.

  Then she heard it again. . . . Laughter so rich and deep that the mere sound of it persuaded a smile.

  Considering the direction from which it came, she guessed Monsieur Colby and his friend were still standing just outside on the boardwalk, two stories below. She gauged the distance to the window.

  White lace curtains fluttered in the breeze, bidding silent invitation—either that or issuing a dare. She hesitated, trying not to think about how the floor beneath her feet projected from the building, supported only by a corbel beneath. But the need to be in control, to prove that she could do something of her own volition, momentarily outweighed her fears.

  She forced one foot in front of the other.

  For centuries, buildings in Paris had been built with oriel windows, so the architectural design wasn’t new to her. She simply tried to avoid them, making an extra effort to do so when they were open, like now.

  She braced her hands on either side of the window. It’s only three stories. It’s only three stories. The phrase played like a silent mantra in her head.

  Quick breaths accompanied the pounding in her chest as the sides of the window inched past her peripheral view. Finally, her midsection made contact with the sill. She gritted her teeth and ignored a shiver as the street below moved into view.

  Closing her eyes, she gathered the last of her nerve and leaned forward. A swimming sensation caused her to tighten her hold
on the wood framing. She waited for it to pass, and gradually opened her eyes.

  Monsieur Colby and his friend were indeed standing where they had been, below her window, as she’d guessed. Street traffic had thinned as afternoon made way for evening.

  Her body flushed hot, then cold. I can do this. . . .

  One street over, a woman at the mercantile swept the boardwalk while a young boy scrubbed the front windows. A bubbling creek carved its way down the mountains, skirting the edge of town, and a white steeple rose in the distance. She couldn’t be certain at this distance, but what appeared to be a graveyard lay alongside the length of the churchyard. Lilly had been right, this window provided an excellent vantage point from which to view Willow Springs.

  A flush of lightheadedness made her head swim, and a faint whirring began in the far corners of her mind.

  Rouge tinted the western horizon, an azur sky offsetting the reddish hue. The mountains glowed in the late afternoon sun, giving the appearance that someone had lit a candle deep within them.

  With every thump of her heart, the whirring inside her head grew louder. “Breathe, Véronique, breathe. . . .” Her mother’s voice rushed toward her from years long past.

  Véronique gulped in air and tried to push herself back inside. But her arms refused the command. She teetered. The town of Willow Springs started to spin, and everything became a blur.

  CHAPTER | THREE

  HER BREATH LEFT IN A RUSH. Véronique felt herself falling. But in the wrong direction.

  “Mademoiselle Girard!”

  Arms came about her waist and pulled her backward.

  “Mademoiselle Girard!”

  A hard jolt to her backside helped clear the fog in her head, and gulped breaths discouraged the whirring. Véronique blinked several times, aware now of being sprawled on the floor, with someone close beside her.

  “Are you all right, ma’am?”

  The panic in Lilly’s voice unleashed a barrage of emotions. Véronique’s throat tightened. She massaged her pounding temples, touched by the girl’s concern but also warm with embarrassment. “Oui, I am fine. Though I am most grateful you came when you did.”