“But Billy did not listen to your warnings.”
“Billy should never have been there in the first place—that was my fault. He didn’t see the boards. They were rotten, and he fell through . . . into an old mining shaft. The tunnel sloped down a few feet before dropping off. He managed to grab hold of a root tangle and hung on. He wasn’t that far from me—only a couple of feet. He kept screaming my name, begging me to get him out.” Desperation permeated his tone. “I went in after him. I was bigger than he was and my legs were longer, so I wedged them against the walls for leverage. I had hold of his hand, but we were both slick from the mud.” His voice faltered.
He stared ahead, but Véronique knew he was in that mining shaft again, cloistered in the darkness.
A long moment passed. “I couldn’t hang on to him. He slid the rest of the way down the shaft to where the tunnel angled straight down, and then he disappeared into the dark.”
Véronique’s stomach went cold imagining what terror that young boy must have felt—and what guilt and pain the man beside her must have lived with for so many years.
“I couldn’t climb out by then. I was too far down.” He gave a humorless laugh. “So I just hung on and cried for help, and listened to Billy call my name, over and over, from far away. By the time help got there, he’d gone quiet. They told me he died from the fall.”
“Oui, the fall killed him, Jack.” She touched his arm. “You did not.”
He turned to her, his expression fierce. “You try losing someone in your care, who you’re responsible for, and then you tell me that.”
Standing in the pristine surroundings of Miss Maudie’s home, Véronique still felt the sting from that moment and could see the glistening in his eyes. When the time came for their next trip, she had shown up early at the livery, and when he arrived, Jack had stood for the longest moment, staring at her. Then he’d walked toward her and handed her his gun. “We’ll have a lesson before we leave, and we’ll see how you do.”
And that’s all that had been said since.
Had he made peace with what had happened to young Billy? Or just realized that he couldn’t protect everyone, all the time? Véronique didn’t know. But she did wonder . . . If Arianne Girard had known what risks this search would mean for her daughter, would she still have asked it of her?
A stirring came from within Miss Maudie’s room. Véronique tiptoed across the polished hardwood floor and peeked inside. The woman was still asleep.
An oversized hallway extended down the length of the home on her left, and Véronique walked a few paces, admiring the paintings adorning the walls. She guessed them to be the patriarchs and matriarchs of Miss Maudie’s famille.
The portraits were stately in appearance, the frames exquisite, and the subjects possessed a certain realness about them. But whoever painted them had failed to capture the individual qualities of each person. All of the eyes gazing back at her—while unique in details of size, shape, and color—held the same emotion. Or lack of it. In Véronique’s opinion, the painter had been so concerned with capturing the person’s exact likeness that he or she had missed the essence of who the person was.
“Donlyn . . .” A faint crying. “Donlyn . . .”
Véronique turned at the frail whisper, realizing it had come from Miss Maudie’s room. She stepped inside and saw Miss Maudie still sleeping, but her face was twisted in pain.
Véronique laid aside her réticule and valise, and knelt over the bed. “Shhh. . . .” She stroked Miss Maudie’s forehead as a mother might a child’s, until gradually the lines of the older woman’s face smoothed into tranquil sleep again.
She claimed the chair in the corner of the spacious room and sank down into the cushions. A warm June breeze wafted through the open window, sending the lace curtains billowing. Her thoughts went to her valise and the family sketch she’d drawn of Larson and Kathryn Jennings and their children. She was both eager and anxious to see the woman’s reaction.
Reaching for her réticule, Véronique spotted a wheelchair in the corner. Perhaps Miss Maudie would feel well enough to take a turn about the grounds later. Véronique opened the drawstring and withdrew a thin stack of letters. She was nearly finished rereading her father’s missives and had begun to recognize a pattern in them that had gone unnoticed before.
Not in what he wrote but in how he wrote it—the indentation of the pen on the page, the slant of the individual letters, the way the pen had paused until it left an ink-soaked blotch on the page, as though her father had taken care in contemplating his next thought.
“Miss Girard . . .”
Véronique looked up from the open letter in her hand to see Miss Maudie’s eyelids fluttering.
“What a pleasant awakenin’ to find you here, dear.”
Véronique rose and went to the bedside. “Bonjour, Miss Maudie.” She smiled down. “I offer you my humblest apologies at the outset. For I disregarded the first rule of etiquette and stopped by unannounced, but Claire encouraged me to wait.” She lightly touched the woman’s brow. “How are you feeling today?”
“That Claire’s a wise woman.” Miss Maudie sighed. Her eyes closed briefly. “Your hands, they feel so good, my dear.”
“Are you overly warm?” Véronique felt the woman’s cheeks. No fever.
“No, I’m fine, lass. But there’s nothin’ like a kind touch to soothe a bit of the loneliness in us all.”
“Hmmm . . .” Véronique recalled the conversation with Jack that had prompted today’s visit. “Oui, I think we all possess a portion of that within us. Some more than others.” She’d recognized a loneliness in the tone of her father’s letters this time that had gone unnoticed before. And she found her disappointment in him and the hurt she felt over his broken promises weakening in the face of it.
Miss Maudie pushed herself up, and Véronique situated the pillows behind her back. “What were you readin’ there, Miss Girard?” Miss Maudie smoothed the sides of her coiffed silver-white hair, and then motioned for Véronique to sit on the edge of the bed. “Don’t let me be interruptin’ you, child.”
Véronique reached for the letters. “These are missives my father wrote to my mother many years ago. They are penned to her, but on occasion he included a note to my attention.” She fingered the three remaining envelopes. “Before she passed, my mother asked me to read them again.”
“Again?” Curiosity colored Miss Maudie’s expression.
“Oui, my mother read them to me when I was little girl, and I’ve read them again, many times, through the years.” She turned the opened letter in her hand. “But it seems that no matter how many times I read them, they always say the same thing.”
“And you were hopin’ to find a hint, a bit of somethin’ new that might aid in your search.”
“Oui, that was my hope, mademoiselle.”
“‘Mademoiselle . . .” ’ Miss Maudie repeated the word in a mocking tone. “That’s a mighty fancy way of callin’ me an old maid, Miss Girard.”
Véronique frowned, not understanding. If only she’d brought her dictionary along, she could have looked up the phrase old maid.
Maudie laughed softly. “I’m just playin’ with you, my dear. I love the language of your people. I don’t understand it, mind you, but I could listen to it all day.”
Relieved, that gave Véronique an idea. “Would it please you for me to read aloud, Miss Maudie? Or perhaps recite poetry. Are you familiar with the English-born poet John Donne?”
“Never heard of him. Is he a nice fellow?”
Véronique laughed. “Master Donne was born in 1572, so I fear he is quite deceased now. However, his words live on, and with good reason. Perhaps you would like to hear one of his Holy Sonnets? I could recite it for you, if you wish.”
“My dear, you are a treasure. But might I be so bold as to request a readin’ of somethin’ else?” Miss Maudie glanced at the letter lying unfolded in Véronique’s lap. “At the oddest times I’ve found myself thinkin’ of y
our father, Miss Girard. Wonderin’ what ever became of him. If you’re willin’, I’d like to hear something from his hand.”
“I am most willing, Miss Maudie. But you must promise to tell me if you grow bored. While the letters are precious to me, for obvious reasons, I realize they might not hold the same appeal for others.”
Miss Maudie waved the comment away as if it were absurd.
Véronique smoothed the deeply creased letter on her lap. “‘My dearest Arianne,” ’ she began, translating the sentences as she went along. “‘This letter will be brief, as our company departs this morning for an expedition farther into the mountains where there will be few towns, and no opportunities to post. The streams and creeks we’ve trapped for the past four months are thinned of prey, so we must move on to meet our quotas. I am eager to receive word from you, telling me of your current state and that of our darling daughter.
“‘I fear your letters are not finding me, as I have not heard from you in some time. In their absence, I reread the ones in my possession and pray you and Véronique are well. Please tell her that her drawing of the Rocky Mountains was quite good and that I am eager to show her their beauty. The mountains are larger and even more fierce than your imagination will allow, Arianne. I have seen magnificent sights, and have tried to capture the power of this land on the page in my letters, but I know my descriptions have failed.” ’
Miss Maudie shifted on the bed. “Do you remember drawin’ that picture, dear?”
“Oui, a bit. I remember more the act of drawing it with him in my mind, more than I do the drawing itself.”
Miss Maudie nodded, and smiled for her to continue.
Véronique readied to turn the page. “‘I pray you are both in good health. In my dreams, I imagine Véronique grows to favor you more with each day, my dearest. Dwelling on that thought pleases me, as I have your beautiful face forever captured in my heart. I will write in greater length in coming weeks, saving my daily entries and sending them as one. My deepest love always, until we are joined again.” ’
The initials PGG, tastefully larger than the scripted body of the letter, slanted across the bottom of the page below the closing in an elegant manner.
“Beggin’ your pardon, Miss Girard, but that doesn’t sound like a man eager to be castin’ off his wife and child.”
Véronique felt a measure of shame. She remembered their first conversation weeks ago, in this very room, and knew that she’d given Miss Maudie that impression of her father. “No, ma’am, it does not.
And yet, in the end, my father did not fulfill his promises, did he.”
“Oh, I’m not belaborin’ that point, my dear. Time has proven that out, I’m afraid. My meanin’ is that sometimes people have the best of intentions, and yet somethin’ draws them off the path.” Earnestness sharpened Miss Maudie’s eyes. “It’s not that they’re bad people at heart, lass. They just lose their way.” She held out her hand. “May I?”
“Oui, but of course.” Véronique handed her the letter.
Maudie held it close to her face. “Your father has beautiful penmanship, especially for a man. Even if I can’t read the language.” She threw Véronique a grin. “Most men I’ve known do not hold that ability in high regard. Would you read another?”
“Certainly, but first, would you care for something to drink? Or perhaps to eat?” Waiting for Miss Maudie to answer, Véronique suddenly realized she hadn’t given her the drawing of the Jennings family yet. She bent down for her valise and withdrew the parchment.
“Miss Maudie, I nearly forgot—I have something for you, a gift.
I drew this at the request of some dear friends, to us both.” She turned the page.
Miss Maudie held the drawing close. “Oh, my dear William! And my Katie! Look at how they’ve grown.” Her hand trembled over her mouth. “And their dear parents . . . But tell me, how did you come to be meetin’ them?”
Véronique explained the events of that stormy evening, and of the family’s hospitality.
Miss Maudie listened, focus glued to the parchment. “Is there no end to your talents, my dear? How can I thank you enough?”
Véronique beamed, not only at Miss Maudie’s reaction but at how comfortable she felt, how quickly she’d slipped back into the familiar role of companion, and how much she enjoyed Miss Maudie’s company. Jack had been right about her coming here—but no need for him to know that.
A soft smile tipped her mouth knowing she would thank him at her first opportunity. “And now, Miss Maudie, would you care for something to eat? Or to drink?”
“I’d love it, Miss Girard, but I’ll be wantin’ to go along for the ride, if you don’t mind.” Maudie motioned to the wheelchair.
With less effort than Véronique expected, she got the woman situated, and a blanket tucked around her legs.
Miss Maudie caught her hand. A mischievous look filled the woman’s eyes. “I had myself a visitor a while back, and we took ourselves a walk outside. But I didn’t have need of this chair at all when he was here, I’m tellin’ you. He just scooped me up and carried me in his arms. And talked we did, for a long while. It was a pleasure.” With a deep sigh, Miss Maudie made a show of fanning herself. “Handsomest man he was, and with a heart as gracious as ever beat in a man’s chest.” She pulled Véronique closer, failing to stifle her giggle. “And that chest was a mite broad, and well-muscled too, if I might add.”
“Miss Maudie!” Véronique playfully patted her hand, having quickly caught on to the woman’s antics, and to whom she was referring. “Might I ask what you and . . . this gentleman discussed during your walk?”
“Of course you can, my dear. I won’t be tellin’ you, but you can surely ask.”
A while later, situated beside Miss Maudie in her wheelchair, and beneath the welcome shade of a cottonwood, Véronique finished reading the next letter and tucked it back inside the envelope.
“That was delightful, Miss Girard. The way your father describes what he’s seen on his journeys . . . It’s like I’m there alongside him, seein’ it all for myself. And how he described that avalanche.” She rubbed her arms in a mock shiver. “I was for certain the snow would be comin’ down upon me any minute.”
Miss Maudie’s tinkling laughter reminded Véronique of the clustered bells that adorned the harnesses of Lord Marchand’s Percherons in winter. Thinking of her former employer, she quickly prayed for his health, and just as swiftly sifted her prayer free of the selfishness underlying it. Yet she couldn’t help but wonder—if anything happened to him, what would happen to her?
“What a treasure these letters must have been to your mother, child. And to you. Do you have time to read another?”
Véronique stared at the last envelope in her lap. “Oui, this is the final letter my father wrote, so it will be our last . . . for today.” She hesitated, wanting to phrase her next sentence with as carefree an air as possible. “I can bring the earlier ones when I come again, if that would be pleasing to you.”
Miss Maudie’s eyes softened. “I can’t be tellin’ you how pleasin’ that would be for me, child.” Her gaze wandered over their surroundings. She sighed deeply. “It’s been lonely for me in recent years. I find myself with time to brood . . . and think about the past. Not a good thing, my dear.” She started to speak, then stopped. “I never married, Miss Girard. I had the opportunity . . . once, but my father didn’t consider the man worthy of my hand. And truth be told, I didn’t either.”
Véronique heard the loneliness in Miss Maudie’s voice, and wished it hadn’t taken her so long to make the trip to Casaroja.
Maudie smiled and shook her head. “He was a rougher sort, ya know—didn’t have the smooth manners and way of conversin’ that was accepted in my circle.” She lowered her eyes. “I don’t know why I tell you all this now, Miss Girard. I guess what I’m tryin’ to say is that I find it easy to be in your company. I enjoy our conversations and would welcome them anytime.” She raised a stately brow. “If you can
abide an old woman’s ramblin’s.”
Véronique smiled, knowing Jack would be pleased beyond words. “I would do more than abide them, Miss Maudie. I would cherish them.”
“You do my heart good, Miss Girard. Now . . .” She resituated herself in the wheelchair. “How about that last letter.”
Véronique untucked the flap of the envelope and pulled out the familiar white pages. But another piece of paper fell into her lap. She picked it up, recognizing the soft lavande of the stationery. It was from her mother’s desk.
She turned it in her hand, her heart beating faster.
“Take them. Read them, ma chérie.” The words came back with such clarity and force that her mother’s request suddenly sounded more like a warning instead of a whispered plea.
Véronique opened her mother’s letter and read the first sentence.
Her chest tightened. Her hands shook. Her mother’s handwriting wasn’t the artistic swirls and loops she remembered from younger days, but neither was it the arthritic scrawl that had accompanied the last days of her life.
Her mother had penned this before the final stages of her illness. Yet she had said nothing.
“My dear, what is it?” Miss Maudie leaned forward in her wheelchair.
Véronique swallowed. “It is a letter from my mother.” She read the first paragraph, and the next, and suddenly felt ill. The air squeezed from her lungs.
“Miss Girard! Are you all right? Should I be callin’ for Claire or Thomas?”
Véronique waved a hand, declining the offer. “Non, merci.” But it would help if she could breathe. She pulled in air and let it out slowly. Then repeated the act. It felt as though the world had shifted on its axis.
And it had, for her.
CHAPTER | THIRTY - SIX
MR. CLAYTON GREETED Jack at the door of the title and deed office, his hand outstretched. “Congratulations, Mr.
Remembered Page 34
