Remembered

by Tamera Alexander

  She rose from her chair. “This situation can be easily corrected if you will but contact the depository in Paris. Surely you still have the address.” Compassion moved into his expression, causing her to feel even more vulnerable. “Please, monsieur . . . would you check your files?”

  Monsieur Gunter slowly opened a folder on top of his desk and withdrew a piece of paper. He laid it on the dark mahogany wood and gently nudged it forward. “I admit, mademoiselle, contacting the depository was indeed my plan. However, we received a telegram first thing this morning from the bank in New York City. I sent word to you at the hotel not even an hour ago, requesting an appointment with you . . . to discuss its contents.”

  Véronique caught the depository’s name typed at the top of the telegram, and a cold knot of fear twisted her stomach. Her eyes moved across the page. Her vision blurred, and something inside her gave way.

  Succinct in content, the dispatch stated that no future deposits would be issued to the account holdings of one Mademoiselle Véronique Girard—due to the recent death of Lord Grégoire Marchand. She searched the document for the name of the individual from whom the message had originated in Paris.

  And when she found it, what remained of her fragile fortitude crumbled.

  Looking at Monsieur Gunter became an impossible task. She thought of Lord Marchand, of his graciousness and generosity. Of how he had fulfilled her mother’s wishes, at great cost to himself and showing personal favor to her.

  A thousand thoughts cluttered the moment, few of them rational. She slowly lifted her gaze. “You stated that my account was overdrawn. By what amount . . . s’il vous plaît ?”

  “Mademoiselle Girard, we do not have to do this now. I realize what a shock this is to—”

  “I will be responsible for paying my debts, monsieur.”

  Hands shaking, she opened her réticule and began counting the bills and coins, laying them beside the telegram.

  “Including the most recent drafts, mademoiselle, the amount owed is . . . over one hundred and fifty dollars.”

  She stilled, and stared at the paltry sum on the desk. Then thought of the vendors in town to whom she’d written bank drafts in recent days. To Madame Dunston at the dress shop, a sizable amount, but she couldn’t recall how much. To Monsieur Hudson at the haberdashery, also a goodly portion. She owed the mercantile a handsome figure, of course, and would have to bear Madame Hochstetler’s stinging ridicule. She’d also shopped at several other smaller establishments within the—

  A trembling started deep within. “Monsieur Gunter . . .” She lowered her face, wanting to delay reading the answer in his eyes. “May I inquire about my request that your bank issue funds to a chirurgien in Boston?”

  He opened the file on his desk, and she recognized the hotel stationery and her handwriting.

  Pressure expanded inside her chest. Oh, God, what have I done. . . . The draft for the partial payment hadn’t yet been sent to Boston, but that didn’t change the fact that she had no money to cover Lilly’s procedure—as she had pledged to do.

  How could she face the girl? And Pastor and Mrs. Carlson? When she’d requested that the payment be sent, she’d assumed enough money was in the account. She’d never checked it. But all her life, money had simply . . . been there. How could she tell them what she’d done? What had her foolish actions cost Lilly?

  Monsieur Gunter circled the desk and came to stand beside her. He gathered the money and put it back into her réticule. “We’ll work through this, Mademoiselle Girard, in coming days. I’ll hold the bank drafts in your file, and won’t return them to the payees until you and I have spoken again. Let’s plan on meeting together next week.”

  His voice held a graciousness that both employed her gratitude— and guillotined her pride.

  “Is that agreeable to you, mademoiselle?” he whispered.

  “Oui.” She nodded. “Your generosity is . . . much appreciated, monsieur.” Tears slipped down her cheeks. As she walked to the door, Madame Marchand’s face came to mind, then the matriarch’s name being listed as the issuant on the telegram from the depository in Paris. In the end, the woman had had her exacting after all.

  “One last question, mademoiselle, before you go.” Kindness softened Monsieur Gunter’s voice.

  She paused, her hand on the latch.

  “Do you own land in this country? Or a home perhaps? Any property that would be of worth that I could assist you in selling in order to help cover your debts? The bank’s shareholders will require this information.”

  She thought of the only home she’d ever known—of Lord Marchand and Christophe, and her maman . . . and slowly shook her head. “I have no home. I own no property in this country, and none in France.” As the reality of the words poised on her tongue took hold, fear yawned wider. She worked to hold herself together. “I possess nothing of lasting value, Monsieur Gunter.”

  He slowly nodded and looked down at his desk.

  Opening the door, she suddenly remembered. “Pardonnez-moi, monsieur, but that is not altogether true. I own a wagon.”

  CHAPTER | THIRTY - NINE

  JACK KNOCKED ON the door of Véronique’s hotel room for a second time.

  No answer.

  He knocked again, harder this time. He’d returned to town early that morning, and now it was past the time they had arranged to meet. It wasn’t like her to be late. It went against her “rules.” Punctuality was nearly as important to that woman as having every seam straight and every hair in place.

  He took the stairs down to the lobby and waited until Lilly finished with another patron. “Do you know if Véronique came through here earlier? She’s not in her room, and we were supposed to ride out to Miss Maudie’s together today.”

  Lilly glanced toward the stairs. “I haven’t seen her since . . . Friday evening when the two of you were having dinner in the dining room. But I also haven’t worked the desk the last few days. I got a note from her on Saturday though.”

  “I don’t want to overstep my boundaries here, Lilly. But . . . did she seem all right to you? From what she wrote in the note?”

  “Yes, she seemed fine. She said she wouldn’t be at church on Sunday, that she was tired and had some things she needed to attend to. But I service her room, Mr. Brennan, so I know she’s been here. She’s probably been busy, that’s all.” The girl’s eyes grew wide. “Did she tell you? My parents decided I can have the surgery.”

  Jack tried for a genuine smile. Véronique had confided in him, after the fact, about the offer she’d made to the Carlsons. It hadn’t set well with him then, and still didn’t. And he hadn’t hidden his opinion from her. Yet if it was what the Carlsons thought was best . . . “Yes, she did, Lilly. Congratulations. When will the surgery be?”

  “Not until October. We still have to work out a bunch of details with the doctor in Boston, but . . . I’m excited.”

  “That’s real good, Lilly.” Jack watched her, thinking she looked more nervous to him than excited. “I’m happy for you. Listen, before I leave would you mind checking to see if Véronique left me a note? Maybe she left it with Mr. or Mrs. Baird before you arrived.”

  Lilly leafed through the papers on the desk and the shelves beneath. “I don’t see anything. But as soon as she returns, I’ll let her know you’re looking for her.” She leaned closer and wriggled her brows. “Does she know about . . .”

  He smiled. “No . . . at least I don’t think so. I wanted it to be a surprise for her.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it will be, Mr. Brennan. And I know she’ll love it! I can’t wait to see her reaction.”

  Jack sighed. That made two of them. If he couldn’t find her, the surprise might end up being on him. “Thanks, Lilly.”

  He walked on out to the front porch. His gaze roamed the faces of passersby, and places where Véronique might have gone ticked through his mind. He came up with nothing.

  It wasn’t as if she had to report her whereabouts to him every minute of every day
, but they’d had an agreement to meet today. And he’d grown accustomed to being with her—from sunrise to sunset. When they were in town, he found himself looking forward to their next trip. And when they were on one of their trips, he knew contentment he hadn’t experienced in years, and an excitement about the future he’d given up hope of ever feeling again.

  He hadn’t told her about his land yet. She knew he’d put a bid on it, but ever since the night of reading her mother’s letter, the timing just hadn’t seemed right for him to tell her. It was only land—why was he worried about timing? Yet something else came with the land in his mind, and he had a feeling she’d been thinking about it too.

  At least he hoped she had.

  Reluctantly, he walked back to the wagon and climbed to the bench seat. He’d spent the better part of a month getting all the details planned and set for tonight. And he’d worked most of yesterday afternoon and well into the night out at Casaroja making sure things were ready to go—though he’d intentionally led Véronique to believe he wouldn’t return to Willow Springs from his supply run until after midnight. All part of the plan.

  Jack glanced at the cloudless blue overhead; at least the weather was cooperating. He sighed, a great deal more concerned than frustrated, and finally signaled to Charlemagne and Napoleon to move out. Miss Maudie would already be looking for them. But first, he needed to make a quick stop by Mrs. Rawlings’s bakery per Miss Maudelaine Mahoney’s request.

  ————

  Véronique stood at the edge of the cemetery, thankful no one else was there. She needed fresh hope, and why she had not thought to come here before, she couldn’t say.

  Dry twigs crunched beneath her boots as she walked the shaded rows of graves. Trees overhead whispered a song she’d come to expect since arriving in Willow Springs, and that she’d grown to cherish from their cousins in the higher country. Some of the graves had headstones with names and dates and loving epitaphs, while others bore only a simple wooden cross with the name of the departed carved deep into the wood.

  Though none of the memorials on this sacred patch of earth came close to rivaling the extravagance of those in her beloved Cimetière de Montmartre, the same spirit hovered.

  One of finality, to be certain. But also of expectancy.

  And it was that sense of expectancy—of blessed anticipation— that drew her now. Perhaps it had drawn her to such places all her life. A truth had revealed itself in recent days, one that threaded through her life as far back as she could remember.

  Life came from death. And death had less to do with endings and more to do with beginnings.

  The churning waters of Fountain Creek beckoned her, and she walked a short distance, following the edge of the cemetery.

  Reliving what had happened at the mercantile, then at the bank with Monsieur Gunter, and dwelling on what awaited her when she told the Carlsons there was no money for the procédure, made her want to run and hide again.

  But she’d been doing that for the past three days, and it had changed nothing. Her conscience was bruised from the struggle and her honesty sore from wrestling with what she knew was the right thing to do.

  She’d visited Madame Dunston at the dress shop, and Véronique still marveled at how the woman’s forgiving spirit had been so convicting, while also so thoroughly healing. Véronique had offered to help in the dress shop to cover what she owed, and Madame Dunston had accepted with unexpected flourish. Most of the other vendors in town had shown understanding as well. Save Madame Hochstetler, whom she still owed a visit.

  And the Carlsons—that would be the most difficult of all.

  She looked down at her hands. Her nails were chipped and uneven. The scrapes and bruises from carrying the rocks with Jack the night of the thunderstorm had long since healed, but her hands looked nothing like those of a lady anymore. Jack had once commented to her about how she liked rules, suggesting that she was overly concerned with appearances and with what people thought of her.

  Defensiveness rose within her—knowing he had been right.

  It wasn’t until she’d been forced from the safe haven of the Marchand home—from the far-reaching power of the family’s influence and financial status—that she’d finally taken an honest look at who she was, separate and apart.

  And she hadn’t liked what she’d seen.

  To think that Jack considered her spoiled or self-important in any way made her cringe inside. But what hurt her even more was knowing that, if he did think that, he was right.

  She came upon a shallow place in Fountain Creek where the land leaned down to kiss the water, and she knelt and dipped her hands in the bubbling stream.

  Maman . . .

  A faint susurration from childhood echoed back toward her, and the voice was a familiar one. Even if it lacked some of its former sweetness. “Maturity can often be measured by a person’s response to success, Véronique. But it can always be measured by their response to failure.” In light of what Véronique knew now, the oft-spoken words from her mother rang truer. But she wondered, had her mother ever felt a check in her own spirit over her failures, her lack of courage, as she’d put it, as she’d offered this counsel to her daughter?

  Remembering the day in the cave, Véronique knew God had granted her the wish of hearing her mother’s voice again. And for that, she was grateful.

  She dipped her hand again and cupped a portion of Fountain Creek in her palm. She mentally traced the creek’s journey down through the mountains, knowing many of its twists and turns, and she felt certain the water before her had flowed past many of the mining towns she’d visited.

  And perhaps one her father had once passed through.

  Papa . . .

  Though she had yet to travel to all the mining towns listed on her map, something within her whispered that her search was over. She had asked God repeatedly to answer her prayer. And He had.

  Only not in the way she had expected.

  She’d come to Willow Springs with the hope of finding her father and discovering who he was. And instead, had been shown who she was.

  Or rather, who she was not.

  Véronique took a deep breath and slowly let it out, and that’s when she saw it.

  Hidden beneath weeds and wild grasses was a small wooden cross—crude, held together by rope, it leaned to one side no more than four feet away from where she knelt.

  She moved to the grave and began clearing away the weeds. Some were harder to remove than others, their roots going deep. But some plucked easily in her grip.

  As the patch of ground became less unruly, she noticed the faintest outline of rocks surrounding the grave. They had been pressed into the soil to form an elongated circle, its circumference no more than two feet. She worked to remove the dirt covering the rocks, and with each sweeping pass of her hand, she pictured her mother’s grave half a world away.

  But even more, she pictured where her mother was now.

  Véronique righted the cross, not an easy task, as the wood went deeper into the hardened soil than she’d imagined. There was no name. There were no dates. But from the size of the grave, she guessed it belonged to a petit enfant.

  She stood and brushed off her hands. “‘Death, be not proud,” ’ she whispered, “‘though some have called thee mighty and dreadful. For thou . . . art . . . not . . . so.” ’ She recited the sonnet with more feeling, more confidence, than she ever had before. “‘For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow—” ’

  “‘. . . die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.” ’

  At the sound of Jack’s voice behind her, tears threatened. Unsure of whether he knew yet about what had happened to her, but knowing how quickly gossip traveled in a small community, she couldn’t look at him.

  “Would you like to continue?” He moved closer.

  She closed her eyes at the tenderness in his voice. “Non . . . I would rather hear you.”

  Jack came alongside her, and she listened as he quoted the res
t of the sonnet. The words took on new life in the deep timbre of his voice, and she remembered something he’d said to her a while back. She waited as he finished.

  “‘One short sleep past, we wake eternally.” ’ Jack paused and took her hand. “‘And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.” ’

  She stared at their clasped hands. “When first we met, I asked you if you had ever lost someone close to you. You did not answer me then. But I think you did just now. Who was it that you lost?”

  The muscles in his jaw tensed. His hand tightened around hers. “My wife, and my son.”

  CHAPTER | FORTY

  JACK’S WORDS HUNG in the air, and each second he waited for Véronique to respond, they grew heavier.

  Moments ago, as he’d passed the church on his way from town out to Casaroja, he’d glimpsed a woman in the cemetery. At first, he hadn’t recognized her. But something had caused him to slow down. Seeing the purposeful grace with which she moved, watching how she brushed the hair from her face, he’d known.

  This was definitely one place he’d not considered looking for her.

  His gaze settled on the grave at their feet, and the freshly pulled stack of weeds piled to one side. He gathered she’d been the one to clear it off. Why she’d done it, he wasn’t certain. But he suspected it had something to do with her mother. Or maybe her father.

  Véronique wore her mining-town homespun instead of her customary finery, and after his conversation moments ago with Mrs. Rawlings at the bakery, he understood why.

  Imagining the scene playing out at the crowded store on Saturday morning as Mrs. Rawlings had described it, and knowing how it must have affected Véronique, he’d wanted to march over to the mercantile and throttle Mrs. Hochstetler—the old battle-ax. Though the woman had reason to be frustrated, the way she’d chosen to handle the situation seemed intentionally vicious and meanspirited.

  And from the woundedness he’d sensed in Véronique when he first walked up, Mrs. Hochstetler had apparently accomplished her goal.