Remembered

by Tamera Alexander

Véronique didn’t know what to expect, but quickly discovered that Jack Brennan had done his share of dancing, and was quite good. The song ended and another tune began, more lively this time.

  She glanced around at the high-stepping dance the couples around them were doing. “I do not know this dance, Jack. Perhaps we should—”

  He smiled and pulled her close. “Just hang on. You’ll do fine.”

  Véronique stumbled once—no chance of falling with Jack holding her tight—and within a couple of minutes, she’d memorized the steps and was laughing along with everyone else.

  The next melody was slower paced, and Véronique was glad for the chance to gain her breath. Jack didn’t ask her if she wanted to continue to dance but slipped his arm about her waist and pulled her close.

  As the music played, she knew she would remember every detail about this moment—the feel of his hand pressed against the small of her back, her fingers laced loosely through his, the shimmer of candlelight, the violins playing, the rustle of the evening breeze through the trees, and the knowledge that God had indeed had a plan all along. Even if it hadn’t been hers.

  “Thank you, Jack,” she whispered.

  His arm tightened around her and he kissed the top of her head. Bringing his mouth close to her ear, he whispered, “I got my land, Vernie.”

  She drew back. “Ah! Magnifique! I am so happy for you, Jack. You are most deserving of this.”

  “I’d like to show it to you.”

  “And I would like to see it . . . as long as there are no skunks.”

  “Can’t promise that, I’m afraid.”

  The sound of his laughter took her back to the time she’d first heard it, when she’d seen him standing outside the hotel with Bertram Colby. She was as close to Jack as étiquette—and propriety—allowed, yet she wanted to be much closer.

  A harmonica joined the blend of strings, and she couldn’t remember a sweeter sound—not even in the opera halls of Paris. “When will you start building the cabin you have described to me?”

  “I’ve already started clearing the land.” His deep voice dropped to a whisper. “Larson Jennings is helping me. My land backs up to his. We’re going to be neighbors.”

  “I am so proud of you, Jack. And of what you are doing.”

  The pride that shone in her eyes was more fulfilling than Jack could have imagined.

  The music came to a close, and when another fast-paced jig began, he took her hand and led her through the crowd of onlookers to a table set up by the kitchen door.

  Claire Stewartson started ladling something into a cup the moment she saw them. “Might I interest you two in some cool cider?”

  “Mrs. Stewartson, you read our minds.” Jack handed Véronique a full cup and spotted Jake Sampson heading toward them.

  “Evening, Sampson. Glad you could make it.”

  Sampson took the offered cup of cider, nodding to the ladies. “Thanks, Brennan. Took me a while to get my work done. I tell ya, I got to have someone else in that shop or I’m going to work myself to an early grave.”

  Jack drained his cup. “I’ve been keeping an eye out but haven’t run across anyone yet.”

  Bertram Colby approached, a most eager look on his face. “Excuse me, friends. Mademoiselle Girard . . . might I bother you to aid me with . . . what we were discussin’ at dinner?”

  “Oui, Monsieur Colby.” A mischievous smile turned her mouth as she handed Jack her cup. “I would be honored. Gentlemen, Mrs. Stewartson, if you will excuse us, s’il vous plaît.”

  Jack watched her lead Colby through the fray, certain the two were up to no good. The demand for cider increased, so he and Sampson stepped to the side. “Sampson, I want to thank you for the good word you put in for me with Clayton. Whatever you said to him worked.”

  Sampson raised a brow. “You got your land?”

  “Yes, sir, I did. Still can’t believe it.” He accepted Sampson’s vigorous handshake. “I’ve already started clearing it off. Got a neighbor helping me with it.”

  A gleam slid into Sampson’s eyes. The older man winked. “So that means you’ll be stayin’ around these parts, I take it? Gettin’ settled down?”

  Jack shook his head, smiling. “First things first there, my friend.” He peered over the crowd and spotted Véronique and Bertram Colby . . . talking with Miss Maudie. Uh oh . . . what was that woman up to?

  “So, Brennan, you have plans to start buildin’ soon?”

  “Yes, sir, I’d like to have at least a couple of rooms done before winter. I’ve got designs drawn for a cabin and have the perfect spot picked out. It’s beautiful land. Best in these parts, in my opinion.”

  Sampson lifted his cup in a cheer. “With Fountain Creek runnin’ through it, there’s little doubt.”

  “Yes, sir. I feel privileged to have gotten it. My thanks to you again.”

  Then it hit him—he didn’t remember telling Jake Sampson where the land he bid on was located. But Clayton probably had when he’d gathered the reference. Still, Jack’s curiosity was more than a little piqued.

  “And you don’t owe me a bit of thanks, Brennan. Clayton never paid me a visit. Guess it was Bertram Colby’s good word that did the trick.”

  Jack stared into his empty cup and, every few seconds, snuck looks beside him as Sampson watched the crowd.

  It couldn’t be . . .

  He recalled the day in the livery when Sampson had first told him about Véronique. The man had alluded to gold prospecting in years past, and when Jack had questioned him about it, Sampson had given measured answers. Looking at Jake Sampson, Jack was hard-pressed to see anything other than a very talented wheelwright and a livery owner. But still he wondered. . . .

  He decided to test the waters. “I’ve already met one of my neighbors. He’s helping me clear the land, like I said. Maybe you’ve met him before. Do you know the families in that area?”

  Sampson continued to watch the couples dancing.

  “I said maybe you’ve met him before, Sampson.”

  “I heard what you said, son.” Sampson tipped his cup back and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Then he turned, a sage look in his eyes.

  Jack held his stare. “You sold me that land . . . didn’t you, sir?” he whispered. “You’re the owner Clayton told me about.”

  Sampson frowned, and it almost looked convincing. “What on earth are you talkin’ about?”

  “I never told you where my land was located, Sampson. Yet you knew about Fountain Creek.”

  The man looked away, scoffing. “I hate to tell you, but half the land around here has Fountain Creek floatin’ through it. You said your land was the best in these parts.” He shrugged. “What else am I to assume?”

  That wasn’t true. And in his gut, Jack knew Sampson was hiding something. “I’ll keep it to myself—I give you my word.” He lowered his voice. “All I’d like to do is to thank the person who sold me the land, that’s all. I’ve dreamed of having land like that for years. I’m not asking you to tell me why you did it, or why you don’t want anyone else to know.”

  Saying nothing, Sampson turned back to watching the crowd.

  Jack spotted Miss Maudie motioning to him from across the way. He started to question Sampson again, but stopped himself. The man must’ve had his reasons for wanting to remain anonymous, or he wouldn’t have gone to such lengths to cover his trail. First with Larson and Kathryn Jennings when they bought back their land a couple of years ago, as Larson had described, and now with him. And if Sampson was the man, Jack had already accomplished his goal by giving him his thanks.

  “Listen, Sampson,” he said softly, regretting having raised the subject in the first place, “just so we’re clear, I won’t mention this again to you, or anyone else. You have my word.” He started to walk away.

  “You remember what I said about being contented, Brennan?”

  The unexpected question brought Jack back around. He gauged his answer carefully. “Yes, sir. You said that learning to
be content is hard. But that not learning . . . sometimes that’s even harder.”

  A faint smile shone through Sampson’s beard. “Having riches can change a man. Can change the people around him too—and not for the better. Makes it hard to tell the true friends from the false.” Sampson shifted his weight and looked over at him. “Learnin’ to be content was a costly lesson for me, and what I gained wasn’t worth what I lost.”

  Shadows crept over Sampson’s face, and even without knowing what loss the man was referring to, Jack felt the keenness of it.

  Sampson cleared his throat. “But the Almighty has a way of bringin’ good from the worst. And I believe a man will have to give account for what he’s done with what God’s given him.”

  Jack nodded. “I agree.”

  A gleam lit the older man’s eyes. “Are you familiar with the phrase ‘giving without lettin’ your left hand know what your right hand is doing,’ Brennan?”

  Jack stared as the mystery of this man fell away in gradual shades. He laughed softly. “Yes, sir, I’m familiar with that Scripture.” Miss Maudie motioned to him again, and he acknowledged her with a wave.

  Sampson clapped him on the back. “Well, good, then . . . I believe that’s enough said. You go on now, son. You’ve got a celebration to get underway.”

  ————

  Véronique followed the crowd of guests down the slope to the pasture, the well-lit path illumined by the soft glow of lanterns. She searched for Jack. The last time she’d seen him, he’d been speaking with Miss Maudie.

  Oddly, she didn’t feel uncomfortable walking by herself. Maybe the obscurity of darkness helped, but despite having seen several of the vendors to whom she owed money, she felt as if she was among friends this evening. Undoubtedly, Mrs. Hochstetler’s lack of attendance bolstered that feeling.

  Blankets were spread on the ground in a large circle, the circumference bordered by six-foot torches that bathed the ground in golden light.

  Finding a place, she settled back, stretched her legs out in front of her, and arranged her skirt. The sun, now hidden behind the mountains, left a sliver of orange glow cradled in the cleft of the highest summit. Fistfuls of stars God had flung into the heavens at the beginning of time shone with a brightness she could not remember seeing before.

  She heard laughter behind her and glanced over her shoulder. Miss Maudie was being carried down the slope . . . by Bertram Colby! And they were headed straight for her!

  Monsieur Colby gently situated Miss Maudie on the blanket beside her.

  “Bless you, Mr. Colby.” Miss Maudie smoothed her dress. “That was most kind of you, sir. And let me tell you—it was far more excitin’ than that wheelchair Doc Hadley would have me careenin’ down the hill in.”

  He removed his hat. “It was my pleasure, ma’am. And I’d be happy to carry you back up after we’re done, seein’ as you couldn’t find your cane.”

  Miss Maudie gazed up at him with all the vim of a young schoolgirl. “Be careful, Mr. Colby. You do that and I’ll start to think I’ve died and gone to heaven.”

  “Well, ma’am, seein’ as I already consider myself there, I guess I’m one step ahead of you.” Smiling, Monsieur Colby tipped his hat and excused himself.

  Slack-jawed, Véronique watched the smooth-tongued racaille walk away, then giggled when Miss Maudie grinned at her.

  The older woman leaned close. “How can I be thankin’ you enough, Véronique, for introducin’ me to that handsome man? Though I’m a wee bit peeved to think you traveled with him all the way from New York City and didn’t breathe a word about him to me till now.”

  Véronique laughed. “If it helps to reinstate me to your good graces . . . Monsieur Colby requested an introduction to you as soon as you rose to speak tonight.” She raised her brow. “He was quite taken with you from the very first.”

  Miss Maudie patted her arm. “You’re forgiven of everything, my dear. And don’t be tellin’ anyone, but my cane is hidden beneath the shrubs by the kitchen.”

  The clang of a bell drew their attention, and Véronique spotted Jack walking through the crowd to the front of the gathering. He held a torche in his hand, and a flush of pride swept through her again. She sat a little straighter, wondering what he was going to do.

  “Ladies and gentlemen . . .”

  She smiled at the formal tone he’d adopted.

  “On behalf of Miss Maudie, I welcome you again to Casaroja this evening and want to share a few words before we continue our celebration.”

  Véronique wasn’t certain, but from the way he kept looking in her direction, she wondered if he knew where she was seated.

  “Though it’s the first time I’ve done this at Casaroja, this celebration is something I’ve enjoyed hosting for the past thirteen years. And I wasn’t about to let go of the tradition. My thanks to Jake Sampson, Patrick and Bobby Carlson, Bertram Colby, and Callum Roberts for their able assistance in setting things up.”

  At the mention of Callum Roberts, Véronique craned her neck to search the crowd for the pauper she’d met in town. Sure enough, there he was, sitting with the Dunstons a few blankets over.

  “As Miss Maudie shared earlier, our country is ninety-five years old today, and—”

  Applause and cheers rose from the crowd. Véronique found herself clapping along.

  Once everyone quieted, Jack continued. “As we’ve enjoyed dinner and dancing tonight, and as we watch the festivities in a few minutes, I hope we’ll pause and remember men such as Carter Braxton of Virginia. Braxton was a wealthy planter and trader whose ships were attacked and destroyed by the British navy during the fight for independence. Braxton sold his home and his properties to help finance the war . . . and he died penniless.

  “Before being captured by the British, Richard Stockton of Princeton, New Jersey, managed to get his family to safety. But he was held prisoner for several years, separated from his wife and family, and lost all of his property during the British invasion.”

  Véronique sensed empathy and a common unity being woven through the crowd, and she wondered who of those gathered were related to messieurs Braxton and Stockton.

  As Jack continued to speak, she couldn’t help but notice how he commanded everyone’s attention. Never demanding it, never coercing, and yet he held the crowd’s unwavering focus.

  “These men were among the fifty-six signers of our Declaration of Independence. They weren’t wild-eyed, rabble-rousing ruffians. They were soft-spoken men of means and education. They had security, but they valued their liberty, and ours, more.”

  With little effort, she envisioned Jack Brennan guiding families across this country, and she imagined those families following him eagerly. What was it about him that inspired such trust? That made a person want to follow him?

  And made her so grateful to be with him?

  Miss Maudie reached over and took her hand, and Véronique realized Jack was leading them in prayer. She bowed her head.

  “Father, would you make us more grateful for what you’ve given us in this country, and for the sacrifices of those who’ve spilled their blood. Would you make our government strong and keep us rooted in the faith of our forefathers. Help us to see our lives through eternal eyes and to realize that this life—though priceless—is but a vapor. And finally we ask . . . make us more like Christ, Father. No matter the cost.”

  An echo of amens trickled through the crowd, and Véronique added hers in a soft whisper. When she looked up, she couldn’t see Jack any longer. The torches had been extinguished.

  A resounding boom echoed and, instinctively, she looked skyward.

  The night sky exploded with bursts of rouge and blanc. Another pop sounded and a streak of bleu shot straight up into the darkness, then blossomed into a plume and rained down toward the plains.

  Miss Maudie joined others in clapping. “Isn’t it beautiful!”

  Gasps and cheers punctuated the explosions, followed by resounding applause.

  Véroniq
ue had witnessed displays of fireworks before, but this experience captured something that none of the others had. Perhaps it stemmed from being in a new place, or from being overtired, or maybe anxious about what her future held. But with every burst of color that lit up the dark night sky, the slight ache in her throat grew more pronounced.

  But it wasn’t sadness she felt. Quite the contrary.

  She’d never had less in her life in a material sense, she’d never had so little security in terms of her future, she’d never before seen herself so clearly, with all her faults and shortcomings—and yet she’d never been more content in all her life.

  ————

  “Mr. Brennan!”

  Jack turned to see Pastor Carlson walking toward him, with his daughter, Lilly, in his arms. Mrs. Carlson and Bobby trailed behind. Jack quickly scanned the area to see if Véronique was around. He thought he’d seen her and Miss Maudie head into the house shortly after the fireworks display. He knew she wanted to talk to the Carlsons tonight but wondered if waiting might be better.

  Most of the guests had already left, or were preparing to leave.

  “That was some show you put on. Our family really enjoyed it.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” With a nod, Jack acknowledged his appreciation, noting the fatigue on Lilly’s face. “I enjoy doing it.”

  Carlson set his daughter down. “You okay, honey?”

  “I’m fine, Papa.” Lilly glanced at Jack before lowering her gaze.

  “Brennan” —Pastor Carlson’s smile was fleeting—“I’m wondering if you might know where Mademoiselle Girard is. We need to speak with her about . . . a new development.”

  Dread moved through him. Jack knew that delaying the discussion wouldn’t make it any easier, but the Carlsons having heard about her situation secondhand would only make Véronique feel worse. “I believe she’s with Miss Maudie.”

  He led the way inside. Miss Maudie was seated in the front room, her foot elevated on a table. Bertram Colby sat beside her and Véronique was nearby. Her hand went to her midsection when she saw the Carlsons.

  “Miss Girard,” Pastor Carlson said as he slipped an arm around his daughter’s shoulders, “I know it’s late, but we’d like to speak with you about something.”