Remembered

by Tamera Alexander

  “From me grandfather, you French beauty. Where d’ya think the fine name of Brennan would be comin’ from?”

  She pinched his arm through his coat, knowing it did no good. “No wonder Miss Maudie adores you.”

  “Aye, perhaps she does. But she’s not the one I’m lookin’ forward to dinin’ with tonight.”

  She giggled. “I have much to learn about you, Jack Brennan.” And she looked forward to every minute of it.

  She was surprised to see women—respectable-looking women— strolling the boardwalk. Some had shopping baskets draped over their arms; a few even had children in tow. And though a number of miners in the street stopped and watched the wagon pass, this place was a far cry from what she and Jack had experienced before.

  Jack maneuvered the wagon down the street and to the livery, and she accompanied him inside.

  A shirtless young man she guessed to be Peter labored over an anvil by the forge. She couldn’t help but think of Jake Sampson and wondered if this was what he had looked like in his younger years. She guessed the boy to be about Lilly’s age, a year or two older, perhaps, though he came close to rivaling Jack’s height. His tanned skin contrasted with his blond hair, and from the looks of him, he was accustomed to hard work.

  The boy glanced up and saw Jack; then his gaze flickered to her and he reached for a shirt draped on a nearby bench.

  “Good day, sir. Ma’am.” He nodded, slipping another button through its matched hole. “How may I be of help?”

  Jack stretched out his hand. “I’ve got a freight wagon out here that needs some work, and I’d be obliged if you’d take a look at it for me.”

  Jack glanced back as he walked out with the boy, and Véronique gestured that she’d be fine. The warmth from the forge felt good after the cold journey, and she hovered closer, holding her gloved hands out to soak up the heat.

  Something on the far wall caught her attention. She squinted, unable to see it clearly through the smoke. She moved closer, her steps slowing as the painting came into focus.

  It was the summit they’d passed earlier. The bowl God had carved out with His hand and packed full with snow. The colors were so vivid and real. The technique in the painting, while simple, was exquisite.

  A door opened somewhere behind her, then the telling crunch of boots on hay.

  Another painting drew her eye. Lower on the wall, and smaller. A scene with a bridge. She leaned close, recognition taking her breath with it. The bridge—that was her bridge. In Paris. She was certain.

  “Good day, ma’am. How may I be of help?”

  She couldn’t look away from the painting—a true sign the artist possessed the gift. “Bonjour, monsieur. Peter is already helping us, merci.” Finally, she turned, gesturing behind her. “May I ask, who painted these?”

  The man stilled.

  She took a step toward him. If this man was Peter’s father, he was the exact opposite of the boy’s physique and coloring. Where Peter was tall and strapping, this man was of shorter stature, dark-haired, and the gauntness of his face made him appear weakened by illness.

  His lips moved. But no words came.

  He looked as though he were trying to form a sentence. His face grew paler, his expression pained. He murmured something she couldn’t understand.

  She held out a hand. “Wait here, monsieur, s’il vous plaît. I will retrieve your son.”

  She was nearly to the door when she heard it.

  “Arianne . . .”

  Her mother’s name—a broken whisper, a fragile plea, and a wearied prayer, all in one.

  She stopped short. Véronique closed her eyes and opened them again, fearing she would awaken and discover this to be a dream.

  Slowly, she faced him, unshed tears threatening. In the instant it had taken for truth to register within her, his eyes revealed the same.

  He walked toward her on unsteady legs, his arm outstretched, his hand trembling. “Arianne?” His voice grew weaker with uncertainty.

  She shook her head. Her lips trembled. “Non, Papa . . . je m’appelle—”

  “Véronique,” he breathed, touching the side of her face again and again.

  She blinked and tears slipped down her cheeks. Such love embodied in a single whispered name.

  EPILOGUE

  VÉRONIQUE STOOD AT the edge of the cimetière, her heart pounding. She couldn’t believe this day had arrived, and so soon.

  “Es-tu prête pour ce moment, ma fille précieuse?”

  She slipped her left hand into the crook of her father’s right arm, holding her bouquet with the other. Soon the ceremony would begin. “Oui, Papa. I am most ready for this moment.”

  The scene before her, reminiscent of her youthful wanderings at Cimetière de Montmartre, was surreal.

  Morning mist hovered over the gravestones. It clung to the lingering shade beneath the bowers of tall cottonwoods, and rested with languid grace upon the shores of La Fontaine qui Bouille. A breeze stirred a stand of golden aspen, and their bright yellow leaves quaked, contesting winter’s approach with the trill of a thousand tiny bells.

  “Jack Brennan is a good man, Véronique. He is a man I would have chosen for you. He complements you, mon chou.”

  My cabbage. Véronique warmed at the term of endearment and tightened her hold on her father’s arm, aware of his frailness even through the bulk of his coat. The distant sweetness of a single violin signaled the start, and other strings soon joined to frame the traditional melody.

  “It is time, non?” he whispered.

  The smile in his eyes was one she would not forget, and knowing how few days they had left, she cherished it. They took the first step together and walked slowly, as though the ground they covered on the way was as important as what awaited.

  And in a way, it was.

  She imagined Jack standing in the place Pastor Carlson had described to her earlier, tall and handsome, and she looked ahead to see if she could catch a glimpse of him. But the white-draped tent prevented it.

  This setting had been Jack’s idea, and she’d loved it from the start. Fountain Creek, near the cimetière. Their choice might raise a brow or two, but it fit them, for many reasons.

  White rose petals marked the path she and her father followed, and their sweet fragrance lifted as they passed. Though she hadn’t seen him do it, Véronique knew Jack was responsible. Desiring to walk the path before her, he’d said, preparing the way.

  They’d not seen one another for the past week, at Jack’s suggestion. He’d wanted her to have the time with her father before the wedding, and though she had initially protested, she looked forward to thanking him.

  She could hardly believe it was happening—that the man she’d grown to love so deeply reciprocated the depth of her feelings. And that the man beside her was there to share her joy.

  Her throat tightened. Only recently she’d found her father, and already he was giving her away.

  In past weeks, as she’d gotten to know this man who had left such a quiet, indelible mark on who she was—far more than she’d realized—she’d continued to struggle with her mother’s decision made so long ago.

  Memories of her maman huddled close. The bitterness she felt had all but disappeared in light of finding her father. Fear had robbed them all of so much, and Véronique determined—with God’s help— never to be ruled by fear of the unknown again.

  She scanned the haze of blue overhead. “Do you think she sees us, Papa?”

  Without looking up, he nodded. “Oui, I feel her presence.” His hand came to cover hers on his arm.

  His was cool to the touch, and Véronique covered it, sharing her warmth and recalling how they’d walked the canals of the river Seine so long ago.

  “You mustn’t blame her, Véronique. What your mother did, she did from love. Surely you know this.”

  Véronique didn’t answer. She’d learned that, no matter how many times they discussed it, Pierre Gustave Girard would defend his beloved wife to his death.<
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  Just as her mother had carried her love for him to hers.

  As they walked the path, she spotted a grave on her left, adorned with fresh wild flowers, and when she read the name on the simple wooden cross, she warmed at the memory. JONATHAN WESLEY MCCUTCHENS. Jack had told her that if not for this man, he would never have come to Willow Springs. She whispered a prayer as they passed. “Until we meet . . . Merci beaucoup, Monsieur McCutchens.”

  “It was wrong, Véronique, for me to leave you and your maman behind, to separate our family. The weight of that mistake has worn on me every day of my life. But just as your mother made her choice, so did I, ma petite. I allowed my—” He coughed once, and again more deeply.

  They paused for a moment, and Véronique heard the telling rattle in his lungs. It was both difficult—and painfully easy—to imagine her father’s impending death. Yet she still held hope that God would give her more time with him.

  He finally regained his breath, and their muted footsteps again found rhythm with the stringed music.

  “I allowed my shame over failed dreams to strip from me the treasure already in my possession—you and your maman.” His voice grew softer. “But God, in His mercy, has seen fit to restore a portion of that treasure to me before I leave this earth.”

  Within view of the white-draped canopy, they stopped.

  Hannah and Lilly waited with Kathryn Jennings outside the arched entrance, their smiles expectant. Mrs. Dunston stood with them, no doubt ready to make any last minute adjustments to the white pearl-beaded dress she’d sewn for this special day.

  But even with such an exquisite satin gown, Véronique’s favorite part of the day’s ensemble was, by far, her bonnet. At least that’s how Jack had referred to it in his note.

  In reality it was a wedding chapeau, and a most stylish one. He’d sent it to her earlier in the week as a wedding present, along with a note. Under playful duress, Mrs. Dunston confessed that she’d ordered it from New York City weeks ago, at Jack’s request.

  Véronique fondly remembered Jack’s analogy long ago about the desire to purchase a bonnet. She’d thought of his story’s meaning many times in recent weeks as she’d anticipated becoming his wife. A coy smile tipped her mouth. She looked forward to thanking him for his thoughtfulness later that night.

  Her father gently lifted the front of her veil. He placed a soft kiss on her left cheek, then her right, and repeated both again. “So many nights I dreamed of you, ma petite fille. I prayed for God to keep you strong, and that my faults” —his smile was gentle—“and those of your precious maman, would not keep you from following the course He had set for your life. No matter the cost.”

  His words took her back. And in her mind, Véronique knelt again by her mother’s grave. “If somehow my words can reach you, Maman . . . Know that I cannot do as you have asked. Your request comes at too great—”

  “A cost,” Véronique answered within herself, truth knifing what bitterness remained. How could she not have seen the similarity before? “She knew, Papa. She knew I would not leave Paris to come to the Americas on my own. I would be too afraid . . . just as she had been. So Maman removed any chance of my staying.” Véronique slowly shook her head. “I wish she could have known . . . it was her unwavering confidence in me that gave me strength to make this journey.”

  Her father studied her for the longest moment. “I believe she does know. But if not, I will tell her soon enough.” Tender longing shadowed his expression. “I am most eager to see her again.”

  Hannah motioned them forward. “You look positively beautiful, Véronique. And, Mr. Girard, you do her proud, sir.”

  He squared his shoulders and raised himself to his full height, being only slightly taller than she was. Recognizing the all-too-familiar mannerism and the teasing in his smoky-brown eyes, Véronique chuckled.

  With each day, her appreciation for her father’s kindness of character deepened. When she’d first believed that Peter was her father’s son, her reaction had been hurt and disappointment. But learning that her father had adopted the one-year-old Peter when the boy’s parents died only increased her affection for him.

  Pierre, the French form of Peter. She smiled to herself, pondering the not-so-subtle sign of God’s working.

  The boy was fifteen, only a year younger than Aaron would’ve been had Jack’s son lived. Peter spoke of Jack constantly, his admiration unquestionable. And she didn’t have to ask Jack if his feelings for the boy were mutual. Seeing them together was enough.

  Kathryn squeezed her hand before situating Véronique’s veil. “Hannah’s right, Véronique, you look radiant. Like a queen befitting the grandest palace in Europe. And if I might say, your husband-tobe looks quite dashing himself.”

  Lilly nodded, giving a subtle wink. “A mite easy on the eyes is how I’d phrase it, Mademoiselle Girard.”

  They all laughed, and Véronique hugged each of them. “Merci beaucoup. I cannot imagine this moment without all of you.”

  Mrs. Dunston pulled back the gauzy curtain veiling the entrance and held up a hand when Véronique stepped forward. “Not just yet, my dear. You and Jack are to see one another at the very same time.” She grinned. “I’ve been sworn to make certain of that.”

  Véronique’s excitement wrestled with her patience, yet she didn’t dare move an inch under Mrs. Dunston’s watchful eye. From where she and her father stood, she could only see the last few rows on the right hand side. But every seat was occupied.

  Larson escorted Kathryn down the aisle first, followed by Hannah and young Bobby. When it came time, Lilly stepped forward and accepted Peter’s waiting arm. Lilly smiled up at him and the sparkle in both their expressions was impossible to miss.

  Before the veiled curtain fell back into place, Véronique glimpsed white-silvered hair reflecting the filtered sunlight—Miss Maudie. The dear woman sat on a chair closest to the aisle, with Monsieur Colby by her side. Miss Maudie was hosting the wedding brunch at Casaroja afterward, and Véronique could hardly wait to see what her friend had planned.

  At Mrs. Dunston’s approving nod, her father led her closer to the veiled opening of the canopied tent. The music continued for several heartbeats; then the final notes hung in the air, slowly fading until all Véronique could hear was the bubbling water of Fountain Creek.

  Patrick addressed the gathering of friends, and time seemed to slow.

  She couldn’t see Jack yet, though his face filled her mind. She scanned the crowd. What blessings God had given her in this new country. And what blessings she would have forfeited had she not followed God’s lead. She only wished her maman could see what her daughter’s journey had wrought.

  Briefly bowing her head, Véronique touched the cameo at her neckline and went back in her mind to a world away, one more time, to a day treasured in memory—to the day when she’d painted the picture of Versailles. And she strolled the gardens, hand-in-hand, with her beloved maman and sat by the canal where the two of them had feasted on bread and wine and cheese. She imagined her life as a canvas and the events of it, miniscule brushstrokes. Seen up close they meant little. But when given perspective, each splash of color, every dab of paint, however small or large, dark or light, was meant for her eternal good. God had proven that in recent months.

  And she prayed she would always remember.

  The violin music resumed. The veil across the entrance parted. And Véronique lifted her gaze to see the rest of her life waiting for her at the end of the aisle.

  ————

  Jack stoked the fire, wanting to give his new bride the time she needed. He’d checked the chimney twice to make sure smoke wasn’t leaking anywhere, and he resisted the urge to go back outside into the cool night air and check it again.

  Their cabin was sound—what he’d built so far, anyway. Only two rooms, but he would add another before winter came, for Véronique’s father and Peter.

  He glanced at their bedroom door, wondering how long she’d been in there. It
felt like hours, yet the clock on the mantel told him that not much time had passed.

  The wedding that morning would reside in his memory as nothing short of spectacular—all credit going to his new bride. It looked as though everyone in town had been in attendance, but he actually remembered very few faces.

  As soon as Véronique had started down that aisle, everything and everyone had faded from view.

  He glanced at the bedroom door again, then pulled out a chair and straddled it. He was debating whether to pour himself another glass of Miss Maudie’s cider, when the door opened.

  He jumped to standing.

  Véronique stepped out, and he swallowed, suddenly wishing he had something stronger than cider.

  Her nightgown was fancier than anything he’d imagined her wearing tonight. Not that he was complaining. The way the gown hugged her in some places, while draping from others, brought a single overriding thought to his mind—marriage was a good thing.

  “Would you like to have time to change, Jack?”

  He stared at her, unable not to. “I don’t really . . .” He shrugged. “I don’t really have anything to change into.”

  “In that case, when you are through in here” —she glanced behind her—“I’ll be in th—” “I’m through in here.”

  She smiled, looked away, and then looked back again. Her tiny hands gently fisted and unfisted at her sides. Her gaze couldn’t seem to settle on any one thing.

  Oh, how he loved this woman. He took her hand and led her into the bedroom. The room was warm, but he left the door ajar to share the heat from the hearth.

  He walked to her side of the bed—or what he guessed was her side; they’d have to figure that out later—and turned down the covers.

  Close beside him, she looked at the bed, then at him. “I am not yet ready for sleep, Jack.”

  The tease in her voice prompted a grin. “That’s a good thing, because sleep’s about the last thing on my mind.”

  He faced her and ran his hands slowly down her arms and back up again, letting them rest on her shoulders. He stepped closer until their bodies touched, and he kissed her like he’d wanted to since that first time on the trail.