Remembered (21 page)

Jack’s interest piqued. “Which mines were those?”

“Let’s see, of the mines that are still operating . . . that would’ve been Duke’s Run, Sluice Box, Deception, and the Peerless. Oh, and Quandry too.” Scoggins pushed the money forward, hesitated, and stretched out his hand.

Jack shook it. “I appreciate your business.”

“I’m sure you do.” Scoggins shook his head, but Jack sensed humor in the sarcasm. “Good luck in your search, to you both.” Scoggins included Mademoiselle Girard in his nod.
“Au revoir
, mademoiselle.”

“Au revoir, et merci.”
She offered a passable smile, lowering her gaze.

Eager to get her out of the place, Jack opened the door to leave and quickly realized that would not be easily done.

Four times the original number of men now gathered in the street outside the supply building, surrounding the wagon and clogging the narrow roadway.

Holding her close to him, Jack carved a path to the wagon and helped her up. Despite the catcalls and whistles, she searched the crowd, face by face. Jack didn’t try to dissuade her. He knew who she was looking for. He prayed that one day she would find him—and that Pierre Gustave Girard would be a man worthy of her search.

He flicked the reins and the wagon lurched forward.

The crowd parted, but the miners kept calling out to her. He wanted to defend her against the inappropriate remarks, but he couldn’t fight a hundred men. And he’d warned her about this. Perhaps now she would listen to him.

But seeing the determined set of her chin—probably not.

They were nearly out of town when she laid a hand on his arm. “
Merci
, Monsieur Brennan, for defending my honor. And for inquiring about my
papa
.”

Seeing the restrained emotion in her face, Jack knew two things. However long it took and however many towns they had to visit, he would do his best to help her find her father. And furthermore, he was bone weary of having to address this woman as Mademoiselle Girard. Especially when she had such a beautiful first name. “It was my pleasure . . . Véronique. Thank you for making this such a profitable trip for me.”

Warmth slipped into her eyes. She threaded her hand through the crook of his arm. “The pleasure was most assuredly mine . . . Jack.”

They drove in silence for a ways. Part of his motivation for taking this job had been based on how young he’d thought she was. He shook his head to himself.

“What is the reason behind that look, Jack?”

He hesitated. “I’m not altogether sure I should tell you.”

“Which is the reason that you must.”

Hearing the playfulness in her voice, he looked at her. “Part of why I took this job was because I thought you were much younger. You certainly don’t look your years, Véronique. And that’s meant as a compliment.”

She softly sighed. “So my mother was right after all . . .”

“Right about what?”

“Many times in recent years
Maman
told me that a day would come when I would be thankful to look so young. I did not believe her. Always, I have wanted to look like a woman and not a little girl.”

Jack took care with his next words. “If you’d allow me to be so bold, ma’am . . . Looking like a little girl isn’t something you have to worry about anymore.”

“
Merci beaucoup
again . . . Jack,” she whispered.

He didn’t understand it, but somehow this woman stole his breath away. All while making him feel as if he’d finally come home again—after so many years of wandering.

CHAPTER | SEVENTEEN

V
ÉRONIQUE STRETCHED AND
pushed herself to a sitting position E´ in the freshly ticked hotel bed. The sun streamed in the dust-streaked windows as she combed her hair back with her hands and leaned to look at her watch on the night table. Half past eight. She threw back the quilt. She hadn’t planned to sleep so late.

Thoughts of the trip to Jenny’s Draw yesterday and of Jack Brennan,
Jack
—she smiled, remembering—had kept sleep at bay until the wee hours of the night, despite her being exhausted and sore from the journey along the furrowed roads.

Upon returning to town last evening, Jack had dropped her off at the hotel before heading to the livery to board the horses. Watching him drive away, it occurred to her that she had no definite way of contacting him in case she needed something. Unless, of course, he was still staying at this hotel. Possible, even though she’d not seen him in the hallways. A quiet query to Lilly could settle that issue. But he hadn’t mentioned anything about when their next trip was scheduled either. A question she planned on having answered the next time she saw him.

Several tasks awaited her that day, so she gathered her personal items and visited the washroom down the hall. The most important errand on her list was to pay Monsieur Sampson for the freight wagon. In all her dealings with him, she’d never presented him with payment. Nor had he requested it. She’d remembered her oversight late yesterday afternoon when Jack had told her he’d commissioned Monsieur Sampson to build a wagon for him, identical to hers. The news shouldn’t have surprised her. She’d known all along he wanted his own wagon.

But the way he’d said it reminded her of his initial reservations regarding the formation of their partnership, and that the current arrangement was quite temporary. In his mind at least.

As she washed her face, the journey to Jenny’s Draw flitted through her memory in color-washed
vignettes
. But one scene stood out above all others.

Never had a man come so boldly to her defense. Jack could not have understood Monsieur Scoggins’s vulgar suggestion. Yet somehow he had known, and his retribution had been swift and deserving. The exhilaration of gripping Jack’s rifle in her hands also remained vivid with her.

She chuckled as she reached for the towel, recalling the look on Jack’s face when he’d seen her. The poor man had been stunned. But no more than she. Never would she have attempted something like that before coming to this country. She would have considered the action unbecoming of a lady. But now . . .

Now she not only wanted to hold the gun again, she had aspirations of learning how to shoot it!

She ran a brush through her hair. Much had changed in the months since leaving Paris.
She
had changed.

One by one, she slipped the combs into her hair and gathered it atop her head, arranging the curls. Pausing, she closed her eyes.

She imagined herself standing in the grand front foyer of the Marchands’ home once again—fresco-painted ceilings soaring overhead, polished marble beneath her feet—surrounded by opulent furnishings bequeathed from generation to generation within the Marchand
famille
. Breathing deeply, she recalled the sweet fragrance of fresh-cut white roses—her mother’s favorite—that had always graced the front foyer table. And she could still hear the crescendo of the grand piano as Lord Marchand played in the ballroom late at night.

The rumble of wagons and the smell of livestock from the street below helped dispel the cherished memory. Her eyelids fluttered open. The webbed crack in the upper portion of the mirror suddenly seemed more pronounced, as did the peeling wallpaper and the dust laden cobweb draping the top of the window sash. The wooden floorboards creaked as she returned to her room.

This journey had taken her not only far from her home, but also far from whom she used to be. Yet somehow she felt more alive and free in this uncivilized territory than she’d ever felt before. How could that be when Paris was still so dear? As was the refined existence of her previous life.

As she slipped into the matching jacket to her ensemble and tucked Monsieur Sampson’s money inside her
réticule
, a single question replayed in her mind. She might be enjoying these newly discovered changes in herself, but were they for the better? Or was she succumbing to the lure of this untamed land?

And what of Jack Brennan? Here in these United States, the distinction between social classes often blurred until it was impossible to distinguish where one group ceased and another began—so different from France.

Jack was a man of integrity, honorable and kind, and he was proving to be an excellent driver and defender, but he fell far behind her in terms of rank and standing. And she knew that—despite how much they would be traveling together, and the relaxed norms of this infant country—it would be best to keep a certain distance between them.

And she determined to do just that.

Outside, Véronique followed her customary path to the livery. Her pace slowed when she saw a crowd gathered at the corner, with more people flocking around by the minute. She considered taking another route, but a man standing atop an upturned barrel drew her attention. He waved and pointed to something beside him, and excited murmurs rippled through the crowd.

Her curiosity eventually won out.

When she got close enough to glimpse the object of everyone’s scrutiny, disappointment set in.

It was only a
vélocipède
.

“Step right up, folks!” The salesman’s voice escalated in enthusiasm. “It’s the latest thing from Europe. The conveyance of kings and queens! It’s called a bicycle, and it’s going to change life as we know it!”

Véronique lingered a moment, delighting in the crowd’s reaction at seeing the man riding the bicycle up and down the street, though his comment about royalty was absurd. Never had Emperor Napoleon pedaled the streets of Paris on a
vélocipède
. Preposterous!

She remembered her own response upon first seeing the oddlooking contraption. Christophe had purchased one for himself some years ago when they’d been all the rage in Paris. Late one evening, he finally convinced her to try it, assuring her that no one was watching. But two turns around the back courtyard, trying to balance on the tiny seat while also managing her dress, proved far more trouble than the effort was worth. Not to mention the solid rubber tires over the cobblestones nearly jarred her teeth from her head.

Véronique heard her name and climbed the boardwalk to get a better view. She scanned the crowd, finally spotting Lilly waving to her from the other side of the avenue.

Lilly motioned for her to wait, then lifted her skirts and dodged the potholes and horse dung to cross the street.

Véronique noticed a group of boys and girls, about Lilly’s age, she guessed, behind Lilly on the boardwalk, paying special attention to the girl’s progress. One of the boys—blond, tall, and slender—began lurching about, holding his right pant leg in his grip. At the stifled giggles of the others, his actions became more exaggerated.

Véronique suddenly realized what he was doing, and indignation churned inside her. She sent the scoundrel a scathing look, which he apparently did not see.

“
Bonjour
, Mademoiselle Girard.” Lilly climbed the stairs to the boardwalk, one at a time, her face flush with pleasure.
“Comment allez-vous?”

Véronique smiled and worked to mask her anger, impressed with Lilly’s skill at learning and her near perfect accent. “Good day, Miss Carlson. I am doing well, thank you. You have been studying the phrases I penned for you,
non
?” She motioned down the boardwalk. “I am on errands. Would you like to join me?”

No doubt Lilly had dealt with her share of teasing in her life, but Véronique wanted to protect her from dealing with more today. Certain children possessed a skill for such cruelty—be it about an impediment, or the lack of a father in the life of a
petite fille
.

Lilly’s long dark curls bobbed as she nodded. They started down the boardwalk. “I have the phrases all memorized, Mademoiselle Girard. Would you write down a few more, please? When you have time?”

“You have committed the entire list to memory?”

“
Oui
, mademoiselle.” Lilly’s eyes sparkled.

Véronique decided a test was in order. She cleared her throat in an exaggerated manner. “Good evening, Mrs. Carlson.”

“Bonsoir
, Madame Carlson.” Lilly rolled her eyes as if to say “give me something harder.”

Véronique raised a brow. “Let me introduce myself. I am Miss Lilly Carlson.”

“
Je m’appelle
Mademoiselle Lilly Carlson.”

Trying not to smile, but secretly proud of her young pupil, Véronique tried one more. And she was certain Lilly would remember the evening this had happened to her. “I closed the door to my room and left the key inside.”

Grinning, Lilly lifted her chin in an air of superiority.
“J’ai fermé la porte de ma chambre et j’ai laissé la clé a` l’intérieur.”

Véronique paused at the corner and clapped softly. “
Magnifique
! I am most impressed with you, Lilly. You are an astute learner. And yes, I will be pleased to pen more phrases for you. I will do it tonight . . . immediately following our first lesson in curtsying.” She winked. “You thought I had forgotten,
non
?”

Lilly’s grin communicated suspicion of just that. “Thank you! I can hardly wait!”

Hoping the lesson would not end in frustration for the girl, Véronique motioned in the direction of the livery down the street. “But for the moment . . . I have an appointment with Monsieur Sampson, so I must be on my way.”

“That’s okay. I have an appointment too, and then I have to get to work.” Lilly gave her a quick hug. “Let’s meet in the hotel dining room tonight, following dinner. And one more thing . . . I’m going out to see a friend of our family the Sunday after next. She lives a ways from town, and I wondered if you might want to come along.” Her dark brows arched. “Mama’s going to make her oatmeal muffins with homemade strawberry jam, and I’m sure Miss Maudie will share with us.”

After yesterday’s trip to Jenny’s Draw, the idea of riding any distance in a wagon wasn’t at all appealing, but spending time with Lilly was. They agreed on a time and place to meet.

Véronique reached the livery only to find the place overrun with customers. Since that meant the shop was full of men, she decided to wait outside.

A bright summer sun shone from its cloudless azure perch, reminding her she’d forgotten to bring along her
parasol
. But she didn’t wish for it. She tipped her head back, relishing the warmth of the sun’s rays on her face and feeling a trifle rebellious in the act. Such a short time in this country, and already she was suffering beneath its influence. Madame Marchand had always scolded her when she forgot her
parasol
, saying it was a
faux pas
tantamount to forgetting one’s gloves. Véronique glanced down at her bare hands and wriggled her fingers, feeling positively scandalous. None of the women she’d seen in Willow Springs ever—