Remembered (3 page)

He kept his focus trained ahead.

The seriousness in his expression caused her smile to fade. “Has something happened?”

He aided her ascent into the carriage, climbed in beside her, and rapped the side of the door; the driver responded.

Véronique wanted to press the matter but held her tongue. Pressuring Christophe had never met with success. Quite the opposite, in fact.

The driver merged the carriage onto a main thoroughfare and chose an avenue running adjacent to the Musée du Louvre and the Seine. The river arched through the center of town, its dark waters murky and pungent from the daily deluge of rituals from the city’s inhabitants.

Véronique pushed back the velvet curtain from the window to allow movement of air within the carriage, aware of the shadow stealing across Christophe’s face.

He leaned forward and rested his forearms on his thighs. “There are things I must say to you, and I ask that you allow me due course,
ma chérie
, before you offer response.” He glanced back at her. “Or I fear I will not be able to complete my task.”

His tone held unaccustomed solemnity, which provided ample motivation to fulfill his request. Wordless, Véronique nodded.

“Within hours Emperor Napoleon is to declare war on Prussia. Lord Marchand has secretly received word that Prussia is mobilizing an army even now. No doubt they’re finding Spain a willing alliance. Lord Marchand—” The carriage came to an abrupt halt. Christophe glanced out the window before continuing, his voice lowered. “Lord Marchand predicts the dispute will be far reaching. Already our
patron
has made plans to depart for Brussels within the week, and . . . I am to accompany him. His entire family will be journeying with him as well.”

Suddenly the reason behind Christophe’s reticence became clear. She gently touched his arm. “I don’t want to leave Paris, Christophe, now of all times. But if—” The carriage jolted forward, and resumed its pace. “But if Brussels is where the family must go, then I’ll happily accompany Madame Marchand. I’m certain it won’t be for long, and that this . . . blow our country has suffered will be quickly resolved.”

He nodded just as the carriage jolted forward, then resumed its pace.

The look he gave her made her feel like a naïve schoolgirl. “It’s not that simple, Véronique, for many reasons.”

The lines of his brow deepened, and she sought to ease his worry.

“I’ll be fine. The trip to Brussels might even be good for me. And once we return everything will be—”

“Madame Marchand has informed our
patron
that she has no plans for you to accompany her.”

His voice came out flat and final, and Véronique felt as though someone had suddenly cinched her corset two sizes smaller. She tried to draw breath. “But I . . . I don’t understand.” She shook her head. “I’m . . . her companion.”

Christophe’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve been informed that . . . Madame Marchand has already arranged for a new companion to escort her to Brussels.”

Véronique moved her lips but no words would come.

The carriage turned onto the cobbled road leading to the Marchand estate.

The discovery of her reduced rank—whatever her position might be—encouraged the emotion to rise in her throat. Véronique swallowed against the knot of anger and tears, and struggled to find the positive in this situation, just as her mother would have urged her to do. “Am I to assume that the remaining staff will stay and maintain the home’s readiness for the Marchands’ return?”

He didn’t answer. His lips formed a tight line.

“Christophe,” she whispered, growing more unsettled by the second. “We have always been honest with each other. Tell me what my new position is.”

Staring at the floor of the carriage, he exhaled an audible breath. “After this week, you will . . . no longer be employed within the Marchand household. He has secured a position for you in the household of Lord Descantes, and they depart for England straightaway.”

When summoned to Lord Marchand’s private study that same hour, Véronique gathered her remaining nerve and willed the frenetic pace of her heart to lessen. She always found the formal nature of Lord Marchand’s study intimidating, and the latching of the oversized door behind her compounded her unease.

She spotted Christophe standing by the far window, his back to her. Lord Marchand had requested to meet with him first, and relief filled her, gathering that Christophe would remain for her meeting as well.

“
Bonjour
, Mademoiselle Girard.” Standing behind his desk, Lord Marchand motioned for her to sit in one of the mahogany gondola chairs opposite him.

She paused long enough to curtsy, and then chose the seat that put her in Christophe’s direct line of vision. If only he would turn around.

Lord Marchand said nothing for a moment, his hesitance giving her the impression that what he was about to say required great effort. “Monsieur Charvet has informed me that the two of you have spoken, Mademoiselle Girard. And that you are aware of the change in circumstances.”

She nodded, wishing Christophe would look at her.

“Before I continue, let me say that it was of utmost concern to me to locate a position for you that would reflect my appreciation for your years of excellent service, mademoiselle.” Regret flickered across Lord Marchand’s face. “As well as for your mother’s,” he added with surprising tenderness. “Therefore, my request that you be placed with Lord Descantes’ family.”

“
Merci beaucoup
, Lord Marchand.” She coerced a smile, glad that Christophe had confided to her about the Descantes family in the carriage earlier. She remembered having met the couple at a formal dinner once. Lord Descantes, severe in his countenance, was in fact most kind, and his wife his equal in that regard. “I’m greatly indebted to you for using your influence for my benefit.”

Lord Marchand held up a hand. “It is not only my influence that gained you the position, but also Monsieur Charvet’s. He put his own reputation on the line when he recommended you. You may be naïve to the ways of parliament, but no doubt you are aware of agreements made between alliances.”

She nodded.

“Negotiations are reached, deals are struck and sealed, all with a single handshake. Nothing more. The integrity of a man’s word is the binding force of that contract. Nothing need be written because the man’s reputation, the man himself, is the guarantee. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

“Certainly, your lordship,” she answered. Whatever had transpired, the position with the Descantes family would be binding. If she chose not to work for them, there would be no other position for her, and it would compromise both Lord Marchand’s and Christophe’s reputations.

“You’re a bright young woman, Mademoiselle Girard. It is one of the reasons I handpicked you to be companion to my daughter all those years ago. Francette never had much initiative on her own. I think it partly due to the loss of her mother at such a young age, but I also blame myself. As her only parent, I gave her too much, too easily.”

Véronique had long considered this to be true, but of course had never voiced the thought.

“So I sought to locate a companion who would challenge my daughter, inspire her by example.” Lord Marchand’s smile held endearment. “And I did not have to look far, for I found that child living right here in my own home. You did those things for Francette.” A knowing look moved over his face. “You did what I never could.”

Lord Marchand’s last phrase, coupled with something in his expression, made Véronique sit straighter in her chair. “Lord Marchand, I—”

She fell silent at the look he gave her.

“Véronique . . .” A sigh escaped him. His expression became aggrieved. “I would ask that you not interrupt me, mademoiselle, as I lay out the circumstances to you.”

Surprised by his informal address and reminded of her place in this home, Véronique nodded, wordless. Twice in one day she had received such an admonishment.

“As Monsieur Charvet informed you earlier today, you do indeed have a position with the Descantes. You will serve as tutor and companion to each of their four daughters. But what he did not know, and what I intentionally withheld from him, is that the family will not be traveling to England.”

He paused, and the moment seemed to pause with him.

Véronique stared across the desk at this man she’d known all her life, and yet had never
really
known. Christophe turned, drawing her attention, and the look in his eyes communicated one single overriding emotion—anger.

Queasiness slithered through her midsection. The air in the study suddenly grew thick and moist.

“Your
mère
and I . . .” Lord Marchand kept his gaze confined to the ornate desk behind which he sat. “We often conversed late in the evenings, here in this room. Over the years, we became . . . friends. Nothing beyond that,” he added quickly, as though reading Véronique’s thoughts. “But I grew to care very deeply about your mother. She loved you more than her own life, Véronique. She shared with me her dreams for you, her hopes. And toward the end . . . her regrets. I made your mother a promise before she died.”

Véronique found it difficult to breathe, much less remain seated. Her mother’s last request played over in her mind.
“I want you to do what I never could.”

She rose slowly, fisting her hands to ease their shaking. She heard herself asking a question, while somehow already knowing the answer. “To what destination will the Descantes be traveling?”

Lord Marchand rose and came around to her side of the desk. So close, yet maintaining a respectful distance. “They are bound for the Americas,
ma chérie
. They leave for Italy one week hence, and you are to accompany them. Lord Descantes will conduct parliamentary business there for some weeks—perhaps longer, and then you will travel with them to the Americas, to a place by the name of New York City. When you arrive, your service to the Descantes family will be concluded, and someone will meet you to take you the rest of the way.”

Véronique looked between Lord Marchand and Christophe, numb with shock, feeling betrayed and yet absurdly protected at the same time. “The . . . rest of the way?”

Christophe stepped closer. His eyes were bright with emotion. “You are strong,
ma petite
. Much stronger than you look, and far stronger than you consider yourself to be.”

She shook her head. That’s what her mother used to say. “I’m tired of being strong, Christophe.”

Lord Marchand’s gentle sigh drew her attention back. “Through a connection Lord Descantes has established, I have hired a gentleman who will meet you in New York City. I posted a missive with instructions to him this very morning. Lord Descantes will inform him of your date of arrival once that is determined.” A tender smile accentuated the traces of vanished youth about Lord Marchand’s eyes. “According to your mother’s wishes, and in keeping with my promise to her, this gentleman will accompany you to the Colorado Territory, to the last known whereabouts of your father—a town by the name of Willow Springs.”

CHAPTER | ONE

Near Big Hill, Oregon Trail
March 1871

K
NEELING OVER A DESOLATE PATCH
of drought-ridden valley, Jack Brennan slipped off his hat and briefly closed his eyes. An early morning sun warmed his back and cast a long shadow over the familiar plot of earth. Slowly, reverently, he placed his right hand over the unmarked place.

Moments accumulated in the silence.

A zealous spring breeze swept fine granules of dust over and between his fingers. Without pretense of a marker, this unadorned spot in southeast Idaho held what had once meant everything to him.

He studied the grave that cradled the bodies of his wife and their only child and welcomed the haze of memories that always huddled close when he came back to this place. The place where it had happened. The memories were brief in the reliving, and yet those precious recollections were what had sustained him through his hardest times.

It had taken years, but healing had come. Finally, and completely.

Gradually his gaze was drawn to the lone wild flower sprouting up right where a headstone might have been placed. Braving the desolate landscape, the delicate petals of the yellow owl’s-clover bloom bore the palest shade of its name. Its leaves were sticky to the touch and edged in a fine fur that gave the plant a grayish color. The slender flower lifted heavenward, bespeaking courage and a persistence not easily worn down.

An apt flower to be covering his Mary’s grave.

Jack let out a held breath and surveyed the western horizon, far in the distance, where the brown plains blurred with the gauzy blue of sky. “This will be my last visit here, Mary.” He spoke quietly, relatively certain she could hear him and knowing that he needed to get these things said. One thing he was sure of—if Mary
was
listening, it was from somewhere other than beneath his feet. Despite knowing that, something had compelled him to return here year after year.

He knew this location as sure as he knew every trail, hill, creek, and riverbed—both dry and running—from here to California and on up into Oregon. He’d traveled the fifteen hundred mile stretch from Missouri to the western territories so many times he didn’t feel at home anymore unless he was on the move. Or at least that’s how it used to be.

Over time, things had changed.
He
had changed.

In the past thirteen springs of guiding wagons west, he’d made camp at this spot each time, the families traveling under the care of his leadership never having been the wiser. Grief was a private thing. Not something to be hoarded and turned into a shrine as he’d seen others do when they lost a loved one, but rather a formidable adversary to be met head on, without hesitation and with a due amount of respect. Otherwise a man might never find his way through to the other side, where grief became less an enemy and more a venerated, even trusted, teacher.

He scooped up a fistful of dirt and let it sift through his fingers.

Slowly, he stood. “For years, Mary, not a day passed but what you didn’t occupy my every thought. I’d be wishing I could hold you close again, that we could . . . make love just once more, like we did the night we made our son.” He shifted, and sighed. If not for the faded daguerreotype buried deep in his saddlebag, her exact features might be lost to him now. Time had a way of erasing even that which at one time seemed unforgettable.