Remembered (44 page)

Miss Maudie caught her hand. A mischievous look filled the woman’s eyes. “I had myself a visitor a while back, and we took ourselves a walk outside. But I didn’t have need of this chair at all when he was here, I’m tellin’ you. He just scooped me up and carried me in his arms. And talked we did, for a long while. It was a pleasure.” With a deep sigh, Miss Maudie made a show of fanning herself. “Handsomest man he was, and with a heart as gracious as ever beat in a man’s chest.” She pulled Véronique closer, failing to stifle her giggle. “And that chest was a mite broad, and well-muscled too, if I might add.”

“Miss Maudie!” Véronique playfully patted her hand, having quickly caught on to the woman’s antics, and to whom she was referring. “Might I ask what you and . . . this gentleman discussed during your walk?”

“Of course you can, my dear. I won’t be tellin’ you, but you can surely ask.”

A while later, situated beside Miss Maudie in her wheelchair, and beneath the welcome shade of a cottonwood, Véronique finished reading the next letter and tucked it back inside the envelope.

“That was delightful, Miss Girard. The way your father describes what he’s seen on his journeys . . . It’s like I’m there alongside him, seein’ it all for myself. And how he described that avalanche.” She rubbed her arms in a mock shiver. “I was for certain the snow would be comin’ down upon me any minute.”

Miss Maudie’s tinkling laughter reminded Véronique of the clustered bells that adorned the harnesses of Lord Marchand’s Percherons in winter. Thinking of her former employer, she quickly prayed for his health, and just as swiftly sifted her prayer free of the selfishness underlying it. Yet she couldn’t help but wonder—if anything happened to him, what would happen to her?

“What a treasure these letters must have been to your mother, child. And to you. Do you have time to read another?”

Véronique stared at the last envelope in her lap. “
Oui
, this is the final letter my father wrote, so it will be our last . . . for today.” She hesitated, wanting to phrase her next sentence with as carefree an air as possible. “I can bring the earlier ones when I come again, if that would be pleasing to you.”

Miss Maudie’s eyes softened. “I can’t be tellin’ you how pleasin’ that would be for me, child.” Her gaze wandered over their surroundings. She sighed deeply. “It’s been lonely for me in recent years. I find myself with time to brood . . . and think about the past. Not a good thing, my dear.” She started to speak, then stopped. “I never married, Miss Girard. I had the opportunity . . . once, but my father didn’t consider the man worthy of my hand. And truth be told, I didn’t either.”

Véronique heard the loneliness in Miss Maudie’s voice, and wished it hadn’t taken her so long to make the trip to Casaroja.

Maudie smiled and shook her head. “He was a rougher sort, ya know—didn’t have the smooth manners and way of conversin’ that was accepted in my circle.” She lowered her eyes. “I don’t know why I tell you all this now, Miss Girard. I guess what I’m tryin’ to say is that I find it easy to be in your company. I enjoy our conversations and would welcome them anytime.” She raised a stately brow. “If you can abide an old woman’s ramblin’s.”

Véronique smiled, knowing Jack would be pleased beyond words. “I would do more than abide them, Miss Maudie. I would cherish them.”

“You do my heart good, Miss Girard. Now . . .” She resituated herself in the wheelchair. “How about that last letter.”

Véronique untucked the flap of the envelope and pulled out the familiar white pages. But another piece of paper fell into her lap. She picked it up, recognizing the soft
lavande
of the stationery. It was from her mother’s desk.

She turned it in her hand, her heart beating faster.

“Take them. Read them, ma chérie.”
The words came back with such clarity and force that her mother’s request suddenly sounded more like a warning instead of a whispered plea.

Véronique opened her mother’s letter and read the first sentence.

Her chest tightened. Her hands shook. Her mother’s handwriting wasn’t the artistic swirls and loops she remembered from younger days, but neither was it the arthritic scrawl that had accompanied the last days of her life.

Her mother had penned this before the final stages of her illness. Yet she had said nothing.

“My dear, what is it?” Miss Maudie leaned forward in her wheelchair.

Véronique swallowed. “It is a letter from my mother.” She read the first paragraph, and the next, and suddenly felt ill. The air squeezed from her lungs.

“Miss Girard! Are you all right? Should I be callin’ for Claire or Thomas?”

Véronique waved a hand, declining the offer.
“Non, merci.”
But it would help if she could breathe. She pulled in air and let it out slowly. Then repeated the act. It felt as though the world had shifted on its axis.

And it had, for her.

CHAPTER | THIRTY - SIX

M
R.
C
LAYTON GREETED
Jack at the door of the title and deed office, his hand outstretched. “Congratulations, Mr.

Brennan. I had a feeling things would work out favorably for you.”

As the man pumped Jack’s hand, Jack eyed him, confused. “There must be some mistake, sir. I’m just stopping by to check on my bid. To see if you’ve heard anything back yet.”

“Your bid has been accepted, Mr. Brennan. The land is yours.” Clayton stopped abruptly. His mouth fell open. “I thought my secretary sent word to you.”

“No, sir.” Jack glanced at her vacant desk. “I received a note at the hotel saying you wanted to see me.” Then it hit him. “I haven’t had my interview with the owner yet.”

A smile crept over Mr. Clayton’s face. “Actually, Mr. Brennan, you have.” He waved Jack into his office. “We need to talk.” Clayton closed the door and sat down behind his desk.

Jack claimed the chair on the opposite side. “Are you telling me I had my interview with the owner and didn’t know it?”

“What I’m saying, Mr. Brennan, is that the owner had a conversation with you in recent weeks and has approved your offer.” Clayton leaned forward. “There’s not much more I can tell you, I’m afraid.”

Jack scoured his memory for conversations he’d had in the past few weeks, trying to pinpoint people he had spoken with who could be the owner of the property. He’d met every vendor in Willow Springs during that time, plus people in town, at church, guests at the hotel. Not to mention people in nearly every mining town in the area. There was no way to narrow it down.

“Mr. Brennan, I’d encourage you to simply accept your good fortune and move on. Don’t try to piece it together. Put your efforts toward getting that cabin built before winter.”

Jack let it sink in. He could hardly believe it. After so many years he was finally going to build his own home on his own land, and it would be exactly as he’d dreamed in younger years. Thoughts of Mary and Aaron rose in his memory. Well, not exactly as he’d dreamed.

He stood and stretched out his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Clayton.

When would you like the money?”

“No time like the present, Mr. Brennan. As soon as you return, we can sign the papers and make if official.”

Jack smiled, already at the door. “I’ll be back within the hour.”

————

That evening, Jack took the hotel stairs by twos up to the third floor. He reached the landing, heart pounding, and headed toward Véronique’s door. Everything was right with the world. He’d signed the contract with Mr. Clayton and paid the money. The land was his. He’d visited the mercantile earlier that afternoon and ordered the tools he needed to get started on his cabin. He’d start cutting trees and preparing the logs as soon as possible.

And he already had a neighbor to help him. As Jack had suspected that day while at the Jennings’s home, their land shared a property line with his. Once Larson Jennings learned that Jack had put a bid down, he had offered to help him build. Jack couldn’t think of better neighbors.

He also couldn’t stop thinking of Véronique, and couldn’t wait to tell her about the land.

Throughout the day his thoughts had returned to her. He hoped her visit with Miss Maudie went well. When she’d told him she was headed out there, he’d sensed she was nervous about it. But he knew both of those women and was certain they would get along grandly, as his grandmother used to say.

He knocked on her door. And knocked again.

A shuffling noise sounded from within, and the door slowly opened. “I just stopped by to—” He stepped closer. “Vernie, what’s wrong?”

She shook her head and started crying. Or crying
again
, from the looks of things.
“J’ai trouvé une lettre.”
The words tumbled out. “
C’est de ma maman. Elle l’a écrit avant qu’elle est morte et
—”

“Slow down, honey.” He cradled the side of her face and wiped her tears. “I don’t understand. I’m sorry.”

Véronique took a deep breath and let it out. “I found a letter . . . from my
maman
. She wrote it before she died.” She shuddered as her eyes slipped closed. “It wasn’t my
papa
, Jack. It was her,” she whispered. “It was
her
decision. Not his.”

Emotion tightened Jack’s throat as the possibility of what she was saying took hold. He pulled her to him. She slipped her arms around his waist and pressed close. The dampness of her tears soaked through his shirt.

He kissed the crown of her head and smoothed her hair. “What does the letter say?”

She walked to the bed and returned with the letter in her hand.

Jack took it from her, then smiled softly. “Vernie, I can’t read this. Are you able to read it to me?”

She looked at the letter, then at him. “
Oui
. Do you have time?”

Jack stepped close and tipped her chin. He kissed her forehead, aware of how she moved toward him. “I have as long as you’d like, Vernie.”

She sat down on the bed and indicated for him to take the chair by the desk. Rethinking the situation, he walked back to the bedroom door and drew it fully open, then claimed the chair beside her.

She massaged her forehead and briefly squinted. “I may need to stop, on occasion.”

He covered her hand, wishing he could do or say something to take away her pain. “Take your time.”

“‘My dearest Véronique, I have always lacked courage, and I fear that even now I fail to possess the quality of strength to speak these words to you before—” ’ Her voice caught. She cleared her throat. “‘Before I depart. If it lends the least comfort, and if it aids you in finding mercy to forgive me, please know that what I did—” ’ Vernie pressed her lips together. “‘I did with the conviction that it was best for you, however misplaced my intentions.

“‘Your father is a good man, and if one weakness were to be assigned to him, it would be in his believing that I possessed a strength I never did.” ’

Jack watched her face as she read. From what she’d told him about her mother, he could picture a woman, an older version of the one before him, sitting at an ornate desk, penning this letter.

“‘When I was by your father’s side, I was the woman I always wanted to be. Not the woman I truly am.” ’ Véronique paused. “‘Your father and I dreamed of having a different life, far away from Paris and the conflicts here, in a place where greater opportunity would abound for our family, and for you. Your father paved the way for that dream, and my deepest regret will always be not taking you and leaving with him when he left.

“‘But I convinced him that it would be best if he went ahead and prepared a place for us, and then we would join him. Looking back on that decision now . . . and on myself with the clarity of passing years, I realize it was fear that bartered that negotiation. Fear of uncertainty, fear of taking a step into the unknown when what I had here was firm and safe and familiar. Which leads me to the purpose of this letter.” ’

Véronique’s eyes skimmed across the page, and her tears renewed. Jack bowed his head and prayed for her, for her mother, though she was gone, and for her father—wherever he was. Jack hadn’t realized it until then, but as his feelings for Véronique had deepened, so had his resentment toward Pierre Gustave Girard.

Now he felt a kinship with the man—they’d both lost a wife and child.

The stationery crinkled in her hand. “‘Lord Marchand is acting on my wishes, and I have invoked his unwavering integrity to see to your safety and well-being, and to the arrangements for your journey to the Americas. Even now fear grips me as I think of sending you down a path I lacked the fortitude and courage to take. But even more, I fear what you will think of me when you discover the truth.” ’ The last word came out in a rough whisper, and Jack sensed Véronique’s anger. And her mother’s regret.

“‘Your father did send for us, my darling, many years ago. In my response to him I—” ’ Véronique read on silently, shaking her head, and then continued. “‘I planted a thought that I knew his loneliness would nurture. I told him that while I loved him still, I had moved on with my life, for your sake—for both our sakes—and that we had found a home, and a solace, with Lord Marchand.” ’

After a long moment, she continued. “‘Know that I will be with you on that ship. I will be with you as you travel. And if I am able, and if God is willing, you will feel my continued love and presence.” ’

She lowered the page. “I
have
felt it, Jack. In this very room.”

He listened as she told him about the scent of white roses that had blanketed the room the morning he’d picked her up at the hotel three weeks ago. He was sorry he’d interrupted that moment, but noted that her attention had returned to the letter, so he saved his apology for later.

“‘It strikes me as odd when I think of it now, but this time I am the one leaving first to prepare a home for us. I’ll be waiting for you, Véronique. I’ll be waiting for you both.” ’ She lowered her hand to her lap, looking spent and defeated. “And she signs the letter as my father signed all of his, “‘My deepest love always, until we are joined again.” ’

What could he say in light of this? Jack gently slipped the letter from her hand and stared at the words. Gradually he looked back at her. “Is there any question in your mind that she loved you?”