Remembered (46 page)

“Thank you for today, Jack. For going with me to Casaroja, and for another lesson in shooting.”

He stopped beside her door, took her room key from her hand, and inserted it into the lock. “Pleasure was all mine. You’ve come a long way since that day at Jenny’s Draw.” He laughed, remembering. “When you about scared the livin’ daylights out of Scoggins,
and
me!”

She giggled. “I believe I scared myself as well.”

He pulled his own key from his pocket. He’d never expected to be in a relationship like this again, and he certainly hadn’t seen Mademoiselle Véronique Girard coming.

He noticed her watching him. “What is it?” he whispered.

“You have your key at the ready, and I am given to wondering . . . which room is yours.”

“You mean you don’t know?”

She shook her head.

“Lilly didn’t tell you?”

Question slipped into her expression.

Slowly, he looked at the door behind him, directly across from hers.

Her gaze trailed his. Her eyes widened. “
Non
, it cannot be.”

“Oui,”
he whispered, smiling. “I’m afraid it is.”

“All this time, you have been across the hall from me. And yet you said nothing?”

Lacking adequate response, Jack shrugged and leaned down to kiss her cheek. At the last second she turned into his kiss and his lips brushed the edge of her mouth. Tempted to act on her encouragement, he stepped back. “Good night, Vernie. I hope you sleep well.”

She scoffed and muttered something beneath her breath.

Jack slid his key into his own lock, feeling unexpected satisfaction at the exasperation in her tone. “Excuse me? I didn’t quite catch that.”

Her eyes narrowed the slightest bit. “I said . . . I think I will have much difficulty going to sleep now, imagining you are so close.”

Laughing softly, he winked and nodded to her doorknob. “Best keep that locked tonight, would you please?”

Smiling, she closed her door.

Several seconds passed before Jack heard the lock slip firmly into place.

————

The mercantile bustled with Saturday shoppers. When Véronique saw the number of people pressing toward the front counter, it was clear she would have to wait her turn in line. The first day of July had arrived, and the heat of summer sauntered through the open doors of the mercantile, seeming bent on making itself at home.

The manner in which Madame Hochstetler had treated her when she ordered the paints nearly two months ago still grated on her nerves. But her excitement over the thought of painting again—or at least trying to paint—overshadowed her frustration with the woman.

As she waited her turn, Véronique noticed the other patron’s stares.

The townsfolk in Willow Springs had proven kind and welcoming, and the attention they continued to show her wasn’t bothersome. From a young age, she’d grown accustomed to people’s attentiveness. Having lived and traveled with the Marchands meant you were on stage every time you walked out the door, or whenever someone walked in.

Thoughts of Jack trekking into the mountains made her wish she could have gone with him that morning on his supply runs. Yet for the first time, she didn’t have that niggling feeling of being left behind that had so often accompanied his departures on these extended trips.

But come Tuesday, she would be ready for his return. Already they had plans to go to Casaroja to spend the afternoon and evening with Miss Maudie. Jack had seemed rather secretive about it, and she’d plied Miss Maudie for information on her last visit. But the woman could maintain her silence when she wanted to.

Véronique felt a sharp tug on her bustle and spun to discover a woman and child in queue behind her.

“I’m so sorry, miss.” The woman gave a stern look to the little girl attempting to hide in the folds of her skirt. “My daughter’s had her eye on your dress since the moment we walked in. It’s very pretty, if you don’t mind my saying.”

“Thank you, madame. Your sweet daughter has done no harm.” Véronique smoothed a hand over the rich plum-colored jacket and skirt and remembered the night she’d first worn it—to a parliamentary prayer vigil at the Cathédrale Notre Dame, with Christophe. Oh, how she wished Christophe would write, assuring her of his wellbeing, and that of Lord Marchand.

“I’m Susanna Rawlings, and this is Jenny, my youngest. I own the bakery here in town.”

Véronique curtsied. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Madame Rawlings, and that of your daughter. My name is Mademoiselle Véronique Girard.”

“Oh, I know who you are, Miss Girard. I don’t expect there’s anyone in Willow Springs who doesn’t know that by now.”

Looking down, Véronique noticed the enraptured expression on the girl’s impish face. She bent down to be at eye level with her, but the dark-haired child once again sought the gathers of her mother’s skirt.

“
Ma chérie
, would you like to touch the flowers?” Véronique kept her voice hushed and ran a finger over the appliqués on her jacket. “They are made of velvet and are very soft,
non
?”

The child peered up at her mother, who nodded her approval. Little Jenny took a cautious step forward. Stretching out a tiny hand, she gently touched the beaded center of one of the flowers and giggled.

Véronique smiled, about to encourage her to do it again when she spotted Madame Hochstetler some distance down the counter. If the older woman’s expression was any indication, she was not having a pleasant day. Véronique didn’t wish the woman ill—not severely anyway, any minor malady would do—as long as someone else waited on her when the time came.

She stifled a giggle at the
impolie
thought, chiding herself. She was becoming more like the Americans by the day!

Madame Hochstetler’s eyes locked with hers, and narrowed.

The woman pushed her way down the aisle in Véronique’s direction, the glare on her face not the least promising.

If Madame Hochstetler was coming to tell her that her paints were not in, Véronique was going to have to be more firm with her. This after the woman had given her such a difficult time upon ordering,
and
with Véronique already having paid the bill in its entirety.

Madame Hochstetler’s face became an even deeper shade of
rouge
than the apron she wore, and there was now no question in Véronique’s mind that
she
was the object of Mrs. Hochstetler’s wrath.

“Miss Girard!”

Startled, Véronique took a step back. “Madame Hochstetler, good day to you. I am here to see about—”

“Did I or did I not tell you that all those fancy paints you ordered were specialty items and couldn’t be returned?” The woman braced her hands on her hips, standing much closer than was proper, or necessary.

The thrum of conversation in the mercantile dropped a level.

A thrush of heat spiraled up Véronique’s chest and into her throat. How dare this woman speak to her in such a manner! And in public, no less! Véronique glanced about the crowded room. Most of the people she didn’t know, but some were familiar to her.

And all of them were watching.

She purposefully kept her voice low, hoping to encourage Madame Hochstetler to do the same. “
Oui
, madame, you did explain this to me this, and I—”

“Did you have a problem understandin’ my English?”

Véronique tensed at the condescension thickening the woman’s tone. “No, madame. I speak your language quite well.”
Better than you, in fact
. “Has the order we are speaking of arrived yet?”

“Oh, it’s arrived all right, missy, but your second bank draft wasn’t worth the paper it was printed on. So now my husband and I are stuck with a mess of paints we have to pay for. What do you say to that?”

Whispers skittered through the aisles.

Véronique felt the weight of the stares and sensed Madame Rawlings and her daughter, Jenny, inching back a step. “I am confident this error can be corrected, Madame Hochstetler. I will contact the bank immediately and will make certain you receive your payment.” Heart pounding, she pulled herself up to her full height. “I would appreciate you holding my order until I return.”

Madame Hochstetler scoffed. “Hold it?! What else am I going to do with it? As if anybody else in this town has the time to sit around and laze in that fashion. Or the money to throw away on such foolishness!”

Véronique clenched her jaw tight, no longer afraid of what she might say, because there was no possible way she could speak at all. Her entire body shook. She kept her eyes lowered as she picked her way through the crowded aisles.
“Pardonnez-moi, s’il vous plaît.”

Behind her, Madame Hochstetler’s diatribe continued. It mingled with the murmured whispers of the other patrons and stirred a painful emotion in the pit of her stomach. She had nothing to be ashamed of. She had done nothing wrong.

So why did she feel so utterly disgraced?

For a third time, Véronique knocked on the double doors of the bank, ignoring the stares of passersby. She leaned closer to the window and tried to see inside. Seconds later, the door opened.

A bank clerk she recognized peered from around the corner. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but we’re not open for business today.”

“
Oui
, I understand. But I am in dire need of speaking to Monsieur Gunter, if he is here.” She sensed the woman’s hesitation and briefly explained her situation. “I will only take a moment of his time, I assure you. And I would be most grateful.”

“Wait here, please. I’ll see if he’s available.” The clerk returned minutes later. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll escort you to his office.”

Once Véronique was inside, the young woman bolted the door behind them.

Véronique appreciated the relative privacy the bank offered in comparison to the humiliation she’d endured moments ago at the mercantile. Hands shaking, she could still feel the scorching stares of Madame Hochstetler and her customers.

As she’d walked out of the store, she couldn’t escape her shortness of breath, or that split second sense of falling with no forewarning. Covering the brief distance to the bank, she’d felt a cloud of shame hovering over her.

She followed the woman through the maze of desks to the bank manager’s office.

Monsieur Gunter had assisted with her account when she first arrived in Willow Springs and had appeared quite impressed with the amount of money deposited and awaiting her discretion. When she had informed him of the deposit amounts he could expect in the future, according to Lord Marchand’s missive she presented him, Monsieur Gunter’s behavior had become positively gleeful. Lord Marchand’s money had always carried a certain . . . influence.

But when Véronique entered Monsieur Gunter’s office, a definite absence of glee defined the man’s expression.

He rose from the chair behind his desk. “Mademoiselle Girard, how nice to see you again.”

She curtsied and took the seat he indicated. “I appreciate you meeting with me, Monsieur Gunter. Especially on a Saturday.”

“By all means. We have appreciated your business, mademoiselle.”

Noticing his use of past tense, and how he remained standing, caution rose within. Véronique responded with a smile, but the gesture only went surface deep. The tick of a clock somewhere behind her counted off the seconds.

“Monsieur Gunter, moments ago I learned from Madame Hochstetler that my bank draft was returned to her . . . unpaid.”

He nodded, his expression tentative. “Would you please allow me to come directly to the point?”

“
Oui
, I would prefer it.”

“Your account with us is overdrawn, mademoiselle.”

She shook her head. “How is that possible? I do not understand.”

“What this means is that you have written bank drafts in an amount that exceeds—”

“I am aware of the meaning of the word ‘overdrawn,’ monsieur.” She softened her tone. “What I do not understand is how this has occurred. Have you not credited the deposits from Lord Grégoire Marchand as I instructed?”

Monsieur Gunter studied the top of his desk. “Yes, ma’am, we have been depositing them as they have arrived. But all along your expenditures have come very close to depleting your funds, and then the deposit due this previous week, following the normal pattern, was never presented to the bank in New York. As recently as yesterday and again this morning, a number of bank drafts, written in your hand, were presented. Cumulatively, they have exhausted your funds, and quite beyond that I’m afraid.”

She gripped the arm of her chair, and a similar feeling to that of peering down into a canyon swept through her. She suddenly wished Jack were there, then thought better of it. She wouldn’t want him seeing her in this situation.

“Mademoiselle Girard, I wish it did not befall me to apprise you of this news. Know that I offer my deepest—”

She rose from her chair. “This situation can be easily corrected if you will but contact the depository in Paris. Surely you still have the address.” Compassion moved into his expression, causing her to feel even more vulnerable. “Please, monsieur . . . would you check your files?”

Monsieur Gunter slowly opened a folder on top of his desk and withdrew a piece of paper. He laid it on the dark mahogany wood and gently nudged it forward. “I admit, mademoiselle, contacting the depository was indeed my plan. However, we received a telegram first thing this morning from the bank in New York City. I sent word to you at the hotel not even an hour ago, requesting an appointment with you . . . to discuss its contents.”

Véronique caught the depository’s name typed at the top of the telegram, and a cold knot of fear twisted her stomach. Her eyes moved across the page. Her vision blurred, and something inside her gave way.

Succinct in content, the dispatch stated that no future deposits would be issued to the account holdings of one Mademoiselle Véronique Girard—due to the recent death of Lord Grégoire Marchand. She searched the document for the name of the individual from whom the message had originated in Paris.

And when she found it, what remained of her fragile fortitude crumbled.

Looking at Monsieur Gunter became an impossible task. She thought of Lord Marchand, of his graciousness and generosity. Of how he had fulfilled her mother’s wishes, at great cost to himself and showing personal favor to her.