Remembered (38 page)

The name was familiar to him, but Jack scrambled to remember that particular leader’s distinction. “Wasn’t he married to a Marie . . .”

“Marie Antoinette,
oui
. Very good, Jack. You are familiar with my country’s history?”

He decided to come clean. “I only know a little. I’ve been reading up on you.”

Her laughter trickled over him. “I am most impressed, and honored that you would do such a thing.”

A tight switchback called for his undivided attention, and he turned his focus to the road ahead.

He felt Véronique tense beside him as the canyon to their right, on her side, opened wide into a yawning chasm that scooped deep into the mountain’s belly. The beauty took his breath away, and apparently hers too—telling by the ashen color of her face.

CHAPTER | THIRTY - ONE

J
ACK WATCHED HER
knuckles go white as she gripped the seat between them. Her breath went shallow. Perhaps he should have warned her, but he doubted whether that would have made any difference.

In the interest of keeping her dignity intact—and his pants clean—he attempted to renew the conversation. “So what is it about this Louis the Sixteenth that makes him stand out in your memory?”

She didn’t answer.

He turned and found her staring off into the chasm, her pallor dangerously pale.

“Véronique, look at me.”

Slowly, she did as he asked. Fear was imbedded in her eyes.

Another curve loomed ahead. He had plenty of room to negotiate it, but he couldn’t do that and see to her too—not if she reacted as she had the last time they’d faced a drop this sheer. The incline on the road was steep, and stopping wasn’t his first preference—not with the extra heavy load in the back. The horses were straining enough as it was.

The pending curve demanded his attention. Maybe if she were closer to him she wouldn’t be as frightened. He remembered that about his son. When Aaron had been scared of something and Jack had held him, it seemed all his tiny son’s fears had evaporated. What a feeling it had been to have that power to comfort.

“Vernie, I want you to move over beside me.” He thought for sure the nickname would get her.

But she didn’t budge. She started to look back to her right.

Jack sharpened his voice. “Véronique!”

She jumped.

“Move over beside me
now
.”

She scooted an inch or two, never letting go of the seat.

The road narrowed. “Closer.”

She moved another inch at best. And glanced
again
at the chasm.

Jack hadn’t had a problem with cursing in years, but a few insolent choices sprang to mind. He grabbed the reins with one hand and grabbed her with the other. If she were any closer now, he’d have to marry her.

“Hold on to me and close your eyes.”

Wordless, she looped one arm through his and gripped his vest with her other hand.

“Are your eyes closed?”

She nodded against his shoulder.

“Now tell me why Louis the Sixteenth is your favorite.”

She lifted her head.

“But tell me with your eyes closed.” He intentionally softened his voice. “And no peeking.”

The horses slowed, straining to negotiate the wagon around the curve. Jack knew they were tired and needed to rest. But first they had to get around this bend and over the ridge. He whipped the reins.

Véronique pressed her forehead into his shoulder, and he could feel the quick rise and fall of her chest.

After safely navigating the corner, he gently nudged her. “Louis the Sixteenth is your favorite because . . .”

“I did not say he was my favorite. He and his wife came to rather sad ends, in fact. Yet I admire their home . . . the Château de Versailles.”

“And what is . . . the Château de Versailles?”

He heard a small gasp and wasn’t sure if she was amused at his pronunciation, or if she was about to be sick. He braced himself just in case.

“The Château de Versailles was the residence of Louis the Sixteenth and Marie Antoinette. It is quite simply . . .
magnifique
.”

“You’ve seen this place. . . .”

“
Ah oui
. My
maman
and I accompanied Lord Marchand, our employer, to parliamentary gatherings there on a number of occasions.” Her death grip on his arm lessened a fraction. “I wandered the grounds with Christophe. He knew the palace well, as he had been there many times before me. He showed me all of the—” “Tell me again who this Christophe fella is?” The question was out before Jack had thought it through.

“Christophe is . . .” She hesitated. “Christophe is a dear friend . . . back in Paris. We grew up together, he and I.”

The pressure on Jack’s arm increased, and he sensed that Christophe, and whatever the man represented in Véronique’s life, wasn’t a place to go at the moment. “What did you like best about the chateau?”

She gave a sigh. “Where to begin? When first the carriage pulls up, you see gardens spreading out in all directions. They are exquisite. The Versailles gardeners are elite artists of their trade. Always before, the gardens I had seen were planted in rows, but not so here. The shrubberies are arranged in patterns, to create a design, of sorts. And the flowers . . .” She blew out a breath. “They are everywhere, in every color on the palette. My mother used to say it was a feast for the eyes, God’s way of nurturing the weary soul.”

She quieted, and Jack felt compelled to speak, remembering the day at the livery when Sampson had confided in him about her history. “I’ve wanted to say something before now but . . . I’m sorry you lost your mother. Was it long ago?” He felt the shake of her head.

“She died shortly before I left Paris.” Moments passed. “I remember our last visit to Versailles, not long before she grew ill.
Maman
finished with her duties for Lord Marchand and sought me out. Hand in hand, we walked the great expanse of the gardens” —her voice faltered—“all the way down to the Grand Canal.”

Jack nodded. “Is that where the ships come in?”

She giggled. “
Non
, not the kind of ships you are picturing, I would imagine. It is where Louis the Fourteenth hosted his boating parties. But these were small boats. My mother and I picnicked there by the canal that afternoon, the two of us. We feasted on fresh bread, wine, and cheese. I still remember the taste on my tongue. I only wish I’d known it would be our last time there. Perhaps I would have treasured it more.”

From the tenderness in her voice, Jack doubted that was possible. He wondered if she was aware of the way she caressed his arm as she spoke. He figured she wasn’t, but he could concentrate on little else.

He shifted in the seat, and her hand went still on his arm. “So is the house nice too?” He’d worded the question intentionally.

She swatted his arm. “The
palace
is also beyond compare. It is over two hundred years old. And yet it is more beautiful than ever. But the pinnacle, to me, is the long hallway lined with mirrors. I will never forget the first time I saw it. Lord Marchand instructed my mother and me to follow him. I remember because when we reached the closed doors, he bent down and told me to shut my eyes, that he had a surprise for me. And when I opened them, all that was before me was brilliance and sparkles.”

That didn’t sound like the actions of an employer to Jack, but more like those of a father. He spotted a place in the trail ahead where they could stop and rest Charlemagne and Napoleon. He guided the wagon over and set the brake.

Véronique gently disengaged herself from his arm and moved away. A shy smile turned her mouth. “Thank you once again, Jack, for the skill you have of removing my mind from what is at hand. Do not think I am blind to it.”

He smiled at her phrasing. “My pleasure, Vernie.”

She shook her head. “You insist on using that name.”

“I like it. It suits your personality, in a way.”

“We both know that using that name suits your personality far more than mine.”

He laughed. “I’ll concede to that.” He held her waist as he lifted her down, and found himself none too eager to let go. She didn’t move either. “But know that when I use it, it’s meant in a kindly way. Endearing, if you will.”

She considered this for a moment, fingering the buttons on his chest. “If that is true, then use it as often as you desire.”

Over a lunch of corn bread and ham—courtesy of Mrs. Baird— Jack carefully broached the question lingering in his mind. “You’ve mentioned Lord Marchand before, along with a Francette. They were special people in your life?”

“
Oui
, Lord Marchand was my mother’s employer, and mine. Francette is his daughter to whom I was a companion since the age of five.”

As she described growing up in the Marchand household, things shifted into place for him. Véronique was far from the spoiled, rich daughter he’d first imagined, though it did sound as though all the privileges of that life and what it afforded had been hers. Which also explained the air she had about her at times. No wonder this territory seemed primitive to her. It was, by comparison.

He smiled as he watched her. He enjoyed the way she used her hands when she spoke, and if ever he wanted to quiet her down, he knew exactly what to do. Glancing at the position of the sun overhead and knowing the horses were well rested, he decided he needed to test that theory.

“But Francette and I were never close, not like you might think. Growing up, I had always wanted a sister. It did not matter to me whether she was older or younger. I simply—”

She stopped midsentence and stared at his hands covering hers. She lifted her eyes. “I am talking too much,
non
?”

“No, not at all. We just need to continue this conversation in the wagon.”

Two hours later they approached Sluice Box, a tiny mining town literally perched on the side of a mountain. As Jack stole a look at Véronique beside him in the wagon, he sensed he knew more about the inner workings of her thoughts than anyone he’d known besides Mary. He’d felt comfortable to comment or not, and she’d apparently felt the same. The comfortable silences with her had been as enjoyable as the conversation, and even a tad more restful.

He tipped his head back to take in the view. He’d never understood the draw of mining, but he certainly saw why a man would want to stake his roots in this area of the country. God had worked overtime on this part of creation.

The grayish-white mist ghosting the highest peaks in early morning had finally relinquished to the sun’s persistence, and its absence revealed the brilliant jagged heights of the uppermost summit. Jack wondered what it would be like to traverse those mountains in the full grip of winter. He thought of an article he’d read several years back about a party of travelers who had crossed the Sierra Nevadas in the winter. He shuddered remembering what they’d resorted to when they had become trapped by the weather and their food had run out.

Families traveling in his care had sometimes complained about the daily progress he demanded, but they had always appreciated reaching their destination before first snowfall. He’d never been one to take chances with the lives of others.

Nothing was that important.

Sluice Box was the tiniest town Jack had delivered to, but from the looks of the men spilling from tents pitched along the creek and from the saloon they’d just passed, Jack figured this was the roughest bunch they’d encountered so far. He reached for his rifle on the floor of the wagon and situated it against his thigh.

Picking out which of the three structures was the supply building was easy. The word
SUPLIES
had been painted in bold red letters over the doorway of the last building on the street. Whoever had written it apparently didn’t hold to the use of a proper shingle, or with learning how to spell.

Jack kept an eye on the road and the growing number of miners flocking to the street. They called out to Véronique, some making crude gestures he hoped she didn’t see. He unlocked the safety on his rifle. “We’re going to do this as fast as possible. I’ll unload the supplies and—”

“I will say nothing, I promise. But please, do not leave me, Jack. If you go inside the building, take me with you.”

He gritted his teeth at the fear in her voice, and for allowing this situation in the first place. He held himself responsible. “You’re not leaving this wagon, and I’m not going anywhere. Behind the seat is a blanket. Grab it and cover yourself with it.”

Without question, she did as he asked.

“Here, take this.” He slipped his Schofield revolver into her lap. “It’s loaded, and the safety is off.”

She stared at the gun nesting in the folds of the blanket as though it were a snake. “But you have not yet taught me how to shoot it.”

“I know, and chances are you won’t have to today. All you have to know for now is to point and pull the trigger. But don’t do
anything
without my signal. You understand?”

She nodded.

“Now take hold of the handle and let it rest in your lap where they can see it.” It would’ve been safer for him to leave her outside of town than to bring her into this.

He couldn’t believe his next thought—he saw no signs of a brothel anywhere. And for once, he found that discovery disturbing.

The single street running through town was unusually narrow. The left side boasted what little commerce Sluice Box offered, its few buildings crammed against the wall of the mountain. Tents and makeshift shelters dotted the other side, which was the bank of a creek running high with winter melt-off. There was no way to head the wagon in the opposite direction in a single turn. It would take a series of maneuvers, which meant he couldn’t do it quickly.

As they neared the supply building, a man stepped out. He was shorter than Jack, but his upper body was twice as thick. He looked like a tree trunk with legs.

He peered up. “Jack Brennan?”

Jack nodded, pulling back on the reins. He set the brake and kept his rifle in clear view. “Sol Leevy?”

Intended or not, the fella gave off an air of indifference. According to Hochstetler’s records, Leevy ran both the mine and the supply store. And none too well from the looks of things.