Remembered (10 page)

“You have been given a gift,
ma petite
, and there will come a time when you will want these again. If you leave them here, I fear their ill fate will be secured.”

She took the rolled canvases from him and laid them aside. “I have no further need of these, Christophe. We both know what low opinion Monsieur Touvliér has of my talent. I’m fooling myself to think I could ever—”

“You are fooling yourself, Véronique, to believe one person’s word over the passion you feel inside when you cradle the brush in your hand. Or when you capture a piece of time and history in your perspective and make it your own.” He shook his head, his voice softening. “Do not so hastily discard a dream for one man’s opinion,
ma petite
. After all, for whatever else he may be, Monsieur Touvliér is just that . . . one man.”

Véronique doubted whether the painting supplies had fared well in the journey overseas, or in this arid clime. She hadn’t attempted to paint in over a year, but she had tried her hand at sketching a few weeks back.

Nothing.

Everything she’d drawn had been disproportionate to everything else. Or else lacked any sense of life or movement—or originality. What gifts God had so generously given her before, it would seem He had recalled with equal completeness for some unknown reason.

Her gaze settled on the rocky clefts where deepening purples gave way to expanding darkness. Did anything remain that she could do in order to win back God’s favor in that regard? If yes, He held the answer just out of her grasp.

As she crossed the hotel lobby, Mr. Baird, the proprietor, glanced up from behind the front desk. He lowered his newspaper and stared at her across wire-rimmed spectacles. “Miss Girard, I was hoping to catch you before you turned in for the night. A note came for you earlier.”

“A note?” Véronique’s first thought was that Christophe had written again, but seeing the plain piece of folded paper in Mr. Baird’s hand, she quickly dismissed that hope. Perhaps it was a response to the advertisement for a driver that she’d placed at the post office earlier that afternoon. She’d indicated for all interested parties to contact her at the hotel. Which reminded her, she needed to make Mr. Baird aware of that.

He nodded as she explained. “Oh, that’s fine by me, Miss Girard. I’ll be sure and tell the boss so she’ll know to be on the lookout too.”

She stared for a moment, not understanding.

Mr. Baird chuckled. “I was referrin’ to my wife . . . Mrs. Baird.” He winked. “She’s the real boss around here. I just do whatever the good woman tells me.”

“Merci.”
Véronique took the note, giving a slight nod. She was gradually becoming accustomed to the informalities so common among the people of this country, even if she didn’t claim to understand them. She scanned the brief missive, unsure what to make of it at first.

“Good news, I hope,” Mr. Baird commented, returning to his newspaper.

Véronique read the note again, and smiled. “
Oui
, I believe it is. My sincere thanks, monsieur.” With a bounce to her step, she was to the stairs before she remembered. “Monsieur Baird, would you be so kind as to draw me a bath this evening?”

“You betcha, ma’am . . . though it might be a while.” He pointed directly above them. “Another guest just went in there a minute ago. He should be done soon enough, then I’ll give your door a knock.”

She sighed, wishing for a bath but even more for bed. “I’m rather tired. Could I request that it be drawn first thing in the morning instead?”

After arranging the time, Véronique climbed the stairs to the third floor. Shared lavatories were not unknown to her. They were common enough in Paris, in the lower classes. But sharing with someone of the opposite sex—that was a new experience. One for which she had yet to develop an
affinité
.

She reached the third-floor landing and a sloshing sound drew her attention. She paused. Looking up, she realized she’d stopped right by the lavatory. Footfalls coming closer from the other side of the door sent her racing down the hallway. Once safely inside her room, she collapsed on the bed and giggled at her overreaction, then glanced again at the note from Monsieur Jake Sampson.

It read:
Mademoiselle Girard, come by the livery first thing in the morning. Your carriage awaits
.

CHAPTER | SIX

V
ÉRONIQUE STEPPED INTO
the steaming bath and slowly sank down. With her shoulders pressed back against the tub, she stretched out her legs. The hot water seeped into her muscles, tingling, relaxing.
Heavenly
, but for one thing—did Americans have something against scented bath water? Or perhaps they simply hadn’t yet learned about perfumed baths from their European cousins.

She still had a good foot of space before her feet touched the opposite end, so she slid down farther and dunked her head, thoroughly soaking her hair. Breaking the surface again, she wiped the water from her face and breathed the moist air deep into her lungs.

Monsieur Sampson’s note came to mind. Contemplating what he’d meant by it, she rubbed the coarse block of soap between her palms and smoothed the lather over her arms and legs. The arid climate of this territory was drying out her skin, and this soap certainly wasn’t going to help any. She’d used the last of her favorite lemon and sage grass lotion three weeks ago, having carefully rationed it since leaving Paris. Perhaps the mercantile could order—

The latch on the washroom door jiggled.

Instinctively, Véronique sank deeper into the tub, wishing there were bubbles to aid her intent. Had she slid the lock on the door into place? Certainly she had. . . .

The door handle rattled again.

“This room is
occupée
,” she called out.

Silence. Then what sounded like the clearing of a man’s throat.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t think anybody would be in there this early. I . . . I just came for my shirt. I think I left it in there last night.”

Véronique peeked over the edge of the tub, then back at the door. “
Oui
, I believe you are right. I see a garment hanging in the corner. However, I am . . . unable to come to the door at this moment.”

“Ah . . . no, ma’am . . . I mean . . . yes, ma’am. I understand. You just take your time. I’m in no hurry.”

Breathing a sigh of relief, Véronique rinsed off and reached for her towel.

“I’m sorry to have bothered you, ma’am.”

The sound of his voice sent her plunging again. Water sloshed over the sides and back of the tub. “You have caused me no bother.” She brushed a strand of wet hair from her face. “But that is changing quite rapidly,” she added softly, certain she heard a soft chuckle come from beyond the door. She waited for the sound of retreating footsteps. Hearing none, she peered over the edge and saw a shadow beneath the door. “I am aware that you are still there, monsieur.”

“Ah . . . yes, ma’am. I . . . I’m just going to wait outside here so I can get my shirt.”

Rising slightly, Véronique checked for cracks in the door. Detecting none, she climbed from the tub, ran a towel over her body, and then pulled on her dressing gown. The robe covered her adequately, but she blushed at the idea of a strange man seeing her dressed like this. And even more at his apparent lack of trust.

“Monsieur, I am no thief. I assure you, I will not attempt to abscond from the lavatory with your shirt.”

Another soft chuckle. This time louder than the first, and affirming what she thought she’d heard earlier. “No, ma’am. You don’t sound much like an . . . absconder to me. It’s just that I’ve got something in the pocket there that’s mighty valuable, and I want to make sure it doesn’t wander off.”

Now curious, and emboldened by his lack of decorum, Véronique crossed the room and lifted the shirt from the hook. She peeked inside the front pocket and instantly realized his cause for concern. Glancing back at the door, she had a sudden thought. “What is in the pocket of your garment, monsieur, that is so valuable to you?”

Silence, then the creak of a floorboard. “Are you just about done in there, ma’am?”

Véronique held back a giggle, enjoying being the one with the
avantage
. “
Oui
. . . just about.” She returned the shirt to its hook and rushed through her morning ritual. She cleaned her teeth and combed and towel-dried her hair, more conscious of her movements, and of time’s passing, knowing he was waiting.

When she was done, she opened the door. And immediately wished she could close it again.

————

Jack had to lower his gaze significantly just to look the woman in the eye—but it was well worth the effort. She glanced at him, then looked away again, and he got the impression she wasn’t completely comfortable with him.

Reasonable, under the circumstances.

He maintained his distance in hopes of putting her more at ease. “I’m sorry for having startled you a few minutes ago, miss. I wasn’t expecting anyone to be in the washroom this early.”

She briefly looked up before once again confining her attention to the floor. “Thank you. I accept your kind
apologie
, monsieur.”

He smiled, realizing he’d correctly guessed her native tongue moments before.

She gestured behind her toward his shirt. “As you can see . . . there it hangs.”

Recognizing the familiar fabric and seeing the outline in the front pocket, Jack felt the tension in his gut begin to relax. How could he have been so foolish? But he’d been so upset last night, so frustrated with Jake Sampson and the whole situation, that he hadn’t been thinking straight. He stepped to one side, allowing the woman space to exit. The shirt was hanging exactly where he’d left it. He quickly counted the money, and experienced a rush of relief. Fortunate for him that such an honest woman had been first to use the washroom.

“Your garment is safe, monsieur. In the same condition you left it last night,
non
?”

Her expression was all sweetness, yet something in her tone seemed to mock him. But with his money safe in hand again, Jack didn’t care. “Yes, ma’am. Looks as if everything is in order, thank you.”

He closed the bathroom door behind them, and before he knew it, she was several paces ahead of him down the hall. She walked fast for being so little, but he caught up with her easily, not wanting her to leave just yet. No doubt she knew what was in his shirt pocket— he could sense it. And he rarely misjudged people in that regard. “I appreciate you acting with such integrity, ma’am. Not everyone would have done as you did.”

Pausing in front of room 308, she reached into her pocket and withdrew a key. “
Oui
, you should be grateful to me, monsieur. It was a most arduous task.”

There it was again, that hint of mockery in her voice. Though he couldn’t see her expression, he definitely heard her smile this time.

She tried fitting her key into the lock and achieved success on her third attempt, still apparently unwilling to look at him. The thought that he might be the object of her discomfort both bothered and encouraged him.

The front and shoulders of her robe were slightly damp from her freshly-washed hair. Her belt was cinched modestly tight, preventing any gapping in the fabric, yet her care at swaddling herself so only served to accentuate the curve of her small waist and slender hips. Recognizing the drift in his focus, Jack pulled his attention back and was pleased to actually find her looking at him. Whatever this young woman lacked in height, she made up for in every other way.

She was completely stunning—and much too young for him.

He took a step back. Being thirty-eight years old hardly meant he had one foot in the grave, but he would place her age around twenty years his junior, and that was too big of a difference in his book. No matter what the opinions or practices of others might be. Anyway, he’d been looking forward to lightening his load these days, to being responsible only for himself. Isn’t that what he’d told Pastor Carlson? Suddenly those words had a hollow ring to them.

“Well, thank you again, ma’am. I sincerely appreciate your honesty.”
And I hope our paths cross again sometime
is what he wanted to add, but didn’t. Still, something told him the chances of that happening were good.

Jack walked back down the hallway, fully aware that she hadn’t yet shut her door. Once he heard the click of the latch behind him, he retraced his steps, pulled out his own key, and entered the room directly across from hers.

CHAPTER | SEVEN

W
HEN
V
ÉRONIQUE DESCENDED
the stairs to the hotel lobby an hour later, business appeared to be brisk for a Friday morning. At the front desk, Monsieur Baird assisted a couple with two small children while four other gentlemen waited off to the side.

The men didn’t resemble the kind of patrons Véronique had seen staying at the hotel. They had the appearance of hired hands, only slightly rougher around the edges, and the way they looked at her sent prickles of warning skittering up her arms and neck. Perhaps Monsieur Baird had engaged their services for a specific task at the hotel. If so, he would be well advised to instruct his workmen to use the back entrance next time.

As she crossed the lobby, one of the men bolted forward, blocking her path.

“Miss Girard, isn’t it?” Butchering her name, he thrust out his hand, breaking all
étiquette
in the process.

Caught off guard, Véronique backed up a step. The man addressing her was tall, with a thick build, and had obviously consumed a breakfast
entrée
which included onions as a main ingredient. How did he know who she was? She stared pointedly at his hand until he returned it to his side.

“I’m here to speak with you, ma’am.” He cast a glance at the three men behind him. “And I’d like to make it known that I was first in line.”

First in line?
Véronique didn’t know what he was referring to, but she was relatively certain that whatever it was, it could not be of lesser priority to her.

The other men suddenly stepped forward to form a half circle around her, all speaking at once.