Remembered (16 page)

He slowly faced forward. “Does this work any better for you, ma’am?” No smile touched his face, yet one lingered around the edges of his voice.

Under different circumstances, she might have laughed. “
Oui
, that is much better for me.
Merci
.”

“And just so you know, ma’am, I need to say something to you too. But . . . ladies first.”

Her throat felt unusually parched. She swallowed but it provided no relief. “I do not know how to broach this, so I will say it without prelude.”

He nodded, the corner of his mouth tipping. “That’s usually the best way. Just get it right out in the open.”

She took a deep breath. “I listened to your conversation with the gentleman inside the mercantile, and I know you have lost your employment.”

The color in Jack Brennan’s cheeks deepened.

“I sorely regret what I have done, Monsieur Brennan. And in addition to that, any trouble I have caused you. It is imperative that you know this.”

All trace of humor drained from his expression. “Are you familiar with the word ‘etiquette,’ ma’am?”

The softness of his voice combined with the subtlety of his accusation sent an unpleasant shiver through her. “
Oui
,” she whispered, deciding it best not to look at him for the moment. “It is a French word.”

“And do you know its meaning, Mademoiselle Girard?”

She nodded, feeling the heat of his stare. “The English have taken many of our pronunciations and claimed them for themselves. But the meanings are the same, if I am not mistaken.”

He laughed, but the response lacked any warmth. “You sound as if what the English did displeases you.”

She shrugged, unable to follow where he was leading.

“That’s an interesting concept, isn’t it, ma’am? To take something that doesn’t belong to you and then claim it as your own.”

Véronique looked back, now understanding. “I did not take the conveyance from you, Monsieur Brennan.” She kept her voice low, aware of others standing nearby on the boardwalk. “I merely arrived at the livery first. And if you will remember, I kindly extended the offer that you may use my wagon whenever you like in exchange for—”

“Yes, in exchange for taking you to places you have no good reason to be heading off—” He paused. His eyes flitted to hers, then away again. “To places that are unsuitable for a lady to visit.”

She started to reply but caught herself.

As she studied his profile, she somehow knew that the words she chose to speak next would either build a bridge, or carve a canyon. At one time in her life, her eagerness to have the last word, to make certain her opinions were stated and understood, would have blinded her to this awareness. Recognizing she had learned this tender truth bolstered her confidence and filled her with an unexpected calm.

She turned on the bench to face him fully. “Monsieur Brennan, I traveled far from my home in France to arrive at this place. During this time I witnessed many things and met a varied collection of people. Some of them have been most unpleasant, and I sincerely hope to never cross paths with them again. But I have also discovered kindness and gentility in this country in the most unexpected places.” She waited for a reaction from him to gauge his thoughts, but his cloaked expression revealed nothing. “I have learned much in the past months, about others most certainly, but even more about myself. Regardless of what opinion you may hold of me, Monsieur Brennan, I believe I have earned the right to make my own decisions about where I go and what I do.”

Jack Brennan stared at the hat in his hands, unresponsive.

“I believe you tell me the truth when you say, as Monsieur Sampson does, that these mining towns to which I wish to travel are not suitable for a woman. I do not proceed arrogantly with my plans in light of your counsel, monsieur, I assure you. And I am convinced you have warned me in such a strong manner not in an effort to frighten me so you may claim this wagon as your own, but rather because you are an honorable man.”

With unexplained certainty, she knew the man sitting beside her was the answer to her prayers. But how to convince him of that fact? “Yet I am equally determined to proceed,” she said softly, “be it a wise choice or an imprudent one in your eyes, because what I stand to gain in traveling to those rough and crude places, as you describe them, is worth the cost of the hardship I will endure along the way.”

She paused, watching for the slightest softening in him and detecting none. “You have not inquired as to my reason for wanting to visit these towns, and that is surprising given how adamant you are that I not. I am searching for my father, Monsieur Brennan. Willow Springs is the last place my mother—”

“I know about your father, ma’am.” His voice was quiet, his expression a smooth mask. “Sampson told me, after you left the livery yesterday.”

Véronique shifted her focus to the planked wood beneath her feet, the finality of her circumstances setting in. If his decision wasn’t swayed by knowing her motivation, nothing would change his mind. And yet her calm remained.

She spotted Lilly inside the mercantile. They had agreed to meet outside once they were done, so the girl must still be shopping. The silence lengthened as the bustle of shoppers on the boardwalk thinned.

“Have you ever lost someone close to you, Monsieur Brennan?”

He didn’t answer. But his fingers tensed around the rim of his hat.

“I have,” she said, her throat tightening. “And one thing I have learned is that though death itself can be forever marked in a single moment of time, letting go of those you love can take a very long time. Perhaps years . . .” She watched an ant making its way across the scarred length of wood beneath her feet. The insect carried something on its back that equaled twice the size of its minuscule body, yet its progress remained steady and sure.

“Or sometimes it takes the better part of a life.”

Hearing his soft whisper, she looked back, surprised not only at his response but also at what it revealed.

“Mademoiselle Girard, I know you’ve already hired a driver, so I realize this is too late in coming, but—”

“What has given you the impression that I have hired a driver?”

He sat up straighter. “I saw the notice posted outside the hotel.”

She nodded, on the verge of telling him about the ad she’d foolishly placed and what Monsieur Baird had done. But the sense of calm inside her deepened and encouraged her silence.

“Ma’am, I realize you’re new to this country and that you’re young. You’re probably not aware of this, but there are men who would offer to escort you to these places with the sole purpose of taking advantage of . . . the isolation along the way.” His eyes grew earnest. “Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

Véronique nodded but didn’t speak, fearing she might interfere with what he would say next. And she sensed something else was coming. Could this quiet sense of discernment inside her be the “honesty coupled with good sense” to which Christophe had been referring? Simply knowing when to keep her mouth shut?

“As you well know, I need that wagon in order to keep my job, ma’am. What I’m proposing is that we—”

“The job is yours, Monsieur Brennan. If you want it.”

His expression turned wary. “But we haven’t even discussed terms yet.”

“I will agree to whatever terms you set.” She could hardly breathe, she was so grateful.

“What about the other guy who was hired?”

She worded her answer with care. “You were my first choice in drivers, Monsieur Brennan. I no longer require anyone else’s services.”

“Would you like me to speak to him? Tell him he doesn’t have the job? Those situations can sometimes get sticky.”

Véronique felt a tickle of humor inside her. “I have recently observed someone being relieved of employment . . . so I believe I can handle that task myself.”

His gradual smile held surprise, and within his soft laughter lingered the sweet promise of retaliation.

She already knew this man liked to spar, but she noticed something else. When he smiled, the reaction reached his eyes a fraction of a second before it touched his mouth. And in that slight pause— in watching his lips curve, in seeing his dimples form, in anticipating the sound of his laughter—there existed a realm she found thoroughly unnerving and intoxicating. And altogether enjoyable.

“Now, Monsieur Brennan, we need to discuss our arrangement.” She tried to focus—not an easy task when staring at that smile of his. “First, I believe we agree on the amount of remuneration per—” Seeing his look of question, she paused. “Is there something I have missed, monsieur?”

“I’d just appreciate you not staring at me, ma’am. I find it distracting when I’m trying to listen to you.”

Hearing the teasing quality in his voice, she slowly faced forward. “Does this work any better for you, monsieur?”

“
Oui
, mademoiselle.” Again, his soft laughter. “This is much better for me.”

CHAPTER | THIRTEEN

T
HE INFORMAL NATURE
of the church service was the first thing Véronique noticed, and disliked. The informal dress of the churchgoers was second. But what struck the deepest chord within her—and that she found pleasantly unexpected—was what Pastor Carlson said, and the manner in which he said it.

Lilly’s father didn’t come before his congregation with fancy words or with attempts to impress by lengthy oration or memorization of passage upon passage of Scripture—traditions with which she was more accustomed. He came simply, humbly, and with sincerity of heart that shone in every word.

“God gives talents to everyone as He sees fit.
He
decides who gets what and how much they get. That’s what this particular passage says.”

Hearing that, Véronique sat up a bit straighter, wishing she’d thought to unpack her Bible and bring it with her. With a furtive glance, she scanned Lilly’s open text to see if that’s what the verse truly said, while wondering whether Jack Brennan was in the audience somewhere.

She’d looked for him as she walked the short distance from the hotel to the church, and then again before the service had started— but there was no sign of him. Thinking again of their conversation yesterday encouraged a smile. They would leave on their first trip to a mining town tomorrow morning, and she could hardly wait!

“Now, how these talents are given may not seem fair to those of us who feel a mite less gifted in some respects. Or completely forgotten in others.”

The pastor’s comment—aided by his dry delivery—coaxed laughter from the parishioners. Véronique glimpsed Lilly’s personality in the act and recognized the origin of the girl’s dry wit. But Lilly also favored her mother too, in looks and coloring. Véronique snuck a glance at Hannah Carlson beside her, looking forward to becoming better acquainted with the woman over the noon meal in their home.

“But this distribution of talents, whatever the measure, is in exact accordance with God’s eternal plan for each of us.” Pastor Carlson moved from behind the orator’s stand. His look grew surprisingly sheepish. “We must take care in how we esteem each other’s talents, and be mindful to not elevate one gift over the other. I’ve often looked at people and coveted their talents. Or I’ve coveted the ease with which they seem to acquire and wield them. How God uses their talents—and blesses them—oftentimes far exceeds what He’s done in my own life. And I’ve struggled with jealousy, and I’ve wondered” — his brow furrowed—“why them, and not me?”

Véronique could hardly believe he’d made such a public admittance. She pilfered a hasty look on either side of her to gauge Hannah and Lilly’s reactions. But they didn’t seem the least surprised or offended. Quite the contrary. Quiet pride shone in their expressions.

“At those times I try and remember that I haven’t walked that person’s road. It may well be that I haven’t endured the crucible they’ve had to experience, and perhaps that’s the reason they shine with such strength and luster. They’ve been through the fire, so to speak, where I’ve gone untouched by the flame. Something else to recall—and this is harder—is that I’m not competing with that person. God has simply gifted us for different purposes.”

Véronique’s thoughts went to the work of a fellow artist in Paris whom she greatly admired and with whom she’d attended the same studio. Berthe Morisot’s talent was nothing short of brilliant, even if the more traditional instructors’ opinions differed. Berthe’s carefully composed, brightly hued canvases possessed a transcendent quality. Her delicate dabs of color and contrasting uses of light were techniques that Véronique hoped to incorporate more fully into her own painting some day, if that time ever came.

Pastor Carlson met her gaze, and Véronique wondered if he’d intended his last words for her. Surely not. They didn’t even know one another.

Yet, hadn’t she coveted Berthe’s talent on more than one occasion? Hadn’t she asked God why Berthe had been invited to join an esteemed group of painters, while she had not?

Pastor Carlson shook his head. “While I may desire another’s giftedness, I do not desire the shaping they’ve undergone from the Potter’s hand. And I hardly envy the countless hours spent upon the Potter’s wheel which is what may very well be what allows them to possess such giftedness in the first place.”

He left the upper platform area and moved closer to the assembly. Véronique also considered this a bit odd.

“When we endure hardship and pain—when life doesn’t turn out the way we thought it should—what do we do? Do we blame God? Think Him cruel and unfair?” He nodded, and Véronique saw others nodding in agreement with him. “I confess, that’s exactly what I’ve thought on occasion.”

He looked down briefly. When he raised his head, his expression had grown more thoughtful. “Recently, an individual crossed my path and I was stunned at how God has used some horrible things that happened in this person’s life to shape him for the better and, in turn, to bless so many.”

The pastor’s gaze settled on someone a few rows behind Véronique, and it was all she could do not to turn around and attempt to locate the focus of his attention. But decorum demanded she not.