Remembered Read Free

left temple and disappeared into her hairline. “In truth, they have always been yours. Take them. Read them, ma chérie .”
    She couldn’t refuse her mother at the time, but Véronique didn’t want the letters. She didn’t need to read them again. She already knew of her father’s promises to send for his young wife and their five-yearold daughter once he was settled in the Americas—once he’d made his fortune in fur trading.
    But Pierre Gustave Girard had never sent for them.
    Christophe chose that moment to rise from his quiet vigil and offered his arm. Véronique stood and slipped her hand through, willing the voiceless question hovering at the fringe of her thoughts to be silenced once and for all.
    Paris was her home. How could her mother have asked her to leave it to go in search of someone who had abandoned them both?
    Christophe walked slowly down the cobbled path, shortening his long stride in deference to hers.
    The shaded bower they walked beneath, courtesy of canopied trees, encouraged the chirrup of crickets long after the creatures should have fallen silent in the summer’s warmth. Lichen clung to the graves, frocking the rock surfaces in blankets of grayish green. Iron gates of mausoleums barred entrance to keyless visitors, even as the chains hanging from their doors drooped beneath the weight of their mission.
    “How can time move so slowly in one sense, Christophe, when there seems to be such a scarcity of it in another?” Her question coerced a smile from him, as she knew it would.
    “Always the poet and artist’s perspective on life.” He looked down at her. “Something I have aspired to understand but have failed miserably to do.”
    “And give up your realism? Your ability to” —she tucked her chin in an attempt to mimic his deep voice—“‘see the world as it truly is, not as others see it’?”
    Christophe shook his head, smiling. “Oh, for the memory you have, ma petite . To so fully capture both phrases and images with such distinguishing clarity. You never forget anything.”
    “That is not true, and you know it. My thoughts are easily scattered these days, and I often forget things.”
    “Ah yes, you forget to eat when you’re painting late at night.” His look turned reprimanding. “Or when you used to paint. You forget to quench the flame as you fall asleep reading” —he snapped his fingers—“whatever foreign poet it is that you’re so fond of.”
    She slapped his arm, chuckling. “You remember very well what his name is.”
    “ Oui , I know the master John Donne. But why must he be . . . English ?”
    She giggled at the way he said the word. As though it were distasteful.
    Pausing, he looked down at her. “It’s good to hear you laugh, ma petite .” He started down the path again. “Let’s see, where was I?”
    “I believe you were listing my faults. And none too delicately.”
    “ Oui , mademoiselle. But it is an extensive list, non ?” His tone mirrored his smile. “Just the other day, when you forgot to put sugar in Madame Marchand’s tea, I thought we might have to convene the parliament to decide your fate.”
    She smiled while cringing inwardly, thinking of Madame Marchand, the family’s matriarch. Six years ago Lord Marchand had transferred Véronique’s services to his elderly mother after his only daughter, to whom Véronique had served as companion since childhood, had married.
    Madame Marchand had reminded her of the sugar oversight no less than four times the day of her grievous error. And without uttering another word, the woman had prolonged the reprimand in proceeding days through short, punctuated glares—starting first with the sugar bowl then slinking to Véronique.
    She sighed and shook her head. “I’m afraid my mind has been elsewhere of late.”
    “But I have saved the worst of your faults for last.” Christophe stopped and she did likewise. “You continually forget others’ shortcomings even when they’ve