A Beauty So Rare

by Tamera Alexander

  His father’s last letter had confirmed that Uncle Franz’s prediction had held true. The rumors were subsiding. People were forgetting what had happened.

  But forgetting was something Marcus could never do.

  If there had been any significant political unrest in the country, his uncle and father would never have allowed him to step foot outside Europe. But with the volatile years of war behind them, and the previous year’s compromise of dual monarchy with Hungary accepted, the empire was at peace. The ship was sailing smoothly, as his uncle had stated upon his departure.

  Still—Marcus looked at the envelope—apparently Uncle Franz felt the need to remind him of his obligation. As if he could ever forget. He loved his country, and his family, rife with greed and ambition though its members were. It wasn’t for lack of affection or honor that he eschewed the crown.

  He simply didn’t desire to ever rule his country. He’d seen that side of life. Now he wanted to see another.

  Out on the street, Marcus breathed in the fresh air, catching a hint of fall on the breeze. He searched the thoroughfare for the carriage—and Mrs. Cheatham’s niece—reliving her snub and feeling a tug of humor. Perhaps he was losing his touch with women.

  Or more likely, Adelicia’s niece bore more resemblance to her aunt than first met the eye. He smiled. Adelicia Cheatham was her own woman in every way. He’d seen her when in town before. She held her head high, looking neither to the right nor the left. She seemed impervious to social pressure.

  After an appointment, he was headed to Belmont to check on his plants in the conservatory. Perhaps while there, he would have opportunity to make the acquaintance of Adelicia’s niece. Purely for social reasons, of course. International relations, some might say.

  He made a quick stop by his room at the boardinghouse and stowed the letter from his uncle in the cedar trunk at the foot of the bed. As he closed the lid, his hand lingered on the artfully carved woodwork. He hadn’t brought much in the way of furniture when he left Austria, understandably. But leaving the trunk behind hadn’t been an option.

  His maternal grandfather—a humble, unassuming man—had possessed remarkable skill with a blade, a gift Marcus hadn’t inherited. He ran a hand along the edges of the trunk, easily distinguishing the artistic work from the lesser-crafted attempts of a nine-year-old boy, treasuring the memory of the man who had prized spending time with his grandson above perfection.

  Marcus rose, glad again that he’d brought the trunk with him. It fit well in this setting.

  He’d grown accustomed to, even appreciative of, the sparse surroundings of his current living quarters, which were a far cry from the palace and his family’s private residence. He could have leased or even purchased a house upon his arrival in Nashville. But that would have gone contrary to the decision he’d made before coming to this country. . . .

  He intended to experience how ordinary people lived, and was learning a lot about himself in the process—not all of which he liked.

  His uncle had warned him against causing a scandal in this country, but that was the last thing his uncle needed to worry about. Marcus was done with that part of his life. No more pursuing women and no more liquor—at least not in excess. No more wasting his life, as he’d come to realize he’d been doing.

  Cordoning off that vein of thought, he strode in the direction of the city’s courthouse, mindful of a distant pounding at the back of his head. Too much work perhaps. He was hopeful his crew renovating the textile warehouse across town would maintain their progress. They were a week ahead of schedule, and he wanted to maintain that lead.

  As he walked, he searched the endless wash of cloudless blue overhead, then let his gaze trail the lush rolling hills surrounding this city, even while—in his mind’s eye—he saw the snowcapped Alps of home.

  Looking back over his life, he realized how much time had slipped past him, and how much of his life had been lived by another’s dictate. His had been a privileged upbringing, no question, with ample opportunities to study and learn. But also with obligations. Always, always obligations.

  America’s South was far more devastated from the war and its aftermath than he’d imagined, but his skills were being utilized. It was so different and freeing that, in rare moments, he could almost forget the life he’d left behind. He’d wanted to come to America since he was a boy, since first learning about the “thirteen brave little colonies” from his tutor. But it was only when a trusted mentor had introduced him to Luther Burbank’s publications and then Marcus had met the botanist in person—and later visited his Boston nursery full of thousands of plants—that his dream had been set in motion.

  However short-lived that dream might prove to be.

  2

  You know, Eleanor—”

  Eleanor watched her father as he leaned forward in the carriage, her frustration with him having faded. But not her frustration over having no contract. She hoped the lack of follow-through on the part of the man who owned the building didn’t bode ill for their agreement.

  “I think this is a good decision,” her father continued. “As you said, it will give me an opportunity to rest and”—a faint smile hinted beneath his silvered-white beard she’d trimmed that morning—“it will allow you the opportunities a young woman such as yourself needs.”

  Eleanor was tempted to laugh. “A young woman such as yourself . . .”

  She was twenty-nine and could count on one hand the number of months until her thirtieth birthday. One could hardly describe her as young anymore. Nor did she feel as such.

  Her father’s comment reminded her of what Mrs. Hodges, the seamstress, had the gall to say to her only days earlier. Eleanor fingered the sleeve of her new jacket, then ran a hand over her skirt, still a little embarrassed by it, and more than a little perturbed at the outcome of her exchange with the woman—and at Mrs. Hodges’s meddling.

  “That was a delicious dinner you prepared for us earlier this week,” her father continued. “Though I still don’t like the idea of your being forced to cook.” He grimaced. “Bernice shouldn’t have left us for that position with another family. I’m more than a little disappointed in her. The least she could have done is to have given us more notice.”

  Eleanor regretted her father’s resentment toward their former housekeeper and cook, especially since she herself was responsible for Bernice’s departure. But to tell him the real reason Bernice had left their employ would wound him too deeply.

  So she reached for a brightness she didn’t feel and redirected the conversation, a skill she’d finely honed in recent months. “Don’t feel badly about me cooking, Father. As I’ve told you . . . I enjoy it. And besides, you’re eating better these days. Your appetite has improved.”

  His brows shot up. “How could it not with that . . . what do you call it? That fancy egg dish you prepared?”

  “A savory custard. I think I finally came upon the right combination of ingredients this time.”

  “I heartily agree. I hope you kept close account of what you added. I’d like to have that again.”

  “I did.” She kept close account of all her recipes, both those passed down from her precious mother and those she’d devised on her own—and with good reason, considering their present circumstances.

  Most of her recipes leaned toward the savory variety, but she shared an affinity for the sweets too.

  As they’d traveled on through Nashville, she’d seen a bakery claiming to have the Best doughnuts in town. She looked forward to seeing if the message on the sign held true, and also to scouting out her potential “competition.”

  But that little bakery would only be competition if her plans actually came to pass.

  Then it registered with her. . . . How coherent her father sounded, how much like his old self. She looked over at him, questioning yet again if she was doing the right thing. Or if, perhaps, she was acting prematurely.

  Usually her father couldn’t remember what he’d eaten five minut
es ago, much less days earlier. Yet he recalled events from his childhood or early marriage with stunning clarity.

  “My only regret”—his expression grew thoughtful—“is that Teddy wasn’t there to enjoy the meal with us.”

  Eleanor felt a twinge at the mention of her brother’s name, and at the wistfulness in her father’s features.

  “He’ll enjoy that savory custard, Eleanor. I hope you saved him some.” Eyebrows raised, his expression turned conspiratorial. “And those little muffins with the jam. He always likes the sweets, you know.”

  It was all Eleanor could do to maintain his gaze as down deep another chunk of her heart broke. “Yes,” she whispered. “I know.”

  “Have I shared his latest letter with you?” Her father patted the left breast pocket of his coat, then the other. “He’s doing so well, Eleanor. Which I always knew he would.”

  Feeling a sickening affirmation of the choice she’d made, she looked out the window as he searched for the letter that wasn’t there.

  Though still a good distance away, the expansive four-story brick building came into view, and the carriage driver slowed the horses’ pace to negotiate the turn onto the long narrow drive. It shamed her to admit it, but Eleanor was relieved no other carriages were in sight.

  When she’d first inquired months ago, the institution had been full, with a waiting list. And the only reason they had an opening now, she knew, was due to her aunt’s influence, or more specifically, her aunt’s husband. Recently retired, he had been director of the institution for years.

  Eleanor had been assured of confidentiality, and she was certain they took great care, but if anyone discovered that her father—Garrison Theodore Braddock, once one of the most revered attorneys in the state of Tennessee—was here, what thin veneer of honor and respect that still clung to the Braddock family name would be stripped away in a blink.

  She motioned out the opposite window, not wanting her father to see the sign marking the entrance of the institution. He only knew he was “going to a nice place to get much needed rest,” as the doctor had instructed her to say.

  “Look there, Papa.” She pointed out the window overlooking a field. “You’ve always loved cardinals.”

  The brilliant red bird with its distinctive black markings sat perched on a branch as though heaven itself had willed the diversion. If only she could believe that was true. But heaven and its Maker had never felt so distant. Nor so silent.

  The finely appointed carriage they traveled in—far nicer than anything her family could ever have afforded—jostled over the dirt-packed drive, and Eleanor’s grip tightened on her reticule as the nerves in her stomach twisted another half turn.

  In recent days, she’d managed to sell their family home, the house she’d lived in all her life and where her father had been raised, along with most of the furniture, keeping only a few pieces that would be delivered within the week either here, for her father, or to her “new home”—if she could call it that. She didn’t plan to be there long.

  Their home’s condition had declined over the years, and the meager funds from its sale had gone toward paying off a loan her father had secured years earlier, and for which he’d used the home as collateral. The rest had mostly gone toward her father’s treatment. The institution demanded six months’ payment in advance, with promise of reimbursement should the patient require less time. She trusted her father would fall into that category, but in any case, she was determined to spend what little money remained as frugally as possible.

  Bernice, their cook and housekeeper for twelve years, had been most understanding about the quiet dismissal from service—they simply hadn’t been able to pay her any longer. Not since the law firm—a practice her father had built and managed for over twenty-five years—had been forced to close its doors after the war.

  She couldn’t bring herself to admit the financial devastation to her father. If he knew how far they’d fallen, it would surely push him over the edge.

  “Perhaps you could pen a response to Teddy this evening, Eleanor.” Her father nodded as though considering the prospect an excellent one. “We could compose it together, following dinner. Likely he’s wondering why we haven’t written. But . . .” He turned to the satchel on the seat beside him. “Where is that letter?” He rummaged through the contents, growing increasingly earnest. “It must be in here somewhere.”

  Sensing his frustration mount, Eleanor knew better than to disagree with him. Almost four years had passed since Teddy had died in the war, and still there were moments when the ache of loss felt as though they’d gotten the news only yesterday. And that was especially true whenever her father spoke of him in the present tense.

  Those occasions, growing more frequent, laid siege to the hope that indeed the doctors were correct about his mental faculties returning.

  She’d ceased trying to correct her father’s slips in memory some time ago. He became emotional, even agitated when she did. On several occasions his behavior had bordered on violent, and she’d actually begun to fear he might do her harm, however unintentionally. Though she was tall and strong—or stout, as her grandmother had once described her as a girl, patting her leg firmly—she was no match for him.

  Suddenly, he stilled. He looked over at her.

  His eyes narrowed as though he were reading her thoughts, and Eleanor braced herself for what was coming.

  “Theodore,” he whispered. “Oh, my dear son . . .” His eyes grew moist. His chin shook. “Why, Eleanor? Why did they kill my boy? They—” His voice broke. “They shouldn’t have killed my only boy.”

  Eleanor gave a slow nod, her breath quickening. “I know, Papa. I know . . .” With each tear that disappeared into her father’s beard, she sensed his control—and him—slipping away again.

  This is for his own good, she repeated to herself over and over. And at the doctor’s recommendation. Yet she couldn’t deny the guilt pressing at her from all sides.

  The carriage slowed.

  She checked the chatelaine watch hooked to her bodice. One o’clock. Precisely when she’d told the director to expect them.

  She looked out the window and saw a woman and two men descending the steps of the building ahead. From their manner of clothing—the woman in a dark dress and starched white apron, the men in dark slacks and white vests—she assumed they were employees of the institution.

  Her father looked out the window too, then back at her. Slowly, his expression changed from pained to fearful. “Where are we? What is this place?”

  She reached out to calm him, but already suspicion darkened his gaze.

  “Father, it’s going to be all right. Remember what the doctor said about going someplace where you could get some rest. This is—”

  “No . . .” He pulled back, shaking his head. “I don’t want to be here. I want to go home.”

  “Papa,” she said softly, using a firm but gentle tone. “Listen to me.”

  His expression hardened. “You must take me home, Eleanor!”

  “We spoke about this earlier,” she continued. “And you said you thought it was a good—”

  “Driver!” He pounded on the side of the carriage. “I insist you return us home. This moment!”

  He reached for the door handle, the carriage still moving. But Eleanor beat him to it. His hand tightened over hers in a painful grip.

  “Take . . . me . . . home,” he said low, drawing himself up as he stared down.

  His grip excruciating, Eleanor felt her eyes begin to water, as much from grief as from the physical pain.

  The carriage stopped, and the two men approached. Though quite short, they were strong, broad shouldered. Their presence communicated anything but welcome. Or comfort.

  They had been joined by Dr. Crawford, the director with whom she’d interviewed weeks earlier when she’d toured the facility—what portions of it a family member was permitted to visit.

  She looked at them and shook her head, trying to keep them at bay,
the pain in her hand nearly unbearable. If only they would give her a few moments, she could calm her father down. She didn’t want their first impression of him to be like this.

  “Papa . . . the people here are going to help you.” She tried to pull her hand from beneath his on the door latch but couldn’t. “Please let go. You’re hurting me!”

  “You don’t care about me, Eleanor.” Accusation weighted each word, his face flush with anger. “If you did, you wouldn’t be doing this.”

  With one last torturous squeeze, he released her hand, flung open the door, and bolted from the carriage.

  3

  Powerless to intervene, Eleanor watched as her father—though a foot taller than the men—proved no match for their combined strength. As they forced his arms behind his back and wrestled him into submission, her father’s angry screams, then his cries, tore at her heart. And her conscience.

  Armstead climbed down from his perch atop the carriage and stood wide-eyed by the door, obviously uncertain what to do next.

  Her hand still throbbing, Eleanor climbed out of the carriage, only to be met by Dr. Crawford.

  “My apologies, Miss Braddock.” He lifted a hand in warning. “Under the circumstances, you won’t be able to accompany your father inside today.”

  “But . . .” Eleanor glanced beyond him to see the men leading—almost dragging—her father up the front steps to the imposing double doors. Each step of the way, he fought them, calling out her name. She forced herself to look away and addressed the doctor. “You said I would be welcome anytime, Dr. Crawford.”