“Aunt Adelicia . . .” Eleanor curtsied. “How wonderful to see you again after all these years. Thank you for allowing me to come and live with you. Though, I hope it won’t be for too long. I don’t want to become a nuisance. I’ll work hard to make certain that’s not the case.”
Realizing she was talking too much, Eleanor literally bit the tip of her tongue.
Aunt Adelicia rose from the settee with beauty and grace, and with an elegance customarily ascribed to . . . royalty. Eleanor could not argue with the truth.
Her aunt was so petite, her movements delicate and graceful, couched in femininity yet with undeniable strength, and Eleanor found herself wishing she were more like that and less like . . . herself.
Aunt Adelicia inclined her head, her smile ever radiant. “Welcome to Belmont, Eleanor, my dear. You’re late.”
Still nursing the slight sting from Aunt Adelicia’s politely framed rebuke, Eleanor took another bite of creamed sweet potatoes, whipped lighter and fluffier than she’d ever tasted, and observed the family interaction around the Cheatham dinner table.
Six children, ranging in age from eight to eighteen, including Dr. Cheatham’s teenage daughter and son, chattered away, while Dr. Cheatham and Aunt Adelicia contributed as well. Laughter abounded, as did the variety of topics and tasteful cuisine, and as Eleanor watched her four younger cousins, who appeared enamored with their new sister and brother, it was obvious that the blending of families with Aunt Adelicia’s third marriage was a success.
But despite the warmth and gaiety of the setting, including the fine scalloped china and crystal goblets filled to the brim with ice and freshly squeezed lemonade—such a luxury—Eleanor couldn’t dispel the loneliness in the pit of her stomach.
The scene caused her to miss her father even more.
She wondered how he was, if he was adjusting. Had he eaten dinner? Sometimes it took some coaxing for him to eat. Please, Lord—she squeezed her eyes tight—let him get better.
She was grateful for the time she and Aunt Adelicia had spent together earlier. Although she hadn’t had an abundance of her own pleasantries to exchange, she’d enjoyed learning what was happening in the Cheatham family.
For all that might be said about her aunt, Adelicia Cheatham was a devoted mother.
Eleanor had hoped the right moment would come to present her idea to her aunt, but it never had. So when dinner drew to a close, she determined to try again.
She accompanied her aunt and Dr. Cheatham into the small study, and was more than a little surprised when Pauline—who’d proudly announced at dinner that she would turn nine soon—snuggled up beside her on the settee.
Eleanor hadn’t seen Pauline since the girl was a tiny thing, perhaps a year old. And that had been in Alabama at an Acklen family gathering, after her own mother had died but before the war.
She remembered holding Pauline as a baby and struggling with the desire to have a child of her own. She’d relinquished that hope years ago, or liked to think she had. In moments like this, however, the distant heartbeat of the mother she might have been crept ever closer, pulsing with renewed warmth beneath the surface of her skin.
Pauline looked up and linked her arm through Eleanor’s. “Where are your children?”
“Pauline!” Aunt Adelicia softly scolded. “That is not a proper question to ask a woman . . . of any age.”
Scowling, Pauline lowered her head, but Eleanor had to smile. In features and coloring, Pauline was the spitting image of Aunt Adelicia, and had the makings of her mother’s boldness as well—though perhaps without the acquired decorum just yet.
“That’s all right, Aunt Adelicia. I take no offense.” Eleanor looked down and smoothed Pauline’s dark hair. “You asked that because it seems as though I’m old enough to be a mother. Is that correct?”
Pauline shot Aunt Adelicia a guarded look, then nodded.
“Well, you’re right,” Eleanor continued. “I am old enough to have children. But the reason I don’t is because I’ve never married.”
Already seeing another question forming in the girl’s mind, Eleanor hoped it was one she could answer in mixed company.
“Why aren’t you married?”
“Pauline Acklen!” This time embarrassment tinged Aunt Adelicia’s scolding.
But Eleanor, seeing the question for what it was—innocent curiosity—couldn’t blame the child. Not when she possessed the same trait herself. She quietly considered where her own curiosity—albeit, far less innocent—had landed her earlier that very day.
She aimed a look at her aunt and Dr. Cheatham, silently requesting their permission to proceed. Dr. Cheatham, who was swiftly losing his battle to contain a smile, glanced at his wife, who nodded, her scowl quite pronounced.
“The reason I’m not married, Pauline, is because . . . I’ve never met a man I’ve wanted to marry.” Even though that was the truth, an underlying and more pronounced truth lingered beneath it, around it. And filled every inch of space in the room. “And it’s also due, in part, to the fact that . . .” Eleanor was surprised at the warmth rising to her cheeks, and at how difficult the next words were to say aloud. “I’ve never had a man ask for my hand in marriage.”
Pauline’s dark brows pinched together, and Eleanor tried to imagine what question was coming next.
“So . . .” The girl pursed her lips. “The man has to do the asking?”
Grateful for the reprieve from the personal questions, Eleanor gave her cousin’s little arm a squeeze. “It’s customary, yes. But it’s also something that most couples will have discussed, at least to some degree, before the gentleman takes it upon himself to ask the lady. So when it comes your time”—she brushed a kiss to Pauline’s brow, tossing a wink in her aunt’s direction—“and a young man you love very much asks for your hand in marriage, it shouldn’t come as a surprise.”
Even as she said it, Eleanor knew she was perpetuating the promise of a reality that didn’t come true for every girl, especially in the aftermath of the war, with marriageable men so scarce. But it would come true for Pauline Acklen—pretty, vivacious, and from an enormously wealthy family. Someday Pauline would have her pick of suitors.
Apparently satisfied with the response, Pauline jumped up from the settee, darted for the door, and then turned. “When I grow up,” she announced, hand on hip, “and I meet a man I want to marry, if he doesn’t ask me first, I’m going to ask him.”
She closed the door with a thud, her youthful declaration hanging in the stunned silence.
Dr. Cheatham’s quiet laughter dispelled it. “Your daughter grows more like you every day, my dear.”
Eleanor smiled, especially seeing the droll look Aunt Adelicia shot him.
“You know very well, Dr. Cheatham, that I am a woman who believes most strongly in the traditional and . . .”
Still listening to the conversation, Eleanor’s attention was drawn to the open window. Though dusk cast its purplish spell, it was still light outside, and she spotted Mr. Gray and a man she didn’t recognize walking in the front gardens. It wasn’t until she found herself scanning the remainder of the grounds that she realized who she was looking for—
And quickly stopped.
A brief knock sounded, and Cordina, Belmont’s head cook, entered the small study carrying a silver service.
Eleanor remembered the woman’s name because she could hardly wait to ask her about the dishes they’d enjoyed at dinner—the smooth-as-silk sweet potatoes, the butter beans so tender without being mushy, and the roasted pork. The meat had practically melted in her mouth.
“Brought you all your evenin’ coffee, Mrs. Cheatham. With some of my teacakes, o’ course.”
“Thank you, Cordina.” Aunt Adelicia moved a book from the table. “And again, dinner tonight was delicious.”
“Yes,” Eleanor added. “It certainly was. When you have time, Cordina, I’d love to know how you get your pork roast so tender.”
Cordina beamed as she lowered t
he laden silver tray to the coffee table. “Oh, it ain’t no secret, Miss Braddock. You just got to make sure you let the meat set a while in some spices ’fore you put it to cookin’. Then you cook it long and slow. Rushin’ it only make it tough.”
Eleanor wished she had paper and pen at hand. “Which spices do you—”
“Cordina”—Aunt Adelicia leaned forward—“you’ve been so busy today. I think we can serve ourselves this evening.”
Smiling, Cordina ducked her head. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.”
As the door closed, Eleanor couldn’t help but feel as if she’d somehow gotten Cordina in trouble. Surely not by initiating a conversation? Though a war had been fought—and lost, by the Confederacy—largely over the issue of slavery, she knew some people still preferred the ways of the “old South.”
But even in the few hours she’d been back at Belmont, she’d witnessed her aunt conversing freely with the servants—both Negro and white—so she didn’t think that was to blame.
Aunt Adelicia served Dr. Cheatham first, then poured a cup of coffee for Eleanor. “Cream and sugar, dear?”
“No, thank you. I prefer it plain.”
Sipping, Eleanor silently rehearsed how best to broach her plan with her aunt, preferring Dr. Cheatham not be present when she did. But whatever she said, she needed to deliver the words with confidence and determination, or Aunt Adelicia would never agree to fund the venture.
And she needed that funding. A loan. She would pay back every penny. And it would be worth it, because she would finally be doing something with her life, something that mattered. A job that would allow her to be independent, to have a home again. For her and her father.
“So tell me, Miss Braddock”—steam swirled from Dr. Cheatham’s cup—“are you prepared for the adventures my wife has planned for you?”
Glancing between the couple, Eleanor met the comment with a raised eyebrow. “I suppose it depends on what those adventures entail.”
“Oh, pay him no mind, Eleanor. He’s simply trying to stir up trouble.” Aunt Adelicia smiled, her delicate pinky extended at a perfect angle as she sipped. “But I do have some ideas I’d like to discuss with you. When we have a moment.”
Sensing something pass between them, Eleanor felt a little like a beetle about to be pinned to a board. Especially when remembering what Mr. Geoffrey had said to Mr. Gray in the conservatory—“You said she wanted to discuss an idea”—and how Mr. Gray had looked at him.
“Well,” Dr. Cheatham said, rising, “I believe that’s my cue, as they say.” He winked in Eleanor’s direction. “Consider yourself forewarned, Miss Braddock. And as I said at dinner . . .” The creases at the corners of his eyes grew more defined. “Welcome to our home. We’re most happy you’re here.”
“Thank you, Dr. Cheatham.” Eleanor set her cup aside. “And thank you for all you’re doing for my father.” She looked at her aunt. “I’m grateful to you both. I know it’s due to your influence and connections that a place opened for him there.” Reliving the scene when her father had bolted from the carriage, she felt her throat tighten. “And I’m hopeful for his recovery.”
Again, she felt something subtle pass between them.
“Miss Braddock, I’m certain Dr. Crawford told you they’d do everything medically possible to help your father. . . . And I look forward to going by this week and seeing him myself. In the event Dr. Crawford hasn’t discussed this with you yet,” he continued, “the initial medication they’re administering has a sedating effect.”
Eleanor nodded. “He did mention that.”
“Very good. After the first week or so, depending on the patient’s adjustment, the medication is typically decreased, and your father will be encouraged to become more active. So you might give thought to what hobbies he would enjoy pursuing. Something that would give him purpose and provide exercise.”
She thought for a moment. “He’s always loved tending a vegetable garden. I didn’t see sign of a garden while I was there, but perhaps I could help him plant a small herb garden in his room by the window. If his room has a window.”
“I’m certain it does,” her aunt chimed in. “And that’s an excellent idea.”
“Indeed, it is.” Dr. Cheatham’s smile held compassion, and gentle warning. “You must not cling too tightly to the hope that he’ll fully recover, Miss Braddock. When dementia—if that’s what it is—begins to manifest itself in a person, the deterioration of the mind rarely reverses course.”
Her heart beating harder, Eleanor nodded, appreciating his candor and compassionate manner, even though his words cut her to the quick.
He reached over and took hold of her hand. “One day at a time, my dear,” he said softly. “That’s all that is given to us. And sometimes”—his own countenance clouded—“even that we must break down into hours. And minutes.”
He squeezed her hand, and she squeezed back, grateful for the firmness of his grip, and realizing how long it had been since she’d touched anyone in such a way—purposefully holding a hand, giving a hug. Or receiving one. Even today when greeting her aunt, she’d curtsied. And her father had never been a demonstrative man.
Teddy, though . . .
Eleanor felt a knife through her heart, thinking about her younger brother. Teddy had known how to hug. What she wouldn’t have done to nestle into one of his hugs again.
Calling upon every ounce of reserve, she thanked Dr. Cheatham again with a smile, not trusting her voice.
No sooner had he opened the door than Richard and William appeared. The two thirteen-year-old boys—brothers since the wedding and thick as thieves—grabbed him by the arm and clamored for him to join them in the billiards room. With a parting glance, Dr. Cheatham peered back into the study, feigning the fear of being kidnapped.
Aunt Adelicia merely smiled and waved.
Eleanor exhaled, part sigh, part amazement. She’d never experienced a home life with such vibrancy of youth. “It seems there is never a dull moment in this house.”
“Oh, there’s not.” Aunt Adelicia laughed. “Especially since we installed the new billiard table off the grand salon. Just until the new billiard hall is completed,” she explained. “The boys love it. We moved the schoolroom upstairs for Claude and Pauline. Of course, the older children will be going away to their schools soon. But for now it’s quite lively having them all at home. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Her features softened with gratitude. “There’s nothing more beautiful than family, harmony, and affection.”
Having thought much the same thing moments earlier, only from a different perspective, Eleanor rose to pour herself another cup of coffee. She offered to refill her aunt’s first, but she declined.
Thinking it better if she were facing her aunt straight on for this conversation, Eleanor claimed the chair opposite Adelicia’s. Only then did she notice the vase of cut roses on a table in the corner. The petals were purest white but for the very tips, which looked as though they’d been painted in the palest shade of pink. Like a sunrise.
She’d never seen anything like them and didn’t have to think long to know from where—and from whom—they’d come. She recalled Mr. Geoffrey bowing to her, so regal in his bearing. The gesture had seemed second nature to him. Odd for a man in such a position.
The recollection stirred feelings she didn’t quite know what to do with. She only knew they were best left unstirred.
Collecting her thoughts, she looked across from her and knew this was the moment she’d been waiting for.
“Aunt Adelicia, I—”
“Eleanor, dear, I—”
Having spoken in unison, they laughed.
Eleanor gestured. “Please . . .” But she really wished she could get her part over with first.
Aunt Adelicia offered a conceding tip of her head. “Eleanor, dear . . . as Dr. Cheatham stated so well, we’re grateful you’ve come to live with us, and we want you to feel at home here. Belmont will be your home for as long as you lik
e.”
Grateful, Eleanor hoped her expression communicated that.
“After all, your father was my late hus—” Aunt Adelicia’s voice caught, and she briefly firmed her lips. “Your father was my late husband’s dearest cousin,” she finished, her voice softer. “Joseph always spoke so highly of him.” She gave a faint laugh, the melancholy in her features lessening. “He told me countless times about all the trouble your father got him into when they were young.”
Eleanor smiled, sipping her coffee. “I’ve heard those same stories too, many times. And each time the risks grew greater.”
“And the punishments more severe.” Aunt Adelicia sighed, the sound full of memory. “You’ve done well, Eleanor. With your father, I mean. And taking care of the household, all of the responsibility resting on your shoulders. The past years have been hard . . . I know.”
Eleanor fingered the delicate handle of the cup. “It’s been . . . a challenge, at times.” She knew, too, that—despite the splendor of her current surroundings and the present happiness in this home—her aunt had endured her own weight of grief and responsibility throughout the years.
Aunt Adelicia held her gaze. “I’ve known you since you were eleven. And you’ve always been older than your years. You know that, don’t you? You were born an old soul, Eleanor. I recognized that in you from the start. Because the same was true for me.”
Eleanor bowed her head. “I’ve been aware of that quality in myself for a very long time. Maybe since childhood.” She lifted a shoulder, then let it fall. “I just never realized anyone else saw it.”
“I used to give Joseph a hard time about calling you Little Ellie. Especially when he continued it into your teen years.”
Eleanor exhaled a laugh. “By then, I was as tall as he was.”
“He always meant it as an endearment. I hope you knew that.”
“I did. Just as my father did when he too continued using it. But . . . my father hasn’t called me that in years. Which is only right, considering.” Eleanor smiled, more from a sense of obligation than humor.
She took a sip of coffee, but it had grown lukewarm.
A Beauty So Rare Page 7
