“Ah, I see.” He bowed at the waist. “Good morning, Mrs. Cheatham.”
“Guten Morgen, Herr Geoffrey,” she said pointedly.
“Guten Morgen, Frau Cheatham.”
“Oh, I adore European accents.”
“And I find the accent of the American South especially charming, madam.”
She shook her head. “American accents are nothing by comparison. But you are gracious to say as much. I appreciate your coming this morning, as I requested. As Mr. Gray informed you, I’m sure, I had wished to speak to you about the special rose you are grafting for me.” She sneaked in a dazzling smile. “But as it turns out, there is an idea I desire to present to you, Mr. Geoffrey. And in that regard, your timing this morning is impeccable. But we mustn’t dally. A group of ladies is scheduled to arrive for a meeting shortly. So if you’ll join me in the library”—she motioned—“I give you my word, this won’t take long.”
Marcus followed, his curiosity not so much roused as his guard was raised. It occurred to him that she might ask him to take over the construction of the new billiard hall. But the thought of coming in midstream on a project wasn’t enticing. Especially with the setbacks they’d experienced.
She’d admitted to him early on that if he’d arrived before she’d taken bids for the project, he likely would have been chosen for the job. While flattered, to an extent, Marcus was fairly certain he did not want to be in Mrs. Cheatham’s direct employ. Designing a flower for her was one thing. Constructing a building to her liking would be another. And her reasoning for having the art gallery torn down nearly a year ago—because it interfered with her view—only confirmed his opinion.
He stepped into the library and was surprised to find Mr. Monroe, Mrs. Cheatham’s personal attorney, already there.
Monroe offered his hand. “Mr. Geoffrey, good to see you again.”
“You as well, Mr. Monroe.” Marcus glanced between him and Mrs. Cheatham, even more curious now about this idea she desired to present. Especially if she needed legal counsel present.
Monroe smiled as though reading his thoughts. “Not to worry, Mr. Geoffrey. You’re not about to be served with a summons. My being here is strictly coincidental.”
“Oh yes, indeed.” Mrs. Cheatham claimed her chair behind the desk and indicated for them to sit as well. “Mr. Monroe is helping me stave off the Federal government’s excessive taxation of my property.” She scoffed softly. “The war is long past, but Washington, D.C., continues to treat some of us as though we’re Southern sympathizers. I’m afraid the same is true of local government. They’re ready to tax or take at every turn.” She shook her head. “The North still doesn’t trust us.”
Monroe gave a brief laugh. “And do you trust them, Mrs. Cheatham?”
“By no means,” she quickly countered, then smiled. “But that’s different. I’m in the right.”
Even Marcus had to smile at that.
Monroe turned to him. “I’m glad our visits happened to coincide this morning, Mr. Geoffrey. I’ve wanted to thank you for allowing my wife to bring her students to paint some of your recent . . . creations, I guess we’d call them. Mrs. Monroe came home raving about the new varieties and colors of roses that now fill the conservatory.”
Marcus gave a nod, remembering how he’d purposefully steered Mrs. Monroe and the children away from his grafting room and outdoor garden, not wanting one of the children to accidentally pluck something they shouldn’t. “Creations is a strong word for what I do. It’s more a process of repetition and discovery. I merely take what the Almighty has created and . . . alter it a little.”
“Well, well . . .” Mrs. Cheatham smiled. “I didn’t realize European men could be so humble, Mr. Geoffrey.”
Marcus laughed, despite himself. “Only those who have worked with nature enough to know how truly magnificent and boundless it is in design, and how little we actually understand about it.”
Mrs. Cheatham dipped her head in acknowledgment. “Well stated, Mr. Geoffrey. Again, I appreciate your responding so quickly to my request for a visit. Mr. Monroe being here makes it all the easier too. But first, I hope you still find the facilities here at Belmont to your liking. The conservatory, the watering system, the plot of land I’ve loaned to you at no expense.”
Marcus eyed her for a brief second, sensing she was up to something. “Yes, madam. Belmont’s facilities are beyond question the finest I could ask for. As is the weather in this part of your lovely country.”
She beamed. “While I can’t take credit for the weather, I’m so pleased our arrangement continues to remain satisfactory for you. Because it certainly remains so for me.”
Marcus knew when he was being set up, even by one as skillful in persuasion as Adelicia Acklen Cheatham.
A quick glance beside him found Mr. Monroe looking his way, and the faintest grin on the man’s face told him that Sutton Monroe not only knew what was going on, but he knew what Marcus was thinking too—which made the situation all the more interesting.
So Marcus settled in for the show. His only question . . .
What could such a woman—whose personal attorney was present and already so well informed—possibly want from him?
The lower the address numbers went, the rougher the neighborhood and its residents became, and the tighter Eleanor clutched her reticule. She didn’t have an abundance of money. But what little she had, she had on her person. Which, in hindsight, hadn’t been the wisest choice.
She’d slipped from the mansion straightaway after breakfast, not wanting to risk being cornered by the gathering of her aunt’s friends. Aunt Adelicia had been civil enough about her not attending the meeting today, though her pensive frown had spoken volumes.
Pedestrians and wagons crowded the streets, along with a surprising number of children, many of them young—and so thin, their eyes large with hunger. Several times, as people passed, they bumped her without so much as a backward glance, much less a “Pardon me,” and even in her simple shirtwaist and skirt, Eleanor felt overdressed.
She heard German and Italian being spoken, and caught several Irish accents coloring the mix. Only one street over, rows of warehouses dwarfed the smaller business establishments, and weathered shingles above the doors made the addresses difficult to read. Many of the buildings weren’t numbered at all, which only made the search more challenging.
One-seventeen, one-thirteen . . .
The longer she went without locating the building, the more she feared Aunt Adelicia’s prediction about the building owner would prove true. And she loathed the thought of appearing the fool to Adelicia Cheatham.
After an early breakfast, she’d managed to slip away, thankful her aunt understood, or at least accepted, her missing the women’s meeting. She hadn’t asked what errand sent Eleanor out so early in the morning but, with lingering disapproval, insisted she take a carriage. Eleanor preferred to walk and needed the exertion. She hadn’t slept well, and it was only two miles from Belmont into town, but under the circumstances, she’d agreed.
She had, however, instructed Armstead to let her off a few streets away, near the little bakery she’d seen yesterday—Fitch’s Bakery. Not only so she could walk, but because she didn’t want Armstead knowing where she was going—especially if the building proved to be a rattletrap. Or worse, nonexistent.
Hearing a familiar sound amidst the hubbub of the city, she paused. The music took her back to a place she didn’t want to go. But the melancholy strains of the fiddle refused to be deterred, and before she knew it she was inside the canvas walls of the field hospital again, listening to the soldiers outside the tent as they gathered round the campfires and played, singing sad refrains of home and of loved ones dearly missed.
She breathed in, certain she could smell the acrid smoke.
“ ‘Black is the color of my true love’s hair,’ ” the man sang in a twangy voice, the roots of his heritage shaping both the notes and their soulfulness. “ ‘Her cheeks are like the rosy fair . . . The pret
tiest eyes and daintiest hands . . . I love the ground where on she stands . . .’ ”
Unable to resist, Eleanor moved closer, peering over the crowd of people gathered to see a ragtag band of musicians. The man singing was an amputee, his empty shirt sleeve tucked into the waist of his trousers. She couldn’t help but wonder if she’d been with him when they’d taken his arm. There had been so many . . . too many.
When the song finally ended, the fiddler drew out the final note, its strain bittersweet. Not a person moved. Even the air dared not stir. The singer bowed his head, and for a moment, only the clink of coins in a cup could be heard. Then as quickly as the melancholy strains had laid them all bare, the fiddle came alive again, as did the singer and the other musicians with him.
With the fiddle leading the way, a banjo and zither joined in, then a mouth bow. Eleanor had to laugh when the man who’d been singing started dancing, kicking his legs up and moving faster and with greater dexterity than she would have imagined. His missing arm didn’t hinder his balance a bit.
“ ‘If it hadn’t been for cotton-eyed Joe,’ ” the man sang, the words coming so fast she could scarcely understand them. “‘I’d been married long time ago. Where did you come from? Where did you go? Where did you come from, cotton-eyed Joe?’ ”
The crowd started clapping. Whoops and hollers went up. Even Eleanor found herself tapping her foot in time to the music and swaying. It was impossible to stay still. Judging by the expressions around her, others felt the same. It was the furthest thing from Mozart or Beethoven, but something about the spirit of this music—the chords, and the tempo—touched her down deep.
This music . . . made people happy.
When the song ended, applause filled the sudden silence. Eleanor worked her way through the crowd and deposited some coins into the cup, nodding to the singer when he thanked her.
Returning to her search, she continued on—heart and steps lighter—peering at the numbers as she went.
Ninety-three, ninety-one . . .
She paused to check the cross street—Dogwood. She had to be close. The building couldn’t be much—
“Help you find somethin’, sweetheart’?”
Eleanor looked in the direction of the voice and saw a man staring at her. Two others alongside him looked on, their sneers anything but friendly.
“No.” She squared her shoulders. “That won’t be necessary.”
“You sure?” He moved toward her, his mouth curving in an unseemly slant. “’Cause you look lost to me. And ah . . .” He stepped closer. His gaze raked over her body—pausing briefly on her reticule—before meeting her eyes again. “I’m a man who knows his way around a woman, if you get my meanin’.”
Getting his meaning as well as a pungent idea of the number of weeks since his last bath, Eleanor took a backward step—and met with the brick wall behind her. She glanced past the men, and became keenly aware of how empty the street was. And of how alone they were.
The man staring down at her was massively built, taller than she, and thick through the chest. But it was the desperate look about him that put her most on edge.
Eleanor moved to skirt past him, but he grabbed her upper arm. She jerked back, and he held tight.
“Maybe you didn’t understand me,” he said, this time looking pointedly at her reticule. “I’m curious to know what you got in there. And”—his eyes narrowed—“what you got in that pocket of yours.”
Eleanor stilled, the worn fabric between her fingertips swiftly registering. She withdrew the stained handkerchief from her pocket. With it came memories, and an unexpected spark of courage. “I assisted in a surgical tent in the war. A soldier gave this to me during the Battle of Nashville . . . as I watched him die.”
The brazenness in the man’s eyes faltered for a second, and that was all she needed.
Wrenching her arm from his grip, she reached for bravado she didn’t feel, and leached every trace of kindness from her voice. “So while I understand you quite well, sir . . . perhaps you did not understand me. When I say I do not require your assistance, that is precisely what I meant.”
Not waiting for his response, she pushed past him and strode on, resisting the urge to look back to see if he was following. She strode to the next block, heart thumping, grateful to see other people ahead, and only then did she glance behind her.
No sign of the men.
She hurried on, reading the addresses but more discreetly this time.
There. Just ahead. That had to be it. Eighty-seven Magnolia Street. The address had sounded so charming in the newspaper advertisement. But as Eleanor approached her destination, she wondered if 87 Selenicereus Grandiflorus might not have been a better choice.
She was tempted to smile at the memory the comparison stirred, but as she stood in front of the building, all frivolity fled. Mindful of the wagons in the street, she paused to get a better look.
At least the building existed. That much was good.
But it was a far cry from what she’d imagined. It was not the “excellent opportunity for a thriving business or enterprising restaurateur” the advertisement had boasted.
Still, the wood-plank structure wasn’t leaning to one side, as were its neighbors, and its large glass windows, though caked in dirt, were intact. Same for the windows on the second floor. The ones she could see, anyway.
She tried the front door but, as she’d expected, found it locked. She sighed and peered through the layers of grime and dirt, and felt a tickle of possibility. Or what might have been a possibility, if things had worked out differently.
The front room would have made a wonderful dining area. She could imagine tables draped in simple red-and-white-checked cloths, and sturdy straight-back chairs. Nothing fancy. That wasn’t the point. The point was the food, and cooking, and feeding people, and finding a way to a better life. A life with more meaning and purpose, that would also provide for her and her father.
“Sorry, ma’am, but the building’s already rented. That’s why there’s no sign in the window.”
Eleanor straightened and turned.
A stout little man staggered back a step. “Lawd have mercy, you’re a tall woman!”
Maybe it was due to what had happened a moment earlier or perhaps it was watching her dream fade to nothing through a grimy plate-glass window, but Eleanor found her humor in short supply.
“Yes, sir. I am tall. While you”—she looked him up and down, which didn’t take long—“are decidedly not.”
He frowned as though shocked at her rebuttal, then let out a barking laugh. “And you’re quick too! I like me some sass in a woman. Though, no offense to you, ma’am, I like my women shorter.” He waggled his thick gray eyebrows. “Where I can cozy up to ’em better.”
Eleanor stared, the pieces falling painfully into place. “Mr. Stover, I presume?”
He frowned again. “Yes, ma’am. But how did . . .” His eyes widened. His gaze slid from hers down to her feet then slowly back up again, not a trace of inappropriateness in the act. “Miss Braddock?”
“Yes, sir. Eleanor Braddock. It’s a . . . pleasure to meet you, Mr. Stover.”
“Well, I’ll be—” He clamped his mouth shut, then laughed again. “I gotta give it to you, ma’am. You surprised the daylights outta me. And call me Stub, if you want. Everybody else does. Guess you’re here to see your building. Come on in. She’s a beaut!”
Eleanor started to correct him about it being her building. But seeing that he’d already unlocked the door . . . would it hurt to look around before she explained her situation?
If the man had recognized her last name or knew of her relation to Adelicia Cheatham, he’d never made mention of it. And she wasn’t about to make the connection for him.
He gave the door a push and, to her surprise, motioned for her to enter first. Perhaps there was a little gentleman in him, after all. She couldn’t help but smile at the pun.
Walking off his frustration, Marcus made his way across tow
n, still coming to grips with what Adelicia Cheatham had asked him to do. And that he’d agreed to do it! It was approaching midmorning, and wagons and carriages clogged the streets, vying for passage at a hasty clip.
He had to admit, the woman was, by far, one of the best negotiators he’d ever had the pleasure—and slight displeasure, at the moment—of meeting.
And her secret—he’d learned too late—was patience.
No telling how long she’d been planning this, waiting for the opportune time to spring the idea on him. Although, he reluctantly acknowledged, for months now he’d been getting the better end of their arrangement.
But today all that had changed with her request.
Designing and installing a garden wasn’t the main issue. Although designing gardens for rich women wasn’t high on his list of priorities, he could easily accomplish the task. And the extra work would present a challenge if his firm was awarded the contract to build the opera house, but his company could handle both projects.
No, the real issue was where Mrs. Cheatham wanted the garden designed and installed. He almost laughed thinking of how it would look on his résumé. Or better yet, in Nashville’s Daily Banner.
He could see the headline now—AUSTRIAN ARCHITECT DESIGNS GARDENS FOR THE INSANE.
He crossed the street, heading in the direction of Foster’s Textile Mill, where his crew would already be at work. Determined to put the meeting with Mrs. Cheatham out of his mind, he moved his focus to the day’s work. The renovation of the textile mill and warehouse was nearly complete. All they needed to do was install the new front entrance and put up the—
His thoughts broke rein, and he shook his head. The Tennessee Asylum for the Insane. Every time he thought of the place Adelicia Cheatham wanted him to construct a garden, he relived the scene in her office. . . .
“I want you to create a beauty spot, Mr. Geoffrey,” she’d explained. “That’s what my father used to call gardens, God rest him. Every place needs one, and the asylum needs one desperately. Oh, and a small plot for a vegetable garden too. I visited the institution not long ago, and the place is all brick and stone and mortar. Hardly a setting conducive for healing body and soul.”
A Beauty So Rare Page 10
