A Beauty So Rare

by Tamera Alexander

  Judging from the blank look on Marcus’s face, he was equally surprised.

  “Well,” he said softly. His smile didn’t come as easily this time. “I don’t wish to wear out my welcome. I hope you enjoy your doughnuts, Miss Braddock. Good day to you, madam.”

  He downed a quick drink of coffee, then deposited his mug on the counter, waving to Mr. Fitch as he left.

  Eleanor peered out the window, watching him until he disappeared from sight, a part of her regretting what she’d said. And yet she didn’t know why.

  She hoped he wouldn’t mention anything to Aunt Adelicia about the building, or her having a key. But then, it was doubtful Adelicia Cheatham was on a first-name basis with any of her under gardeners.

  Seeking comfort, she sank her teeth into a warm, sugary fried little piece of heaven.

  Closing her eyes, she chewed. And savored.

  Delicious didn’t begin to describe it. She took another bite. Who needed men when there was such food? She might’ve smiled at the thought if there’d been the least hope of her dream of owning a restaurant ever coming true.

  Finished with the first doughnut, she studied the second, while considering a third. She looked around the bakery. If this was the competition, she might as well go ahead and hang up her pots, pans, and pie tins.

  Not that she had any other choice.

  Marcus read the headline on Monday morning’s Republican Banner and, at first, he couldn’t believe it. So he read it again—and disappointment hit him square in the chest. Followed swiftly by anger.

  He scanned the article beneath the banner—MAYOR AWARDS NEW PROJECT—and his blood began to simmer.

  He pushed back from the table and stood. He’d known this was a possibility. Over the past few days, he’d simply come to think that—

  Well, it didn’t matter now what he’d thought.

  “Mr. Geoffrey! How are you this fine . . .” Mrs. Taylor, the proprietress of the boardinghouse, at least twenty years his senior, took a step back. Her eyes widened. “I hope that stormy expression isn’t aimed at me, Mr. Geoffrey. Or a reaction to the breakfast served you just now?”

  Marcus sighed. “No, madam. Everything was excellent, as always. But if you don’t mind”—he held up the newspaper—“I’d like to borrow this for the morning.”

  “Certainly.” She reached to clear his dishes. “Oh! A parcel and a letter arrived for you a moment ago. The parcel came special delivery. From Boston, I believe, sir. It’s on the bookcase in the hallway.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Taylor.” Hoping the package contained what Luther Burbank had promised to send him—almost a month ago—Marcus headed for the entrance hall.

  The last time he was with the gifted botanist, Burbank had commented, “Those who are making history, Mr. Geoffrey, seldom have time to record it.” And while Marcus agreed that journaling results was tedious work, he was convinced the key to what they were searching for was in the details. Somewhere . . .

  As he’d hoped, the package was from Burbank. But the letter—Marcus stiffened as he opened the nondescript outer envelope only to find another sealed envelope within—was from the baroness. Her third in as many weeks. Baroness Albrecht von Haas’s missives were becoming more frequent and insistent in tone, always inquisitive as to the exact date of his return, and as to why he didn’t respond more promptly to her letters. Especially given, as she phrased it, “. . . the bliss of our impending nuptials, my darling.”

  The familiar ache in the back of his head began to thrum.

  In his room, he quickly set aside the letter, then opened the package and leafed through a notebook containing scribbled captions alongside fairly well-sketched drawings. Thankfully, Burbank’s attention to sketching was better than that of note taking, and Marcus looked forward to reviewing the man’s findings in greater detail.

  But for now, he unfolded the single page of stationery on the top and read the script.

  Dear Mr. Geoffrey,

  I received your correspondence dated July 30 and reviewed it with great eagerness. Indeed, your findings regarding the potato grafts are not dissimilar to my own. However, I have every reason to believe that a recent graft I made from two lesser-known varieties will prove most successful, and may very well be the answer for which both of us have been searching.

  Enclosed are my own field notes, hastily penned though they are, and in sad condition compared to yours. I will write again with news—hopefully of a celebratory nature—once the plants have matured.

  Grateful for our partnership,

  Luther Burbank

  Marcus stared at the words, and even as he felt a spark of hope over Burbank’s promising accomplishment and what it would mean for millions of people around the world, he felt his own hope deflate. First the mayor’s announcement in the newspaper, and now this. Were both of his aspirations destined for failure?

  Disappointment fueling his frustration, he stowed the collection of field notes in the trunk at the foot of his bed and turned to leave . . . but saw the unopened letter from the baroness on the dresser. He debated, then . . . feeling only the slightest twinge of guilt, he locked the door to the room behind him and headed to the mayor’s office seven blocks away.

  He’d gone a full two blocks before a thought occurred to him about Burbank’s potential discovery. A thought that both encouraged and shamed him. How many times had he thought he’d found the exact graft that would produce a better, more disease-resistant potato, only to be disappointed when, once the plant matured, he unearthed not what he’d been hoping for, but the same shrunken clusters of blighted tubers instead?

  So just because Burbank thought he’d found the answer didn’t mean he had. Still, the man’s instincts when it came to plants were remarkable. He was gifted.

  As he walked, Marcus sorted out the twists life had thrown him this morning and tried to focus his thoughts. He found the task helped along by a recurring image of Miss Braddock—Eleanor—who had been the subject of many a thought in the handful of days since their chance encounter in town.

  He pictured her standing in front of that dreary little clapboard building, stately shoulders back, expression defiant, and he found himself wanting to see her again. Which was precisely why he’d made no attempt to do so.

  But he couldn’t stop thinking about what she’d said to him before they’d parted ways. It had struck closer to home than she could have imagined. “Madam does not appreciate being compared to a group of pompous, self-centered people . . .”

  Every word from her lips had sliced. And the knowledge that she didn’t know the truth about him made her stated opinion even more painful.

  But one thing he knew wasn’t true . . .

  Contrary to the second half of her statement, he was attempting to make a meaningful contribution to others’ lives. Albeit he wasn’t having great success at the moment. . . .

  Whatever her connection to the property, he’d witnessed no change in the building when he’d passed by yesterday afternoon. But perhaps if living at the boardinghouse became unbearable—a trace of humor softened his frustration—he could request she rent a room to him. Imagining her reaction lightened the unseen weight on his shoulders.

  He passed the bakery and something else she’d said returned on a whisper. “Shouldn’t you be off planting a tree or making something more beautiful?” Remembering her sarcastic remark encouraged a smile.

  While it also . . . didn’t.

  He liked being seen as a common man in her eyes, so that wasn’t the bothersome part. He also liked that she seemed to be warming to him, at least a little. Or perhaps she was simply being kind to her “aunt’s under gardener.”

  Whichever proved to be the case . . . when the timing was right, when he was through having his fun, he would clear up her little misassumption.

  No, what bothered him was the possibility of her discovering who he really was, who he had been. Not his connection to the House of Habsburg. The title of Archduke would matter little to
a woman like Eleanor Braddock in the long run. Oh, she might be impressed at first. Then again, as he recalled what she’d said, likely not.

  But when it came to the man he’d been as archduke . . .

  If she ever learned about his less-than-discreet relationships, if she knew the truth about his . . . “romantic escapades,” as the newspaper had phrased it, her opinion of him would be colored. Or more rightly, cast in shadow. And that did bother him. To think of her, thinking less of him.

  He didn’t know Eleanor Braddock well, not as well as he’d like. But—wisest choice or not—he wanted to. Very much.

  What was it young Caleb Lebenstein had said? That it was the person behind the name that made the man who he really was. Marcus sighed. If only that would prove true for him.

  He paused briefly at the corner and waited for a line of carriages to pass, a thought surfacing that would have been considered traitorous if given voice in Austria. . . .

  Could a man who had been defined by his title and family history for the better part of his life have a second chance to make his life—and himself—better without it?

  He’d imagined life without the weight of expectation that accompanied being in the lineage of the House of Habsburg, many times. What he’d never considered was that he might actually be a better man without it. That possibility was new to the equation.

  Everything had always come so easily for him. Either that, or things had been given to him on a silver platter, as the saying went. But he had a feeling that this unlikely renovation of the man he wanted to be would prove to be more extensive, and costly, than first met the eye.

  And it would end up being all for naught once he returned to Vienna in June. To his old life—and new bride.

  Spotting the mayor’s office ahead, Marcus gathered his wits, framing what he wanted to say to the mayor—if he could keep his temper under control.

  10

  Now, ladies, let each of us take the delicate strands of hair and wrap them ever so gently, but firmly, around the piece of wire given you. . . .”

  Eleanor sat at her braiding table—one of twelve Aunt Adelicia had purchased for the event—and stared at the gathered strands of hair arranged on the cloth atop the silver tray before her.

  Huddled over their own tables placed around Aunt Adelicia’s central parlor, the other women giggled like schoolgirls as they attempted to follow Mr. Mark Campbell’s tedious—and never-ending—instructions. When did the man breathe?

  In addition to the braiding tables, Aunt Adelicia had generously purchased a dozen copies of the gentleman’s book, which was succinctly entitled, Self-Instructor in the Art of Hair Work, Dressing Hair, Making Curls, Switches, Braids, and Hair Jewelry of Every Description, and Mr. Campbell had insisted on signing each one.

  “This will form the basis of the square chain braid, my dear ladies,” he continued, “which is the easiest braid, and by far the most handsome, if I may say. And one that should be practiced to perfection before trying any other, as it will enable the beginner to execute all others after the first is perfected.”

  Eleanor looked at the clock on the mantel, more than willing to pluck every strand of hair from her head if her aunt would simply accept that these types of gatherings were not for her.

  She sighed.

  Aunt Adelicia had spoken with her again about joining the Nashville Women’s League, the contingent of women that met in town, and Eleanor had finally agreed to visit. Not only to appease her aunt but also to have reason to go into town when the need arose. And the need would be presenting itself.

  Her gaze wandered out the window to the gardens, and she yearned to see her father again, to hear from him personally. Dr. Cheatham had visited the asylum, as promised, and reported that her father was “coping with his new surroundings as best could be expected.”

  Not overly promising news.

  It hadn’t been a full week yet, though, and she hoped any day to hear from Dr. Crawford, granting permission for her to visit.

  Her focus moved beyond the gardens in the direction of the conservatory, and she wondered if he was there, full well knowing it was best she not wonder about him at all. Still . . .

  At her aunt’s encouragement, she’d taken a walk every afternoon, and somehow, each time she’d ended up at the conservatory. “I’m simply stepping inside to check the roses,” she’d told Zeke when he’d asked. Yet she knew better.

  And that was just it, she did know better.

  She knew Marcus had been there because, when she peeked into his “infirmary,” as she thought of it, plants and bottles and whatnot had been moved. And Mr. Gray himself had told her that the room was designated for Marcus’s purposes alone.

  So he’d been there but had made no attempt to cross paths with her. Not that he should. Or should want to—

  “Miss Braddock, are you having some difficulty? I’d be most happy to assist, if that’s the case.”

  Startled, Eleanor looked up to see Mr. Campbell hovering overhead, his thick mustache looming even larger from the low angle. Aware of him looking at something in her lap, only then did she realize she’d withdrawn the worn, stained handkerchief from her pocket. She quickly stuffed it back inside.

  “Ah . . . no, sir,” she answered, trying to form an intelligible response. She’d been taught to always tell the truth, but at times the truth seemed cruel. Especially when sensing his sincerity. She felt badly now about her earlier thoughts. “I’m sorry, Mr. Campbell, but . . . I’m afraid I simply don’t . . .”

  His brow crinkled. The enthusiasm in his face waned. And looking up at him, Eleanor had an epiphany. This man was doing what he truly loved to do. His delight in his work showed in his actions, his speech, in his two-hundred-and-seventy-six-page personally autographed book, and even in the way he moved about the room, almost flitting—in a somewhat manly sort of way—from table to table.

  She found herself envious of him.

  “I’m afraid, sir,” she began again, realizing there was much she could learn from him, even if she cared not one iota about the art of hair work, “that my mind wandered for a bit. I’m not quite certain where to begin.”

  His face positively lit. “Well, my dear Miss Braddock, let me guide you! It’s so very easy, even for a beginner such as yourself.”

  As he outlined the steps, Eleanor felt someone’s attention and briefly lifted her gaze. Seated across the room from her, Aunt Adelicia simply smiled.

  Eleanor watched Mr. Campbell and caught on quickly. He moved on to the next pupil with a spryer step, and she continued weaving and looping, letting her thoughts do much the same.

  Yesterday as they’d returned home from church in town, Eleanor had half expected Aunt Adelicia to inquire about the building she’d rented. But not a word. And she wasn’t about to broach the subject. With her aunt’s ever-full social calendar guiding her days, Eleanor hadn’t gotten back into town to fulfill her “business proposition” to Mr. Stover, but she would.

  She also wanted to cook in Eloise’s, or Weezie’s, kitchen . . . at least once. She missed cooking, the comfort and solace it gave her, and didn’t think Mr. Stover would mind. She knew just what she would bake for him too.

  A knock sounded on the door, and Mrs. Routh entered, envelope in hand. “Pardon me for interrupting, Mrs. Cheatham.”

  The housekeeper glanced in Eleanor’s direction, and Eleanor couldn’t keep her hope from rising.

  “A letter arrived for Miss Braddock. One for which I believe she’s been waiting.”

  “Miss Thornton, under no circumstances am I to be disturbed today. By anyone. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir. Perfectly, sir.”

  The door to Mayor Adler’s office stood open, and Marcus stood just outside it.

  An impatient exhale. “And where is my coffee?”

  “I’ll get it right away, sir.”

  Hearing the rustle of skirts, Marcus stepped to one side as Miss Thornton exited the office in a rush. Distress lined her featu
res. And more so once she saw him.

  Not wanting her to be blamed, Marcus quickly moved inside the office and closed the door. “Mayor Adler, a word with you, sir.”

  Seated at his desk, the mayor stilled, then slowly looked up, whispering something unintelligible beneath his breath. “Mr. Geoffrey . . . I expected a visit from you today.”

  “As I gathered just now when you said you weren’t to be disturbed.”

  Mayor Adler’s jaw hardened. “Now, see here, sir! I have every right as mayor of this city to choose the architect who I believe will do the best job.”

  “Yes, sir, you do.” Marcus approached his desk. “But you also had an agreement with the four companies who placed the original bids that they would be notified before the announcement was made public. Professional consideration, you said.”

  Adler stood. “I cannot be held responsible for a newspaper that publishes a story prematurely.”

  “Even when you’re quoted in that article . . . Mayor?”

  Adler’s face flushed. He moved from behind his desk. “This is America, Mr. Geoffrey. And I am mayor of this city. I do not answer to you, and I feel no compulsion to offer an explanation in this instance. If you do not like the way business is conducted here, may I suggest there are other cities in which you may seek to build your building with its . . . ‘integration of structure and nature.’ ” He gave a harsh laugh. “And with what you describe as . . . ‘tree-like columns.’ ”

  The final three words hit Marcus like a physical blow, and jerked him back to a similar conversation he’d had years ago. With his father. “Your designs, Marcus . . .” His father had taken him by the shoulders. “They’re fantastical, my son. It cannot be done. Build what you already know, what Austria and all of Europe expects. Then, perhaps, you will earn some respect.”

  But it could be done. Marcus knew. He’d known it for almost a decade. It simply hadn’t been done yet.