“I will stay in Nashville, Mayor Adler,” he said quietly. “And I will build that building.”
Adler laughed, moving back behind his desk. “That may be, Mr. Geoffrey. But you won’t do it with my city’s money. Which brings me to another issue. How is it that your bid was substantially lower than the rest?” His eyes narrowed. “It makes one wonder if you have other financial backing that you failed to disclose.”
“No other financial backing, sir. As I stated in my bid, which included confirmation of deposited funds with a bank in Boston, I simply planned to underwrite a portion of the project myself. It was—and is—that important to me.”
“Yes, we confirmed the funds, Mr. Geoffrey. But my question remains . . . How do you have the ability to fund such an expenditure? If not for undisclosed investors.”
Marcus’s mouth curved, no warmth in the gesture. He had no intention of revealing the source of his money to Mayor Adler. Doing so would reveal the ties to his family, which would reveal far too much. “With all respect, Mayor . . .” He paused. “How was it you phrased it? I feel no compulsion to offer an explanation in this instance.”
Mayor Adler stared, his displeasure palpable. “Lest I have been unclear . . . your architectural style has no place in this city. With the plans I have, Nashville stands to become the cultural focal point of the United States. Someday everyone in America will equate the exquisite beauty of Mozart, Beethoven, Rossini, and Verdi and all their masterful creations with this city. My city. But you, sir, will have no part in it.”
Wishing they were in Austria, Marcus enjoyed a fleeting moment of pleasure as he imagined what he would do to a man like Augustus Adler back home. How would Adler react if Marcus revealed who he really was? Even at such a distance, the House of Habsburg was not without power and influence. But the cost—
Marcus sobered from his imaginings. The cost was far too great. And the pleasure, too momentary. Having had enough, he turned to leave.
“And to confirm, Mr. Geoffrey . . .”
Hand on the latch, Marcus looked back.
“You have filed all the necessary permits for the projects your company is currently undertaking, haven’t you?”
Hearing the underlying threat, Marcus closed the distance between them again. “I have, Mayor Adler. As you’ll see if you take the time to check . . . sir.”
“I sincerely hope that’s the case.” Adler smiled. “Because here in Nashville, we like to do everything by the book.”
One last question churning inside him, Marcus knew the mayor would likely sidestep the issue, if not refuse to answer altogether. But he couldn’t leave without asking. “Mayor Adler, the article announced the project was awarded to Architectural Associates of Nashville, but it failed to name the owner of the company. I’m curious as to who—”
The side door opened, the door leading to the office of Mr. Barrett, the mayor’s assistant. But the much younger man striding into the room, project sketches in hand, wasn’t Mr. Barrett.
“Father, I’m wondering about the size of the balcony and whether the supports I’ve planned will sustain that much—”
“Everett!” Mayor Adler barked. “Not now.”
“But I need to know so I can tell the reporter from—”
“Not . . . now,” Adler repeated, blotches of red mottling his face.
Marcus stared, the pieces jarring into place, their jagged edges cutting as they did. The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on him.
Here he was, refusing to reveal the source of his money because he didn’t want his family name and influence to have any bearing on his success or failure—when in reality, the money being from his family, part of his inheritance, bore influence over whatever success or failure he had, at least to some extent. Just as Mayor Adler’s family had influenced his choices.
But Marcus had purposefully worked to keep his family out of the equation—whereas Mayor Adler had intentionally involved his.
At that moment, Everett turned and saw Marcus. The young man scowled. “Who are you?”
Marcus’s smile came more genuinely this time. “I’m a man who likes to do everything by the book.”
11
Eleanor rose with the sun, dressed quickly, then crept down to the kitchen, and—thanks to Cordina—ate a quick breakfast before the mansion began to stir. She wanted to get into town first thing, preferably without having to explain her destination to her aunt.
Satchel in hand, she felt mischievous as she gripped the knob of the front door and—
The handle turned beneath her palm. Eleanor took a cautious step back as the door opened.
“Oh!” Claire Monroe stopped short. “I’m so sorry, Miss Braddock,” the woman whispered. “I wasn’t expecting anyone to be up so early.”
“No, no, that’s fine.” Eleanor stepped to the side, keeping her voice low. “Come in, please.” She’d met her aunt’s liaison days earlier, and had liked her instantly. “I was just heading out before the family members awaken. I have some errands to run in town.”
Claire gave her a knowing look, and Eleanor wondered if the woman guessed who she was actually trying to avoid.
Then Claire smiled. “I don’t blame you one bit. Once the day starts around here, it’s likely to be noon before you’re given another chance to get a word in.”
Eleanor laughed softly. “Yes, precisely.”
Claire Monroe was a natural beauty—much like Aunt Adelicia—who seemed to exude vivacity and charm. Thick auburn curls, swept up and gracefully pinned, framed her face, and she seemed almost to glow from within.
Claire glanced past her, then leaned close. “I haven’t had opportunity to mention this to you yet, Miss Braddock, but—”
Eleanor touched her arm. “Eleanor, please.”
The young woman’s eyebrows raised. “If you’ll extend me the same courtesy?”
Eleanor nodded. “Indeed I will . . . Claire.”
Claire’s expression warmed. “What I wanted to tell you is that . . . as your aunt’s liaison, I assist with many of her personal affairs.” Compassion laced her features. “I hope you’re not upset by this, but . . . I’m aware of where your father is and of his . . . situation. I only share that with you now so you’re not surprised by my knowledge if it comes up later. I don’t want to appear as if I’ve been dishonest with you. That’s very important to me. And . . . I want you to know that I’m praying for you, Eleanor.” Claire’s eyes misted. “Even though I’ve not walked the exact road you’re walking right now, I do know what it’s like to watch a parent suffer. It’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.”
Eleanor’s eyes filled. Though she’d vowed to do her best to keep her father’s whereabouts secret, surprisingly, it didn’t bother her that Claire Monroe knew. She didn’t know Claire well, but if Aunt Adelicia trusted her . . .
“Thank you for that, Claire. Truly. And . . . thank you for your prayers. They mean so much.”
Now, if only God would answer them.
A while later, satchel in her grip, Eleanor slid the key into the lock at 87 Magnolia Street and stepped inside, more excited about her business proposition—cleaning the building—than she thought she’d be. But it wasn’t really about the cleaning. And though she did hope to recoup a portion of the rent she’d paid Mr. Stover—if he was able to rent the building again, which might happen faster if clean—it wasn’t solely about the money either.
Setting the satchel down, she looked around the dusty, dingy quarters.
She thought that God had shown her a purpose. Opening this restaurant had been a step toward pursuing what He had planned for her, or so she’d thought.
Apparently, she’d been mistaken. And slowly, she was reconciling herself to that fact. Just as she was reconciling herself to the other areas of her life that hadn’t turned out as she’d thought they would.
But one thing she knew, this building, including the kitchen in back, would sparkle like new once she was finished.
; She unpacked her apron and the cleaning supplies she’d purchased earlier that morning at the mercantile—an expense for which she hadn’t budgeted. But since coming to Belmont, it was clear she would be paying for very little. Aunt Adelicia wouldn’t hear of her spending her own money. So her funds were going to hold out better than she’d expected.
Eleanor smiled again, seeing the purchased packages of seeds tucked inside the satchel. Rosemary, thyme, basil, and oregano. Some of her father’s favorites. She could hardly wait to help him plant them.
She needed to mail the letter she’d written him—the second since he’d been at the asylum. He hadn’t responded to the first one. But that didn’t surprise her.
Yesterday’s letter from Dr. Crawford had contained encouraging news, however. Her father was acclimating well, the doctor reported, and he said she could visit as early as the following Monday, scarcely a week away.
A brief visit, he’d warned. But still, a visit.
She planned to go first thing Monday morning. She only hoped her father was as eager to see her as she was him.
Having spotted a broom, mop, and pail on her first visit to the building, Eleanor retrieved those from the kitchen, then wrestled water from the hand pump out back. For a moment, she thought the pump would win. But elbow grease, as Mr. Stover had called it, finally prevailed.
Once the pail was full, she set to work on the front room, sweeping and mopping. In no time, the water in the pail turned to sludgy brown, and she stopped counting the trips made out back to discard the dirty water and start afresh.
After three hours, she’d made meager progress and realized she’d far underestimated the time it would take to clean the front room alone, much less the entire building.
Sighing, she stood and stretched, her back and shoulder muscles aching. That morning, she’d accepted a second biscuit with ham from Cordina, and sat now—resting against the wall—and savored every bite, along with a teacake Cordina had sneaked in as well. Delicious.
The woman was so knowledgeable about cooking. Cordina had shared her recipe for the pork roast, but Eleanor sensed her hesitance to share more. Eleanor guessed her hesitance came in knowing that Aunt Adelicia would frown upon their recipe exchange.
Just as Eleanor knew her aunt would frown on what she was doing now.
Still, Adelicia Acklen Cheatham was a generous person at heart. In the past week alone, Eleanor read in a newspaper of her donating a bell to the First Presbyterian Church, and then read of her part in preparations to build a new tea hall for the Nashville Women’s League—although the reporter had taken a rather dim view of the project in his summary, subtly questioning the need for such a structure. But in spite of her aunt’s philanthropy, it was unlikely she would understand her niece’s desire to clean an old building.
Eleanor stood and brushed the crumbs from her skirt, careful the remnants dropped on the section of flooring she hadn’t cleaned yet. Through the still-grimy front windows, she could see murky images of people passing but couldn’t make out their features, much less tell if it was someone she knew. Although . . .
If Marcus Geoffrey were to pass the door right now, she was certain she’d know him, dirty glass or not. He’d fill the doorway, for one. Second, she’d recognize the confident—and most times, bordering on arrogant—manner in which he carried himself, as though he considered the rest of the world beneath him. Yet, she’d glimpsed moments when he seemed almost kindhearted, with his self-deprecating attitude and ability to draw her in.
She’d seen him from afar yesterday evening, working in a garden behind the conservatory. She hadn’t approached him, even though she’d wanted to. Her aunt would surely frown upon the fraternization, but Eleanor welcomed the interaction with someone outside the social sphere of Belmont.
Because in spite of her aunt’s efforts, that’s where she was, and where she’d always been. Outside the circle.
She decided to clean the kitchen to break up the monotony. And to dream. She worked on the large cast-iron stove and oven, scrubbing and wiping it down until it gleamed.
She couldn’t wait to use it. Whipping eggs for a savory custard until they were light and foamy, then folding in the cheese and herbs and tucking it all in a flaky pastry. She breathed deep, smelling only linseed soap and wet plank wood, but she had no trouble imagining the comforting aroma of still-warm buttermilk pie, its crust all flaky and golden, or the yeasty heaven of freshly baked bread. She enjoyed creating pastries, working with dough.
She eyed the iron skillets and pie tins lining the wall. “Your day is coming,” she whispered, wondering if she should make something to take to her father as well as cooking something for Mr. Stover.
She checked the watch hooked to her bodice, and found it was later than she’d expected.
She removed her soiled apron and fixed herself up as best she could, regretting now that she’d told Armstead she would walk home. But maybe the walk would help stretch the muscles she’d forgotten she had.
Satchel in hand, she locked the door behind her, frowning at the grimy windows. She needed a stool to clean those properly, and made mental note to bring one with her next time.
At midafternoon the streets weren’t as crowded as they’d been that morning. Mostly women and young children milled about now, many looking as though they had no destination. Or if they did, they weren’t in a hurry to reach it.
Feeling more at ease in the area, Eleanor decided to walk back a different way.
She passed warehouse after warehouse, many standing silent and empty, their darkened windows a reminder of a city still mending from war.
But when she turned the corner, she spotted one warehouse that was apparently mending quite well. In fact, the business looked as though it were thriving. A crew of workers near the front of the building was constructing a new entrance, and new signage was being installed above the large yet-to-be-stained double doors—Foster’s Textile Mill.
The pounding of hammers and rhythmic buzz of handsaws sounded almost like music compared to the lonely silence of previous streets. Not to mention the men’s banter and laughter as they worked.
Eleanor quickened her pace as she passed the workers. But glimpsing what had been built on either side of the entrance, she slowed again, imagining how much Marcus would approve. The large rectangular boxes were constructed of wood and filled with soil. For plants, no doubt.
Even though she didn’t disapprove, Eleanor shook her head. It seemed an odd place for a flower garden. And the time it would take to water and care for it . . . Not very practical here in the middle of the city.
A chorus of voices rose, and she looked down the street to see a group of people gathered around a staircase, a man addressing them from a platform above. She moved to get a closer look.
The group seemed to be made up exclusively of women, and though she couldn’t hear what the gentleman was saying, the women responded by raising their hands, many of them pressing toward the stairs, even pushing others out of the way.
An elderly woman was shoved to the side, and she slipped and fell. Eleanor rushed to help her.
“Are you all right, ma’am? Can I—”
“Get your hands off me,” the woman snapped, pushing her away and gaining her feet again. “You young ones, always shovin’ your way to the front, gettin’ the jobs. I can sew circles ’round the lot of you!”
Eleanor stepped back, mindful of other wary looks she was drawing, and of the unrest in the crowd.
The man called out from above, “You women I chose, make your way up the stairs. Mrs. Billings here will give you a thorough checking.”
Clutching her satchel, Eleanor stepped to the side, watching as six women climbed the stairs. All younger, just as the older woman had accused. The stern, matronly looking Mrs. Billings stood at the top of the stairs, her hands gloved.
The first young woman stopped just shy of the landing and bowed her head. Eleanor cringed as Mrs. Billings searched the woman’s hair, then waved h
er on through the door behind her.
With the sixth woman, Mrs. Billings paused and stepped back. “Lice!”
“Please,” the young woman cried, grabbing hold of Mrs. Billings’s skirt. “I have children to feed. I—”
Mrs. Billings stepped back. “I’m sorry,” she said stiffly. “There are rules.”
The young woman, openly weeping, retraced her steps, pressing a hand to her hair and turning away from the others, barely able to get through the crush of women pressing forward again.
“You!” the man called, pointing.
Another young woman clambered up, her breath coming hard. “I’m clean,” she said, bowing her head. “And I’ll work hard.”
After checking her hair, Mrs. Billings waved her on through.
With that, the door closed, and the crowd began to disperse. But Eleanor couldn’t move. A weight held her feet to the patch of earth where she stood as surely as if she’d been planted there.
She exhaled, unaware she’d been holding her breath. If not for the grace of God . . . was all she could think.
And yet, God didn’t love her any more than He loved these women. And heaven knew, she’d done nothing to deserve her present living situation. “You live at the Belmont estate now, and you’re the niece of the wealthiest woman in America.”
Marcus’s words returned with painful clarity as Eleanor watched the women walk away. By God’s grace, she was niece to Adelicia Acklen Cheatham. But being the recipient of her aunt’s graciousness when confronted by such want and need . . .
She felt a sense of shame—and at the same time, overwhelming gratitude. The two emotions didn’t marry well inside her and birthed an unease that reached deep.
She searched for the woman who had been turned away. But she was gone. Only a handful were left, most standing about, speaking ill of the man and Mrs. Billings. Only one woman walked away alone. She had a . . . presence about her. What, Eleanor couldn’t describe exactly.
But suddenly, the roots securing her feet to the ground gave release.
12
A Beauty So Rare Page 14
