A Beauty So Rare

by Tamera Alexander

  Eleanor lifted her head. “Does he know I have no dowry?”

  The look on her aunt’s face said it all.

  “You didn’t tell him.”

  “As your nearest relatives, Dr. Cheatham and I will have the honor of providing that on your behalf.”

  And yet you wouldn’t give me a loan to start a business, was all Eleanor could think in the moment. She didn’t dare say it aloud, but she also couldn’t bring herself to thank her aunt.

  Aunt Adelicia rose, oil lamp in hand. “It would be in keeping with etiquette for you to write a letter to Mr. Hockley, expressing your gratitude for his attention and invitation.” She patted Eleanor’s hand. “But we can discuss all this at greater length once we’re both rested.”

  Eleanor accompanied her to the door. Perhaps it was well-entrenched decorum rearing its politely irritating head, but she couldn’t let her aunt leave with such tension between them. “I appreciate the thought behind what you’re doing, Aunt Adelicia. Or what you’re trying to do. But believe me when I say, I will hold no ill will toward you or Dr. Cheatham when after our dinner Mr. Hockley promptly withdraws his design to get to know me better.”

  In the orange glow of the lamp’s flame, her aunt’s expression remained unyielding. “I gave your father my word that I would see you married, Eleanor. And married well. And I fully intend to keep that promise.”

  “You made that vow to a feebleminded man who was losing grip on his faculties. One who never should have written that letter.”

  “No, my dear,” her aunt whispered, pressing the letter into her palm. “I made that vow to a father who dearly loves his daughter, and who was looking out for her future even as he saw his own slipping away.”

  14

  Seeing the asylum again, Eleanor felt her stomach churn. Scarcely two weeks had passed since she’d brought her father there, yet it felt like much longer.

  She accepted Armstead’s assistance from the carriage, then waited as he retrieved her satchel, reminding herself to deliver the envelope Dr. Cheatham had asked her to give to Dr. Crawford. Dr. Cheatham’s wise counsel that morning at breakfast still resonated within her. She only hoped the meeting with her father went well enough that she wouldn’t have to put it to use.

  She was grateful neither Dr. Cheatham nor Aunt Adelicia had broached the subject of Mr. Lawrence Hockley again. She prayed the entire situation would fade to nothing, regardless of her aunt’s wishes.

  Though powerful and influential, even Adelicia Cheatham had her limits.

  Eleanor stared up at the four-story brick building with its rows of windows spaced in perfect symmetry and tried to guess which one belonged to her father, or if his window overlooked a different vista.

  She hoped his anger toward her had softened. But if not, maybe the savory custard she’d brought would serve as a peace offering.

  Cordina had turned a blind eye to her sneaking into the kitchen earlier that morning. If the definition of turning a blind eye included setting out the exact bowls and utensils needed to make the custard, as well as leaving instructions on where to find any forgotten ingredients. Such a kind woman . . . And such a delightful place in which to cook.

  Beautiful murals adorned the brick walls, lending the space an airy, open feel. She’d noticed them briefly before but hadn’t taken the time to really study them until that morning. A person could almost forget they were in the basement. Leave it to Aunt Adelicia to have such masterpieces painted in the kitchen.

  When Cordina had told her who was responsible for the murals, Eleanor had been equally surprised. Claire Monroe, her aunt’s liaison, was truly gifted with the ability to paint.

  Cooking again, even that little bit, had felt so good, and Eleanor looked forward to the possibility of using the kitchen in Mr. Stover’s building a time or two, if he approved. Given a few more days and Naomi’s assistance in cleaning, she doubted the dear man would even recognize the property.

  “Want me to tote the satchel for you, Miss Braddock?”

  “No, Armstead, I can manage it from here, but thank you.”

  He nodded, a knowing look lingering beneath his subtle smile. “I got an errand to do for Mrs. Cheatham, but I be back by noon, ma’am.”

  Appreciating his quiet support, Eleanor ascended the front steps, satchel in one hand and ham-and-cheese custard in the other. Her heart raced as though she’d run a mile, which made the September sun feel even warmer.

  Nearing the entrance, she glimpsed piles of dirt to the side of the building and noticed workers digging and tilling. Of all things . . .

  Here she’d brought pots, soil, and seeds with her in the hope of providing her father a bit of enjoyment in gardening, and it would appear someone at the asylum had caught that same vision—except on a much grander scale. Walking paths, benches, areas being built up into berms.

  She prayed it wouldn’t be the case, but if her father were still at the asylum come spring, perhaps she could persuade Dr. Crawford to give him a small patch of ground for vegetables. Her father would love that.

  Balancing the cloth-covered casserole—an antique dish that had belonged to her mother—Eleanor opened one of the large wooden doors, and startled when it slammed shut behind her. The next set of doors, which had stood open in welcome upon her first visit, were locked tight.

  Through the glass pane, she saw a man headed in her direction—one of the men who had subdued her father, if she wasn’t mistaken. Still embarrassed about that incident, she half hoped he wouldn’t remember her.

  “Miss Braddock,” he said as he opened the door and granted her entrance. “Good to see you again, ma’am.”

  “Thank you.” She stepped inside. “You as well, Mr. . . .”

  “Jameson, ma’am.” He took the satchel from her. “You’re here to see your father.”

  It wasn’t a question, but she nodded anyway.

  “Come with me, please. I’ll escort you to his room.”

  He opened yet another door and led her into a different wing of the building than she’d visited before. The scent of antiseptic hung heavy but couldn’t mask the odor of urine and unwashed bodies.

  For a moment, she was back in the surgical tent during the war, the pungent odors exhuming painful memories and images she’d spent years laying to rest. Needing a deep breath, she settled for several small ones instead and hurried to keep up.

  Closed doors lined both sides of the hallway, and employees moved about quietly, the women’s chatelaine keys jangling from starched white aprons. Through narrow windows in the doors, Eleanor glimpsed patients. Some stared back, expressions blank. Others sat by windows, looking outside, up at the sky.

  Her heeled boots echoed in the stairwell as she trailed Mr. Jameson up a flight of stairs to the second floor, trying to stave off a growing sense of unease.

  He opened the door, and to her relief, this hallway was absent any distinguishing odor. The entrances to the patient rooms were open too. At least the ones she could see. The quarters were sparsely decorated, but nice, clean looking.

  “Your father’s room is right here, Miss Braddock.” He set the satchel by the partially open door. “I’ll be at the desk down the hallway should you require assistance.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Jameson.”

  Palms sweaty, Eleanor took a steadying breath, catching a whiff of ham and cheese and reminding herself that the man on the other side of the door was her dear father, not some stranger.

  Still, she knocked.

  “Hello?”

  No answer.

  “Father?” She gave the door a push. It opened silently on well-oiled hinges.

  Her father was seated by the window, head bowed. At first, she thought he was asleep, then she saw the book in his lap. She stepped inside the room, and he looked up. And squinted.

  “Eleanor? Is that you?”

  She didn’t know why, but she was surprised he sounded so much like himself. And he looked well too—dressed and shaven. “Yes, Papa, it’s me. I .
. . I brought you your favorite custard.” She moved closer.

  He laid the book aside but didn’t stand. Neither did he smile. “They told me you would come . . . eventually.”

  His voice held a cynical edge that nudged her guard up a notch. “I came as soon as I could, Papa. As soon as they said it was—”

  “Dr. Crawford comes every day. We talk, take walks together. He’s such a good man. But my own daughter . . .” He laughed. The sound wasn’t pleasant. “She’s too busy to visit. And this, after you were the one who put me in this godforsaken place, abandoning me like a—”

  “Papa . . .”

  She set the custard on a side table and went to him. He turned away.

  “I did want to come before this, but I . . .” It occurred to her then that perhaps Dr. Crawford hadn’t shared with her father that it was he who had requested she wait, for her father’s benefit. The decision before her became clear: Tell her father the truth and risk damaging his relationship with the man responsible for his healing, and the one who’d obviously already won his trust. Or say nothing and bear the brunt of his anger.

  She knelt beside his chair, wishing he would look at her, and working to speak past the knot at the base of her throat. “Papa . . . I haven’t abandoned you. You’re here to get better, remember? And it’s only for a short time.” She reached for his hand, but he pulled away. She schooled her expression to hide the hurt. “Dr. Crawford tells me you’re doing well. That you’re making prog—”

  “The two of you have spoken?” He turned back, his eyes narrowing. “About me?”

  Hearing the suspicion in his tone, Eleanor rose, finding herself in familiar—and heart-wrenching—territory. She unwrapped the casserole so he could see it. “Why don’t I get some plates, and we’ll have the custard I made for you.”

  “I don’t like custards.”

  “Well, I think you’ll like this one.” She forced a brightness to her tone. “It’s ham and cheese. Your favorite.”

  “I said . . . I don’t . . . like . . . custards.”

  She looked at him but didn’t see her father in the eyes looking back. “All right,” she whispered. “We don’t have to eat it now. That’s fine.” Searching for a safe topic, she looked at the book he’d laid aside. “Perhaps I could read to you.”

  He didn’t object, so she took that as a good sign.

  She recognized the worn volume. “Tennyson. I’ve missed reading this with you.” An old cigar band marked his place—the same cigar band he’d used in that book for years. When she saw the poem he’d been reading, she looked back at him, his surly disposition making more sense. “You’re missing Mother today,” she said softly.

  “I miss her every day.” His voice came out flat, hard. “Just like I miss Teddy.” For a brief instant, at the mention of her brother’s name, the severity in his features lessened. “I haven’t gotten a letter from him in days. Not since you . . .” His jaw tensed. “You left me here. He stopped writing because of you, you know.” His voice grew louder, more accusing. “He’s afraid that if he comes to see me, you’re going to do to him what you did to me!”

  He shot to his feet, eyes going dark, and Eleanor took a step back.

  “Papa!” She firmed her voice, drawing on tactics she’d used in the past. “Don’t be angry. We can discuss this, if only you’ll—”

  He grabbed for her arm, but she jerked away. Should she call for Mr. Jameson? Surely, he would hear.

  “I’ve written my banker instructing him to remove your name from every account. You’ll not drain one more penny from me, daughter! Not after treating me this way. Teddy—” His breath caught, and he nearly choked on the name this time. “He would never have done this to me.” He stilled, his features pinching tight. “If only they hadn’t . . .” Tears pooled, and fell. “Why?” he whispered, chin shaking. He gently took hold of her arm. “Why did they kill him, Ellie?”

  Her emotions already bruised and tender, Eleanor felt her breath leave in a rush. Hearing that name on her father’s lips . . . From another lifetime, a better, far sweeter one.

  But as swiftly as sorrow came, rage returned.

  His grip tightened on her upper arm, and she struggled to break free.

  “Mr. Jameson!” she called, certain she’d heard footsteps in the hallway. But when she saw her father raise his hand over his head, something snapped inside her.

  15

  Eleanor shoved her father with a strength she didn’t know she had, much less thought she’d ever have to use against him. He staggered back a step, eyes seething. Then he reached for the casserole, unmistakable deliberateness in the act, and sent the dish crashing into the wall behind her.

  Stunned, her breath coming hard, Eleanor stared at this man she’d known all her life, hearing again what Dr. Cheatham had said to her at breakfast. “There may be times you’ll need to remember . . . it’s not your father speaking to you, it’s the disease.”

  She struggled to see this moment through the lens of that counsel—but all she saw was that her father, the only family she had left, had become someone she did not know. She could scarcely reconcile that this was the same man who had penned the tenderly worded letter to Aunt Adelicia sharing his desire for his only daughter whom he loved so dearly to marry.

  Mr. Jameson appeared and swiftly maneuvered around her to stand between them, then nudged her toward the door.

  “Mr. Braddock.” Mr. Jameson’s voice was kind and steady. “Everything is going to be all right, sir. Dr. Crawford is on his way.”

  Her father’s gaze darted about the room, the look in his eyes frantic, like that of a wounded animal.

  Eleanor heard someone behind her, and Miss Smith—the nurse she’d met the first day—swept past her as though the tension in the room were nonexistent.

  “Good morning, Theodore!” she said, her voice lyrical, encompassing a smile.

  Theodore? Eleanor frowned. Her father hadn’t been called by his middle name since he was a boy.

  Miss Smith proceeded to smooth the bedcovers and pillows, then moved to the window, her movements measured and routine, her presence bringing calm.

  But Eleanor caught an almost imperceptible look the young woman gave Mr. Jameson as she passed.

  “Oh, I almost forgot . . .” Miss Smith reached into her pocket and withdrew something.

  Eleanor craned her neck to see what it was, noticing her father doing the same. She trusted the staff, but still . . . She hoped this wasn’t a ploy of some sort, a way to administer an injection or medication. That seemed cruel, even in light of what had just happened.

  A touch on her back, and she turned to see Dr. Crawford. He motioned her into the hallway, then closed the door behind them.

  “Miss Braddock,” he said, voice low, “though I have yet to be apprised of the details, I assume from present circumstances that your visit did not go as desired.”

  “No, sir, it did not.” Eleanor rubbed her arm, still a little shaken. “He’s still so angry with me. Livid, is more like it.”

  Dr. Crawford’s sigh held consideration. “Though your father has been stubborn at times about adhering to schedules and taking his medication, we’ve witnessed none of this anger since—”

  “I was here,” she supplied, reading the truth in his expression even before he answered.

  “Yes, that’s correct. But, Miss Braddock, it’s quite common for a family member to be the focal point of a patient’s anger. After all, in the absence of someone to blame, we often blame those we love.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t make sense, I realize. But it is the case. And you must remember, as frustrating and disturbing as this is for you, imagine what it must be like for your father, especially a man of his intellect. He can quote law briefs from 1853 and remember the most minute details of cases he tried and books he’s read, yet he can’t recall what he had for lunch. Or what he did an hour ago.”

  Understanding, and yet also not, Eleanor looked back at the door. “Could it be something I did or
said that brought this about?”

  “I very much doubt it. But . . . tell me about your visit, from when you entered the room until your father became violent.”

  She recounted every detail.

  Dr. Crawford listened, nodding on occasion. “And when he threw the dish, do you believe you were the intended target?”

  She replayed the scene in her mind, still trying to reconcile her father’s behavior. “No . . . he threw it well away from me. But I do think he intended to strike me with his hand. And would have, if I hadn’t pushed him away.”

  The door to her father’s room opened, and Miss Smith exited. “He’s calm now, Doctor. And eager to see you, sir.”

  “Very good, Miss Smith. Thank you.”

  “Yes, Miss Smith.” Eleanor touched the nurse’s arm. “Thank you for coming when you did.”

  “You’re most welcome, Miss Braddock.”

  “May I ask,” Eleanor continued, trying for a casual tone, “what was in your pocket? Back in the room just now.”

  The nurse shot a look at Dr. Crawford, and Eleanor’s heart fell.

  Dr. Crawford gestured. “It’s all right, Miss Smith. We have no secrets from family members here.”

  Miss Smith briefly bowed her head. “In getting to know your father, ma’am, I’ve learned he responds best . . . to these.” She reached into her pocket and held out her hand.

  Eleanor looked, both puzzled and relieved. “Sugar sticks?”

  Miss Smith nodded. “Peppermint is his favorite. So I always keep a supply on hand.”

  With an appreciative nod, Dr. Crawford dismissed the young woman, then laughed softly. “Not what you expected, Miss Braddock?”

  Eleanor shook her head. “I didn’t even know he liked them.”

  “Don’t feel badly. Our staff is dedicated to learning what methods and motivations work best for each patient. And it seems your father has an insatiable sweet tooth that has proven most convenient.” He smiled. “Now, in light of what happened earlier, I’m recommending a slight change of course. One that’s proven successful in situations such as these.”