Already sensing she might not like this change, Eleanor waited.
“For the next month or so, I suggest you write to your father in lieu of visiting.”
She started to object, but he held up his hand.
“You are welcome here anytime, Miss Braddock. You are, after all, paying for your father’s treatment. But you’re also paying for our expertise. Your father is mentally ill. But he’s also grieving, and grief takes many forms. Not the least of which is anger. Letters are an excellent way to communicate while removing the pressure of an immediate response. Your father is struggling with how to respond to his own emotions, much less life and all the changes it has thrust upon him. Both from within and from without.”
Eleanor heard the wisdom in his words. It simply wasn’t what she wanted to hear.
He reached for the doorknob.
“Dr. Crawford, one last question, please.”
He paused.
“Nurse Smith addressed my father as Theodore . . .”
“Ah, yes, apparently that was at your father’s bidding. I’m not certain why he requested it”—his eyes narrowed—“but one time, when he and I were in my office, he corrected me when I called him Garrison, told me to call him Theodore instead.”
“So . . . what do you think that means?”
“It means we’re on a road, Miss Braddock, with twists and turns. It’s a road I’ve traveled with many other patients, but never with your father. Take heart that, while the journey is, on one hand, unknown, it’s not completely unfamiliar. Your father still knows who he is. That is a very good sign. But I’ve seen no evidence of the disease waning, a possibility you and I had discussed and hoped for upon your first visit.”
“But you said that was a possibility.”
Covering her hand, he offered an encouraging look. “All of life is a possibility, Miss Braddock. None of us can predict what will happen tomorrow.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “Now, about writing those letters. . . . You don’t have to decide right now. Give it some thought. One day at a time, Miss Braddock. That’s all we’re given.”
She nodded, hoping her voice held. “And sometimes . . . even our days must be broken down into hours. And minutes.”
Eleanor left the pots, soil, and seeds she’d brought for her father with Nurse Smith, along with strict instructions not to tell him they were from her, lest he dash those against the wall too.
Another nurse escorted her back to the main entry, and Eleanor wasn’t halfway down the front steps when she realized she still had the envelope from Dr. Cheatham for Dr. Crawford tucked in the side pocket of the satchel.
She hurried back inside to catch the nurse, but the foyer doors were locked. Peering through the paned glass, she knocked. And knocked again.
But no one came.
She pulled out the oversized envelope and considered leaving it at the door. But she’d assured Dr. Cheatham she would hand deliver it.
Outside, she looked for Armstead, but saw no sign of the carriage—as she expected, since her visit had been far briefer than planned. Now, how to get this envelope to Dr. Crawford?
The sound of spades shoveling dirt drew her attention, and she peered over the side of the steps. Surely there was another entry into the building. A back way, perhaps. And she wagered one of those men would know where it was.
Leaving her satchel at the bottom of the steps, she picked a path through the freshly turned soil, closer to the workers, so she wouldn’t have to raise her voice.
“Excuse me, sirs?”
One of the men stopped midshovel. “Yes, ma’am?” He wiped his brow with his sleeve. “Help you with somethin’?”
“Yes, thank you. I’m wondering if you could tell me where—”
“Miss Braddock?”
Eleanor froze at the voice behind her. It couldn’t be. And yet—
She turned, his name sticking in her throat. “M-Mr. Geoffrey . . .” A thousand thoughts collided at once, but only one mattered.
How was she going to explain being at the Tennessee Asylum for the Insane?
Marcus couldn’t believe it was her. Yet he’d recognized her instantly. That dignified, regal stature, the unassuming grace with which she moved. And that up-until-now-not-fully-appreciated sway of her shapely hips as she turned. How had he missed that about her? But, at the moment, it was the smoky brown eyes staring unblinking into his that rendered him transfixed. Not to mention a little speechless.
Which didn’t happen to him with many women. In fact, none that he could remember since he’d passed puberty.
He cleared his throat, brushing the dirt from his hands. “You’re the last person in the world I expected to see out here, Miss Braddock.”
Her lips moved but no words came at first. “I . . . I was thinking the very same thing about you . . . Mr. Geoffrey.”
Aware of listening ears and eager to shed the formalities an audience demanded, Marcus indicated for her to join him near the front steps.
He was surprised to discover a satchel there. And even more surprised when he recognized it as hers. “Don’t tell me you’ve grown weary of Belmont and have decided to take up residence here?” He laughed.
She did too. But it wasn’t the spontaneous, warm response he’d hoped his comment would elicit.
“No, of course not.” Her smile short-lived, she briefly looked away. “I ah . . . told Dr. Cheatham I would deliver a package for him.” She held up an envelope. “But the front entry is locked.”
“And with good reason.” He nodded toward the building. “That isn’t a safe place for you to wander around inside. While most of the patients seem docile enough, there are some who can be violent.” He motioned to the envelope. “Why don’t you let me deliver that for you.”
She stared for a moment, her expression inscrutable, but leaning toward melancholy. She handed him the envelope. “Thank you. I would appreciate that, Marcus. It’s for Dr. Crawford, as you see there.” She indicated the name on the front.
He sensed something different about her but couldn’t pinpoint what. She was more reticent than the evening he’d escorted her back to Belmont. Remembering how she’d stiffened when he’d first swung up behind her on the horse, and how she’d rallied with a sharply honed response, left him wishing for another such encounter.
And discovering she knew some German, even a little, had pleased him more than he’d let on.
“I’d ask what you were doing here . . .” She gestured to where his men were working. “But I think it’s rather obvious. I’m glad someone decided to do this. It will be an improvement.”
He eyed her. “I thought you didn’t like gardens.”
“I never said I didn’t like gardens. I’m simply not overly fond of flowers.”
“I believe your exact words were . . . ‘I simply don’t see the need.’ ”
She raised an eyebrow. “You have a good memory.”
“When it serves.”
She offered the tiniest of smiles, then moved to retrieve her satchel. He reached it first and, hearing the clomp of horses’ hooves, turned to see one of the Belmont carriages. She held out her hand as though to take the bag from him.
He shook his head. “I’ll carry it for you.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, and wasted no time in meeting the carriage. Her gaze flitted from him to the asylum and back again. “How much longer are you here? I mean . . . How long will it take you to put in the garden?”
She seemed almost nervous. Even disturbed. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so honest with her about this place and its patients. “About two weeks or so. Mrs. Cheatham gave specific instructions to—”
“Mrs. Cheatham?” She paused at the edge of the walkway. “My aunt is responsible for this?”
He liked the way the space between her brows wrinkled when she disapproved of something. “Yes, madam, she is.” Seeing Armstead about to climb down, Marcus waved to the man, indicating he would assist Eleanor himself. “Your aunt . . . now, there’s
a woman who’s fond of flowers.”
“Indeed she is,” Eleanor said beneath her breath, accepting his hand briefly as she stepped up.
A little too briefly for Marcus’s taste. In his experience, women often sent him signals through such a supposedly innocent gesture—by gripping his hand overlong or glancing seductively from beneath fluttering lashes. Or, from the more brazen, by leaning forward to afford him an ample view of their . . . womanly assets.
But not this woman. She seemed impervious to him. Or at the very least, indifferent.
It had been a long time since he’d looked forward to being in someone’s company as much as he did hers. There was something inviting and so . . . unforced about her. To say he found her charm appealing was a gross understatement, which probably should have sent a warning through him.
But it wasn’t the first time in his life he’d been attracted to a woman he couldn’t have. And he was attracted to Eleanor Braddock, despite her dissimilarities to other women he’d pursued. But that was just it. He wasn’t going to pursue her.
And she’d made it clear she didn’t wish to be pursued by him, even if he were free to pursue. Which he wasn’t. So . . . that was that.
“Thank you again, Marcus, for delivering the envelope.” She glanced past him to the building, trepidation weighing her gaze.
“Eleanor . . .” Holding the carriage door open, he leaned in. “I’m sorry if what I said about this place frightened you. That wasn’t my intent, I assure you. It’s simply that . . . what’s inside those walls is something no lady should have to witness.”
She gave a soft, unexpected sigh. Not a laugh really, because there was no humor in it. And again, a sadness slipped in behind her eyes. “I appreciate your concern.”
He closed the door but lingered, determined to draw a smile from her. “The roses I told you about, the ones I grafted for your aunt . . . one of the buds bloomed. But it wasn’t quite the right color. The others are set to open anytime. You should come by and see them.”
She nodded. Hardly the response he desired. Then it came to him . . .
“Don’t forget, Eleanor . . .” He leaned in again. “The tunnel is still there, waiting to be explored. I’d be happy to show it to you anytime.”
Slowly, her mouth tipped up on one side. And that was enough, for now. The carriage pulled away and he watched it go.
It wasn’t until later that night, after a dinner eaten alone at the boardinghouse, that he surmised why his thoughts turned to her with such frequency. For the first time in his adult life, he was actually friends with a woman, with none of the various strings otherwise attached.
He liked the thought of simply being friends, strange and unfamiliar though it was to him. And unlikely, based on past experience. But he didn’t want to think about his past, or even his future—beyond the next handful of months.
He especially didn’t want to think about the strings tying him to Austria, or his obligations to the House of Habsburg, or to Baroness Maria Elizabeth Albrecht von Haas.
Retired to his room, he picked up the still unopened letter on the dresser and studied the exaggerated flourish of her script on the front, then slid his finger beneath the closure and opened it. Multiple pages of stationery. No wonder the envelope felt thick.
Sighing, he sat back on his bed and scanned her always superfluous greeting. The baroness never used five words when she could use thirty.
He skipped on down.
You must know, Gerhard . . .
The baroness addressed him by his proper first name, which suited him fine. Until recently, only his mother had called him Marcus, the name he shared with his maternal grandfather, and that he’d declared as his first when arriving in this country.
I have been reading much about the Americas in your absence, and am quite fascinated with the description of this New World that borders the far side of the Atlantic. I am eager to learn more about its inhabitants—“colonial rustics” as your father describes them. You must find it terribly difficult to abide the smallness of life there among them. Indeed, I mourn the hardship you must be enduring.
Embellishment was her specialty, in so many ways. His sense of justice rose to challenge his frustration. The baroness wasn’t an altogether unpleasant person. She simply wasn’t the woman he would choose to spend his life with—if he had a choice. Which he didn’t.
In her defense, she hadn’t chosen him either, so they were in the same wretched boat. Only, judging from the tone and content of her letters—including this one—she didn’t share his lack of enthusiasm for their future together. Quite the opposite, in fact.
Yet I realize that your leaving Austria for a time was not wholly of your own choosing. As your uncle predicted, the rumors about your brother have fallen to a hush. Come next summer and our glorious union as man and wife, that dark time will all be behind us. Forgotten forever.
He scoffed. Forgotten by her, perhaps. But never by him.
It hadn’t been his choice to tell her the details about Rutger’s death, but his father and uncle had insisted. Brides of arranged marriages—at least in the Habsburg monarchy—were schooled in family politics of this nature. They knew how to maneuver among society, how to drop hints, and how to nurture seeds of untruth.
And Baroness Maria Elizabeth Albrecht von Haas was a master of both.
I wish you would abandon this foolish notion with architecture and plants and return to Austria, to me, and to the grand future that awaits us. I often entertain the idea of—
Marcus bolted upright, her next words burning like a brand on his skin. Surely he’d misunderstood. The baroness couldn’t seriously be contemplating the idea of . . .
He exhaled, and forced himself to begin the sentences again.
I often entertain the idea of joining you, Gerhard, and of seeing that country for myself. However simple and unrefined it may be. I long to practice my English on the commoners. But I understand it is an arduous voyage, and Vienna—with all its pleasant society—is at its best in fall. We have so much which to—
The mere thought of Maria Elizabeth Albrecht von Haas stepping her dainty little privileged foot onto American soil—much less in the city of Nashville—made him shudder. Suddenly the vast ocean separating them seemed minuscule, then shrank again by half, and he hastily reached for pen and paper to author a prompt reply.
One that would paint a far less fascinating portrait of life in the Americas with its colonial rustics, and that would keep his fiancée firmly grounded in Vienna.
16
Marcus straddled the thick oak beam, mindful of the height but even more so of the warehouse’s three-story ceiling only inches above his head. He hadn’t done this kind of work in ages and it felt wonderful. It behooved a man—even the boss, as his crew called him—to keep his skills from getting rusty. Climbing was in his blood. He’d been raised scaling heights.
On the opposite end of the support beam, Tom Kender—a compact but powerful man, and one of his finest workers—mirrored Marcus’s actions, though with slower progress.
“I hate heights,” Kender whispered, more to himself, it seemed, than to Marcus.
“How high you are, Kender”—Marcus inched forward, concentrating on his balance—“doesn’t change your talent or your ability. Only your perspective on it.”
“Yeah, well . . .” Kender squeezed his eyes tight. “Right now my perspective tells me that if I do fall, it is gonna matter how high I am. Or was.”
Marcus laughed, partly in the hope of easing the man’s nerves, but also because Kender’s remark sounded much like one he’d uttered himself years earlier. To his grandfather.
His thoughts turned to the man after whom he’d been named. He’d been just a boy when his maternal grandfather had first taken him into the Alps. Little had he known then that those summer trips—time spent climbing the peaks and traversing the heights, quoting Tennyson to each other around the fire at night, and then falling asleep beneath a thick blanket of stars�
��would so influence the paths he’d taken.
Every brick laid in the foundation of a life, however meaningfully or haphazardly placed, shaped the whole. He could now see that fact borne out in every branch of study, from mathematics to science, from economics to chemistry. Each part of the equation influenced the whole.
If only he’d realized that far-reaching truth as a younger man. He would have been more careful about every choice along the way, instead of merely those that had seemed important or self-satisfying at the time.
On the heels of that thought came another, for reasons he understood only too well. He wondered what Eleanor was doing right that moment. He’d seen her briefly at church yesterday, sitting in Mrs. Cheatham’s pew.
A few days earlier, he’d happened upon her on the grounds at Belmont, and she’d regaled him, in a rather caustic manner, with step-by-step instructions on how to make potpourri from crushed rose petals. Something she’d apparently been forced to learn during one of Mrs. Cheatham’s womanly gatherings, of which Eleanor apparently was not fond—no surprise to him—and he’d enjoyed every minute of her bitter diatribe.
They had plans to explore the tunnel together this Friday evening, and he intended to hold her to that agreement. In the way of friends, of course, he reminded himself.
He looked forward to meeting her father when he arrived, and already guessed that Eleanor, with her logic and sensibilities, likely took more after him than—
“You’re almost there, sir,” Robert Callahan, his foreman, called up from the warehouse floor. “You too, Kender.”
Marcus narrowed his thoughts and covered the last few inches to the midpoint on the beam. Positioned below, Callahan and seven other workers secured the ropes that held the new crossbeam suspended near the ceiling.
Marcus repositioned his leather tool belt, making mental note of where the mallet and spikes were so he could retrieve them without having to look down.
He peered across the beam that hung between him and Tom Kender and saw sweat pouring from the man’s face.
“You’re almost here, Kender. Another couple of feet. Don’t look down. Just concentrate on the beam right beneath you. That’s all there is right now.”
A Beauty So Rare Page 18
