“What I’m concentratin’ on, sir”—the man’s breath came heavy—“is the big mug of ale I’m gettin’ right after work. If I live through this.”
Smiling to himself, Marcus called down instructions to the workers below as he maneuvered the heavy crossbeam into place.
“We’re almost there,” he yelled after a moment, estimating the remaining distance from the notching in the crossbeam to the starter holes they’d drilled beforehand for the spikes. “Callahan! Back to the right about six inches.” Marcus eyed it. “Kender, you good on your side?”
“Yes, sir. All good.”
“Lower it, Callahan! Slow and easy!”
“Slow and easy, sir,” Callahan repeated from below.
A trusted foreman was a hard thing to find, and Marcus was grateful to have found Robert Callahan. Callahan demanded the best and was respected by the men, yet could join them after work for an ale and fit right in among them. Something Marcus hadn’t quite managed to do yet. He envied that about Callahan.
With a solid thunk, the massive traverse beam connected with the support beneath them, and Marcus set to work hammering the spikes into place on his side.
“Life sure looks different from up here, doesn’t it, Mr. Geoffrey?”
Marcus looked over to see Kender holding tight to the crossbeam, the man’s gaze riveted to the ground below. “Look at me, Kender!” he commanded.
The man lifted his head, his eyes a little dazed.
“Don’t look down. Keep your eye on the work.”
Kender blinked and sat up straighter. “Yes, sir.”
Marcus slipped in another spike and positioned the mallet. But he sensed the need to keep the man focused. “So what made you volunteer to come up here today? Someone else could have done it.”
Kender exhaled. “If I tell you, sir, you’ll think it’s daft.”
“I doubt it. But if I do”—Marcus paused for effect, not looking up—“I’ll be sure not to show it.”
Kender laughed beneath his breath. “It’s somethin’ my papa used to say when I was a boy. I’d practically forgotten it, and . . . I don’t know why, but it’s come up again. A lot of things from early in life seem to be doin’ that these days.”
Marcus kept hammering, feeling as though the man had been eavesdropping on his own thoughts. He judged Kender to be a little older than he was, maybe close to forty, but Marcus could relate.
“My papa,” Kender continued, “used to always say, ‘Tommy, every day, boy, you need to do somethin’ that scares you a little. It keeps life fresh, and keeps you grateful.’ ”
Marcus nodded. “Wise man, your father.”
“Yes, sir, he was, in a lot of ways. Anyway . . . that’s why I’m up here now. When you asked for a man to join you earlier, I felt my hand go up. Almost like somebody else was raisin’ it for me.”
Marcus considered that for a moment, then handed Kender the mallet. “I appreciate your courage in seeing it through. And, for what it’s worth . . . I think statements like that, things people have said to us, tend to come back when we need to hear them most.”
Whether due to lingering nervousness or to the man’s strength, Kender hammered the remaining spikes into place in record time, then returned the mallet. “Mind if I ask you a question, Mr. Geoffrey?”
“Not at all.”
“What are you doin’ up here, sir? I mean . . . you got men to do this. You own the company. Why did you do it?” He laughed. “You’re the king!”
Marcus met his stare, that one word reverberating inside him. And like the mountain is clearer to the climber from the valley, so was the life he’d left behind, however temporarily. Might he actually be a better man without that life? And its . . . obligations? The question returned with surprising force.
But ever vigilant, honor and duty swiftly squeezed the life from the doubt and prevented it from taking root. He had no choice. He was a Habsburg. He had to return to Austria.
His answer to the man’s question came far more easily. “I do it for two reasons. First, I enjoy it. And second . . .” In his mind’s eye, he could see his father and uncle so well. “Because I think it’s wise for the man who is king, as you say, to remember what it’s like . . . not to be.”
Later that day, Marcus passed by “Eleanor’s building,” as he thought of it now. He glanced over, half hoping he might see her there. Then slowed his steps.
The windows . . .
Gone were the layers of grime and dirt. He cut a path across the street and through foot traffic to peer inside. He could actually see the interior and could have shaved in the window’s reflection, the glass was so pristine.
A For Rent sign stood propped in the windowsill. Good decision for the proprietor to clean the place. It should help with getting it rented.
Why Eleanor had a key to this property still baffled him. But in any case, the door was locked tight and the place was empty.
He headed toward the boardinghouse, but dreading another evening alone decided to take a different route back—one that would no doubt prove a little painful and definitely frustrating. But he preferred to see the development in person rather than just read about it in the Republican Banner or the Union and American newspapers.
Four blocks and five minutes later, he stood in front of the plot of land he knew as well as the back of his hand. Anger and betrayal, stronger than he’d anticipated, gripped him all over again.
The land, once thick with clusters of pine, maple, and birch, had been leveled. Every tree gone, every bit of vegetation uprooted. Including the one-hundred-year-old poplar around which he’d proposed a garden be planted.
High above it all, stretched between two metal poles—both of which leaned to the left—hung a bright red-lettered banner proudly announcing:
COMING: NASHVILLE’S FINEST OPERA HOUSE
PREMIERE ARCHITECTURAL ASSOCIATES’ NEWEST PROJECT
Marcus blew out a breath. As far as he knew this was the company’s first and only project.
Remembering the questions Mayor Adler’s son—Everett, if memory served—had been asking when he’d entered the mayor’s office, Marcus seriously doubted the opera house would ever be completed. Or if it was, whether the structure would stand long. Part of him hoped it wouldn’t. While the greater part of him knew that wasn’t what he should be hoping.
By nature, he wasn’t one who wished ill on others. But when it came to men like Augustus Adler—
“Mr. Geoffrey!”
Hearing his name, Marcus turned and searched the street. “Caleb . . .” He greeted the boy with a handshake, pretending the lad’s grip was painful. “Schön, Sie wieder zu sehen!”
Grinning, Caleb only squeezed harder. “It is good to see you again too, sir.”
He saw Caleb fairly often now. Mainly in the bakery, which—judging by the paper-wrapped loaves of bread he carried under one arm—was probably where the boy had just come from. Marcus had also seen him at Foster’s Textile while his crew was there renovating the building. The boy had been on his way to meet his mother, who he had explained worked there on occasion.
Caleb peered up, Kippah atop his head as always. “What are you doing on this side of town, sir?”
“I decided to take a different way back to the boardinghouse tonight.”
“I stopped by Foster’s Textile yesterday. They said your work there was finished.”
“It is. We completed the renovation last week.”
“Where are you working now?”
Marcus nodded toward the end of the boulevard. “A few blocks north of here in a factory. Another renovation.”
Caleb’s shoulders sagged a little. “But you are tired of doing those. You said it yourself.”
This time, it was Marcus’s turn to smile. “Money’s still scarce for most businesses. And it’s less expensive to renovate than it is to build something brand new.”
Caleb nodded but said nothing. He peered up at the banner rippling in the breeze, then back again,
a question in his dark eyes. “Before, when you told me you hoped to build something but did not get the chance . . . is that what you wanted to build? The opera house?”
Feeling “found out,” Marcus credited the boy’s astuteness, even while not appreciating it at the moment. “It is. But I’ll find something else. Don’t you worry.”
“Oh, I am not worried about you, Mr. Geoffrey. You are a good man. And good men always find their way.”
Marcus leveled his gaze. “Something your father used to say?”
Caleb grinned. “No, sir, that was all me.”
Laughing, Marcus glanced down the street, an idea coming. “Where are you headed?”
“Home.” The boy lifted the bread. “I bought this for dinner. Mama should be there.” His expression brightened. “You should come. She would like to meet you. She made Semmelknoedel last night. There is enough to share.”
Marcus shook his head. “I don’t want to impose.”
Caleb frowned, eying him like a venerable schoolmaster might have. “Ein Freund kann niemals eine Zumutung sein.” Then the boy’s expression softened. “Especially one from our homeland, Herr Geoffrey.”
More than a little touched, Marcus gripped the boy’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze, which earned him another grin.
“Danke, my young friend. You’re very kind.”
Marcus indicated for Caleb to lead the way, then fell into step beside him. “So tell me what you’ve done today, Caleb.”
“Well, as we always do, Mama and I begin with prayer. Then after breakfast, she teaches me from Papa’s books before she goes to her work. Then I go out to find what work I can too. I have places I always check, but sometimes they do not need . . .”
The boy’s response continued in greater detail than Marcus had imagined, and stretched over six blocks and down an alleyway, until finally Caleb paused before a partially boarded-up two-story building. Not too far from Eleanor’s building, Marcus realized. But this property was in even greater disrepair.
Of clapboard construction, the building had an arthritic appearance, its sagging walls and crooked windows having long ago abandoned their original intent. Even the exterior doors—what few remained—leaned like weary soldiers against thresholds whose welcome had been worn thin a lifetime ago.
Across the top of the building, in faded, barely legible capital letters were the words Maxwell’s Haberdashery.
“This is where you live?” Marcus heard the question in his voice and regretted it.
“Not by ourselves, of course. Other families live here too.” If Caleb had taken offense, his tone didn’t reveal it. “Mama and I have two rooms instead of just one. Come, let me show you.”
Marcus followed him inside, down one narrow hallway, then another. Caleb greeted what few women and children they saw by name. And Marcus soon discovered that the impressions he’d formed about the interior of the building, based on having seen the outside, proved grossly generous.
The once-white-plastered walls now stood dingy gray, stained with time . . . and other things he didn’t care to dwell on. The plaster itself had worn so thin in spots, the boards peeked through like aging bones.
“Careful there,” Caleb said, pointing.
Marcus stepped over a hole in the plank-wood floor, the board rotted clean through. Some of the other boards beneath him felt none too sturdy.
“Here . . . is where we live.” Caleb pulled back a curtain draped across a doorway. “I have my room there—” He gestured to what might have been a storage closet at one time. “And Mama has hers.”
Marcus peered inside. “Your mother isn’t here?”
“Not yet, I guess.”
Staying in the hallway, Marcus surveyed the room. “You and your mother have it arranged very nicely.” And they had, with what few possessions there were. Mismatched dishes stacked on a shelf, a few womanly knickknacks beneath. Bedding folded and piled neatly on a straight-back chair in the corner. And books . . . everywhere, stacks of books.
All remnants of a better life.
“There is a kitchen down the hallway. That we all share.”
Marcus nodded. “I look forward to meeting your mother. Do you think she’ll be here soon?”
Caleb shrugged. “She may be working late. She has to sometimes. But we have the dumplings here in a bowl and then Mr. Fitch’s bread.”
Marcus heard him, but his attention was fixed on the slits of daylight fingering their way through hairline cracks and warped wood on the outer wall. It wasn’t a significant problem now, but come winter . . .
“I have an idea, Caleb.” He stepped back. “Why don’t you save the dumplings and bread for breakfast, and we’ll go get something to eat in town? While we’re there”—he attempted to sound conspiratorial, knowing that if Eleanor were there, she would have succeeded masterfully—“we’ll get something for your mother too, and you can have it waiting here for her when she gets back. All my treat, of course.”
For an instant, the boy’s eyes lit. Then his honest, hardworking upbringing seemed to offer challenge, and he shook his head. “You do not have to always buy me things, Mr. Geoffrey. That is not why I—”
“Caleb,” Marcus said gently, “I was dreading eating dinner alone again tonight. So . . . you’d actually be doing me a favor. And this would give us time to talk. I have a business proposition for you.”
The boy squinted.
“A job opportunity I’d like for you to consider,” Marcus explained. “With my company.”
The boy’s expression sobered. He squared his shoulders.
And Marcus knew he’d won him over.
After dinner, Marcus toyed with the idea of riding out to Belmont. But it was late, the sun’s light nearly spent, and the reason he would be going all the way out there would likely already be retired for the evening. So he returned to the boardinghouse instead.
A while later, the coolness of the sheets soothed his tired back and leg muscles, and he closed his eyes. He thought again of what Caleb had said to him, before they’d walked to the boy’s house.
“A friend can never be an imposition. Especially one from our homeland.”
Marcus sighed in the dark, appreciative as other moments from the day replayed in his mind.
One stood out among the rest.
Was he a good man, as Caleb had said? And if he was, why did he feel as though he’d been striving to find his way for years . . . and couldn’t? He felt as if he were lost in a fog, partly of his own doing and partly of others.
He’d been so certain he was the man destined to build that opera house, to show the city of Nashville how beautiful the partnership of man’s design and nature could be. At least until the fifth bid had entered the equation.
He shifted, trying to get comfortable, well able to imagine his father’s and uncle’s reactions if they knew he was renovating old warehouses, planting gardens at an insane asylum, and patching up an old shack of a building.
So much for “building something no one had ever built.”
He turned onto his side and shoved the second pillow beneath his head. Sleep felt a long way off.
So he did what he always did when the night stretched on before him. “ ‘Half a league, half a league, half a league onward,’ ” he spoke into the darkness, imagining the crackle of a fire among the familiar peaks of home. “ ‘All in the valley of Death rode the six hundred. Forward, the Light Brigade!’ ”
The image of his grandfather Marcus wielding a branch like a sword coaxed the memory closer, and he could almost hear the deep baritone of the man’s voice reaching across the years, stirring to life lessons of honor and courage bequeathed to a young boy.
“Was there a man dismayed? Not though the soldier knew some one had blundered. Theirs not to make reply, theirs not to reason why. Theirs but to do and die. Into the valley of Death rode the six hundred . . .”
17
Eleanor scooped a bite of warm buttermilk pie onto a fork, careful to get a fair amoun
t of crust along with the silky, sweet custard. Casting a quick look at Naomi, she handed the fork to Mr. Stover, who slipped the bite into his mouth.
As he chewed, Eleanor sneaked a glance at the watch pinned to her shirtwaist. Almost half past five. She’d told Marcus she would meet him at the conservatory at half past seven tonight to explore the tunnel. She could hardly wait.
She was under no illusion that this invitation was anything other than him being kind to his employer’s niece. But still, she sensed he enjoyed her company. And she very much enjoyed his.
Looking at him wasn’t too painful either.
She watched Mr. Stover’s expression, trying to gauge his reaction to the pie. The dear man had graciously granted permission for her to use his wife’s kitchen, and in return she wanted to do something special for him. The recipe was one she’d perfected through the years. She only hoped it was similar enough to his late wife’s, and that perhaps the taste, and the memory, would bring him comfort.
Judging from the slow smile spreading across his face, it did.
“Just like my Weezie’s,” he whispered, then licked his lips. “Tastin’ this almost”—his voice broke—“makes me think I could see her walkin’ round that corner any minute.” He took a breath. “Thank you, Miss Braddock. This was awfully kind of you, ma’am.” He pointed to the slice she’d cut for him. “Mind if I finish it before dinner?”
Eleanor laughed and nudged the plate forward. “Naomi and I will help you eat the first pie . . . but the second one is for you to take home.”
“Would you like me to set the table now, Miss Braddock?”
Eleanor turned. “Yes, please, Naomi. Dinner won’t be long. Will your son be joining us, I hope? I’m looking forward to finally meeting him.”
“He said he would try. But he should have been here by now. Maybe he is still working. He has a new job working for a man in town.” Motherly pride softened Naomi’s voice. “If he does not come, Miss Braddock . . . would it be all right for me to take him a plate of food?” She turned to Mr. Stover. “If it is all right with you, sir. I will bring the plate back tomorrow morning. I give you my word.”
A Beauty So Rare Page 19
