A Beauty So Rare

by Tamera Alexander

  Fork in hand, Mr. Stover nodded. “Don’t mind at all, Mrs. Lebenstein. With all you and Miss Braddock have done to this place . . . seems I should be owin’ you.”

  Eleanor put the final touches on dinner as Naomi set the small table Mr. Stover had brought from his house, along with four mismatched chairs. A welcome change from sitting on the floor as they’d been doing.

  She thought again of her appointment later that evening.

  She’d briefly seen Marcus yesterday afternoon as he, along with other men, loaded plants and trees from the conservatory to take to the asylum. Each time she pictured him working there or considered the possibility that he might come into contact with her father, she shuddered. She was thankful when he’d told her the garden was almost finished.

  She wondered how her father’s window garden was faring, or if he’d even planted the seeds. She’d written him every day since last seeing him. And every day, she hoped to receive a response.

  It was difficult, abiding by Dr. Crawford’s recommendation to not visit him for now. But if it helped her father get better . . .

  In addition to making two buttermilk pies, she’d slow-cooked a beef roast, choosing that over pork in consideration of Naomi and her son, uncertain of their eating restrictions. She’d followed Cordina’s cooking instructions to the letter. And even now, the fragrant meat was “resting”—as Cordina called it—on the worktable. “Let it rest for twenty or thirty minutes, and it’ll slice up real nice, Miss Braddock.”

  Only vaguely aware of Naomi and Mr. Stover’s conversation behind her, Eleanor drank in the homey feel of the kitchen. The “hub of the home,” as her dear mother had called it.

  She inhaled the comforting blend of aromas—buttery mashed potatoes warming on the stove, field peas Naomi had shelled earlier simmering in a neighboring pot, bits of onion nestled among them. All that remained were the yeast rolls browning in the oven.

  This little celebratory dinner was turning out rather nicely. Even if it had cost more than she’d planned. The roast had been a splurge, but a good one. And she’d gone through almost four pounds of potatoes just to find enough that weren’t spoiled or molding. And she’d bought them only two days ago!

  But it was for a special occasion. Mr. Stover’s building all but sparkled now and was truly ready to rent. Strangely enough, a part of her hoped it wouldn’t rent too soon.

  Yes, she could use the money Mr. Stover would return to her if it did rent, but she’d enjoyed cooking today. That enjoyment had been peppered with bittersweet thoughts about what this building could have meant for her—and for her father—had Aunt Adelicia said yes, but . . .

  Eleanor smoothed the front of her apron. It was silly to miss something you never had, couldn’t have. Best to be grateful for what you did have, and move on.

  She pulled the pan of rolls from the oven, and in the haze of heat, a memory rose, a memory so vivid it could have been from yesterday. She could see the soldier’s face, could feel his blood-slicked grip on her hand. She placed the bread on the stove and reached inside her pocket.

  How could a worn handkerchief offer such reassurance? Especially when it represented a promise she hadn’t kept. She’d tried, though. She’d spoken to countless widows after the war. Learning their names, listening to their stories, until she wondered how God’s heart could possibly hold the flood of their grief, much less how He kept their tears in a bottle, as His Word promised.

  As she’d done so many times, she prayed again that the soldier and his Mary girl were, somehow, both at peace.

  The creak of the front door drew their collective attention.

  “Mutter, bist du hier?” a young voice called.

  “Ja.” Naomi tossed Eleanor a smile. “We are here. In the kitchen.”

  A young boy rounded the corner, and his smile was the first thing Eleanor noticed. That, and the Kippah sitting atop a head of thick dark hair that had a curl to it any woman would envy. He was thin, though not by nature, Eleanor suspected. Much like his mother.

  He hugged Naomi tight, as though he hadn’t seen her in weeks, and the sweet gesture brought a lump to Eleanor’s throat.

  “Caleb,” Naomi said, voice soft, “may I present Miss Braddock, the lady who gave me the work here. And this is Mr. Stover, the owner of this fine building.”

  “Very nice to meet you, Miss Braddock.” Caleb dipped his head, then offered his hand to Mr. Stover. “Very nice to meet you too, Mr. Stover.”

  The man’s eyebrows shot up. “Well, aren’t you just the grown-up one.”

  Everyone laughed, including Eleanor, but something Naomi had said tempered her humor.

  “Caleb.” Eleanor briefly touched Naomi’s arm. “Your mother has told me all about you. I’m so glad you’re able to be with us tonight.”

  “I am too, ma’am.” The boy took a deep breath. “It smells good in here.”

  As Eleanor served up the plates, she slipped Mr. Stover an extra yeast roll after catching him eying the pan. When it came time to serve Caleb, she read his expression and added an extra dollop of mashed potatoes.

  The smile the boy gave her would no doubt slay a young girl’s heart someday. If it hadn’t already.

  As Mr. Stover said grace over the meal, Eleanor bowed her head, keenly aware of the blessing of these unlikely friends, and of how much it meant to her to be sitting with them. She thanked God for each, and then prayed for her father . . .

  All while picturing a mysterious dark tunnel and an impossibly handsome man.

  After dinner and with hardly a moment to spare, Eleanor closed the door to the building behind her, reticule on her arm and covered plate in hand. She waved good-bye to Naomi and Caleb, still thinking about what Naomi had said in passing.

  “. . . the lady who gave me the work here.”

  Eleanor slipped the key into the lock, feeling so foolish. It hadn’t occurred to her until hearing that statement that this celebratory dinner, as she’d called it, was likely anything but for Naomi. They had finished cleaning the building—all except for whitewashing the walls in the main room, which Mr. Stover said he would pay Naomi for doing. But finishing that meant no more work for her. And therefore no more pay.

  “This pie right here is gonna be breakfast, lunch, and dinner for me tomorrow, Miss Braddock.”

  Eleanor returned the key to her reticule, warmed by Mr. Stover’s expression and by how he clutched the pie tin as though someone on the street might try to snatch it from him.

  “Mr. Stover, thank you again for giving me permission to cook here on occasion. It means more than you know.”

  “My pleasure, ma’am. After eatin’ your food tonight, I know my Weezie would be pleased too. Best I’ve had since . . . since I don’t remember when.”

  The softness in his eyes revealed his thoughts, and lingering grief.

  Eleanor had intended to send a portion of the remaining dinner home with him as well. But he’d insisted Naomi and Caleb take it. Naomi had graciously accepted, saying she would share it with their neighbors tonight. She possessed a kind and tender heart. As did Caleb.

  Naomi hadn’t revealed much about her past, yet Eleanor felt a kinship with her. Watching mother and son disappear around the corner, Eleanor imagined that—despite the woman’s quiet disposition—if given the right circumstances, Naomi Lebenstein could be a force to be reckoned with.

  She liked that.

  “You want me to walk you home, Miss Braddock? It’s gettin’ late fast.”

  “Oh no, Mr. Stover. I’m fine. There’s plenty of light left. But thank you.”

  In all their conversations, she’d purposefully not mentioned where she lived or whose niece she was, and Mr. Stover had never asked. And though Aunt Adelicia knew about the building, she didn’t know the building’s location. It still seemed best to keep the two worlds separate.

  “For what it’s worth, ma’am . . . I think you’d have done a mighty fine job at havin’ a restaurant. I wish it could’ve worked for you.”


  “Thank you, Mr. Stover.” Eleanor glanced back at the darkened building, able to picture imaginary patrons filling tables and chairs. “I wish it could have too.”

  Maybe she wasn’t coming. Perhaps something had detained her or . . . she’d forgotten.

  Marcus weighed the possibilities, and even though both outcomes meant he wouldn’t see her tonight, he hoped her reason was based on the former rather than the latter.

  Even as that thought crystalized inside him, he realized he cared far more than he should have about whether she came or not. Far more than he would for a mere friend. Faced with that reality, he found it impossible to ignore the truth.

  Eleanor Braddock was no more merely a friend than he was merely an under gardener. And yet she wasn’t anything more to him either. Not a lover. Not a . . . paramour. Not even the potential of either. He laughed without humor.

  From every indication she’d given him, her feelings extended only to those of friendship. Which was where he needed for his own feelings to remain as well. So . . .

  All was proper and befitting decorum. He was safe. And so was she.

  He planned on telling her tonight that he didn’t work for Mrs. Cheatham. It was time she knew the truth. Although he would have been more eager to correct her misassumption if his company had been awarded the contract for the opera house. Renovating warehouses didn’t seem nearly as impressive.

  It crossed his mind to tell her about his impending departure as well. But—call it selfishness, or maybe wishful thinking—he didn’t want to introduce that factor into the equation at present. He liked their relationship, platonic though it was, and how she treated him. As though he were an ordinary man. And he didn’t want to do anything to change that.

  He checked his pocket watch. A little past eight.

  He spied the Selenicereus grandiflorus and remembered Eleanor’s less than complimentary remark about the cactus. “Don’t worry, you grand old madam,” he said, fingering a spine, mindful of how sharp they were. “Your day is coming.”

  And he knew just who he wanted there watching with him when it did.

  He took a last look through the glass wall of the conservatory to watch the sun as it rested briefly atop the trees in the distance. He stood perfectly still, his gaze fixed upon the highest branch of a colossal cedar silhouetted against the western horizon. And he followed the sun’s determined progress as it inched lower . . . lower . . . sinking softly into night. And into day on the other side of the world.

  Since leaving Austria, he’d never once been homesick. But he’d also never felt so far from home as he did right in that moment. But it wasn’t homesickness he was feeling, There was a difference between the two, he quickly decided, a difference he couldn’t define but keenly felt.

  He turned to leave, but movement from the corner of his eye drew his focus. He spotted the telling outline of a bell-shaped skirt hurrying by the fountain outside, and would’ve sworn that—despite approaching dusk—the sun had reversed its course.

  18

  I’m sorry I’m so late, Marcus!”

  “You’re not that late.” Marcus opened the door for her, noticing a flush in her cheeks—and the look she gave him. “Well, maybe you are.”

  “My errands in town took longer than I thought they would. Then I needed to stop by the main house first, and I saw my aunt, and she asked about my day, so we spent a few moments visiting because they leave for Alabama in the morning, and then—”

  “Eleanor,” he whispered.

  “What?” she whispered back, brown eyes widening.

  “Take a breath.”

  She smiled and held out a covered plate. “For you.”

  “What is it?”

  “Open it and see.” She winced playfully. “It got a little crushed on the way here, though. So it’s not as pretty as it was at first.”

  He took the dish and removed the flowered cloth. “Pie!”

  “But do you know what kind?”

  He eyed it. “I can’t say that I do. It doesn’t resemble anything we have in Austria.”

  “It’s buttermilk pie.”

  He tried to school his initial reaction. But judging from her frown, he didn’t do it swiftly enough.

  “Why did you make that face?”

  “I’m sorry. I-I’m not overly fond of buttermilk.”

  She waved a hand. “The pie has buttermilk in it, but it doesn’t taste like buttermilk. It’s sweet and custardy, and you’re going to love it.”

  “Yes, madam.” He gave a mock salute. “I trust you completely.”

  He escorted her to his “surgical wing,” as Henry Gray referred to it, and found the closest thing he could to a fork.

  “A tongue depressor?” She laughed.

  He twiddled the wooden stick in the air. “They serve many purposes.”

  He managed to take a bite. And she was right. “This is . . . köstlich, Eleanor.”

  She curtsied. “Danke, Herr Geoffrey. Ich bin froh, dass es Ihnen gefällt.”

  Marcus nearly dropped the plate.

  She laughed again. “I’ve been practicing my German at night. Mind you, it took me an entire evening digging through my father’s crates of books to find my old German text from school.”

  “Your father speaks German too?”

  An odd look flashed across her face. “No, he . . . he doesn’t. The book I was looking for just happened to be packed with all of his, and—” She crossed to the table where he’d placed plants selected for grafting. “I only speak a little of the language, mind you. German was among my studies at the Nashville Female Academy. For only two years, though. I practiced that sentence for days, hoping you would like the pie. If you hadn’t”—she shrugged, managing to look both charming and alluring at the same time—“I would have improvised.”

  “I bet you would have.” Marcus took another bite, enjoying the pie. And her.

  He finished chewing and pointed to the plate, tongue depressor in hand. “This truly is excellent, Eleanor. My compliments to Cordina when you see her next.”

  Her mouth slipped open. “Cordina? She didn’t make it.” She raised her chin. “I did.”

  He smiled and waited for her to do the same, knowing she was teasing.

  “No, really, Marcus. I baked it. Earlier today.”

  He searched her gaze. She was serious. “I beg your pardon, I . . .” He knew to phrase an explanation carefully, not wanting to offend. But in his experience, servants prepared food. Not rich nieces from well-to-do families. “I didn’t realize that women of your . . . social status knew how to cook. Much less like this.”

  To his surprise, her expression softened with gratitude. A far different response from the one he’d feared.

  “Thank you.” Her voice came softly. “I appreciate that . . . very much.”

  The utter openness in her eyes—as though he were seeing straight through to her heart—stirred him, and he grew more aware of how alone they were. And of how “not good” that was at the moment.

  Silence framed the passing seconds, and though he knew such a thing was out of the question, he wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her, and wondered what her response would be if he did. Even more—this next thought kicked his pulse up a few notches—what would it be like for this woman to want him to kiss her? In his past, he hadn’t been a patient man in that regard. Granted, the women he’d met as archduke hadn’t been the patient type either. They’d had agendas. Aggressive ones. But then, so had he.

  Eleanor Braddock, however . . . She was different. She was—

  The images of her that filled his head completely undermined everything he’d told himself earlier. Friends. A bitter tang tinged his mouth. She saw him that way, but he couldn’t claim the same. And yet he needed to.

  She offered the briefest of smiles, then turned to study the plants, which allowed him to study her.

  In the eyes of this intriguing, lovely creature, he was an under gardener. But, he reminded himself, if she kn
ew him as Archduke of the House of Habsburg—the man he wanted to leave behind, even as he knew he never could—her opinion of him would certainly not be the same. The irony wasn’t lost on him.

  What once had been his greatest advantage was now his greatest disadvantage.

  She pointed to a bandaged root of a daisy. “What is this?”

  Appreciating her interest, he came alongside her. But not too close. No need to tempt fate.

  “It’s something I’ve been working on for over a decade. My grandfather had a fondness for flowers. There was a certain wildflower, an oxeye daisy”—he leaned against the table—“that grew under an elm tree in his garden. He used to pick them for my grandmother. She appreciated them, but she was a woman who enjoyed the finer things of life, shall we say.”

  “Like someone else we know?”

  “Indeed.” He smiled. “My grandmother wished the wildflower was less gangly. Better suited for a garden.”

  “So you made one that was.”

  “It wasn’t quite that simple. Nor am I that intelligent.”

  She gave him a look saying she doubted that, which endeared her to him more than any subtle squeeze of a hand could ever have done.

  “When I was young,” he continued, “I took an interest in botany, then later had the great fortune of being tutored by a scientist whose brilliance in the field of biology is, in my opinion, unsurpassed. He’s especially gifted in the studies of heredity, which is what interests me most. Plant breeding,” he said more delicately, “as it’s called by some.”

  Eleanor nodded, not seeming the least offended by the word.

  He sighed. “Unfortunately, the significance of my mentor’s work has yet to be recognized by most of his peers.”

  She studied him. “But you admire him very much.”

  “I do. Gregor Mendel taught me more than all of my other professors combined. Only last week, I received a letter from him answering more of my questions, in extensive detail, as always. So he continues to teach me, even now.”

  “And my guess is that you learned to keep extensive notes too.” She nodded toward stacks of notebooks on the table, then raised an eyebrow as if to say, “May I?”