A Beauty So Rare

by Tamera Alexander

  Marcus nodded.

  She picked one up, and as she leafed through it, he briefly considered inviting her to join him outside in the field garden, thinking she might appreciate the significance of what was planted there. But there was nothing impressive about the leaves of a potato plant. What might someday be impressive—once the plants matured, and if the grafting proved successful—was still hidden deep in the earth, yet to be seen.

  She lifted her gaze. “You are very detailed! ‘Diagram of Tree Grafts’,” she read aloud. “‘Record of Blooming. Record of Budding’?” She looked up. “You keep track of everything.”

  “I have to. It’s the only way to remember all the various combinations of grafts and the outcomes of each.”

  She tilted the notebook at an angle. “You’re also very good at sketching.”

  “Thank you, madam. I’ve had a great deal of practice.” Already having decided to tell her the truth about his real occupation, he saw his opportunity. “There’s something else I’d like to talk to you—”

  “Ah!” she said, lifting a hand. She pointed again to the daisy. “Finish telling me the rest of this story first.”

  He stared, amused at her feistiness. “You came here to see the tunnel, not to talk about plants. Even though I know how interested you are in them.”

  “I am interested.”

  He leveled a stare, enjoying the way she wrinkled her nose.

  “Well, maybe I’m a little more interested in what you do to the plants to change them and create new ones, rather than just how they look. If that makes sense.”

  Never before had a woman shown this level of interest in this part of his life. Well, other than his mother. She always had been his greatest advocate. The few times he’d tried to speak with the baroness about it, she’d quickly changed topics, wiping her hands together as though scraping off imaginary dirt.

  “After I discussed it with Dr. Mendel, we envisioned the perfect daisy as having larger flowers of purest white, and a longer blooming season. In addition, the flower needed to do well as both a cut flower and a garden flower, so we started first with the Leucanthemum vulgare—the oxeye daisy,” he added. “And we cross-pollinated it with the English field daisy, Leucanthemum maximum, which had larger flowers than the oxeye. We then pollinated the best of these hybrids with pollen from the Leucanthemum lacustre, the Portuguese field daisy, and we bred their seedlings selectively for six years.”

  “Six years?” she repeated.

  He nodded. “And they bloomed nicely. But I wanted whiter, larger flowers.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Competitive at heart, are you?”

  “Maybe a little.” He winked. “But the success we’d had merely gave me the desire to succeed again.”

  “Make the flower stronger, more beautiful.”

  He looked at her, really looked at her, and was glad when she didn’t look away. “That’s right. But that didn’t happen until I arrived here and discovered that Mrs. Cheatham had a Nipponanthemum nipponicum in her collection.”

  Eleanor exhaled a pfft sound. “Doesn’t everyone have one of those?”

  He laughed. “Do you know what it is?”

  “I have absolutely no idea.”

  “It’s a Japanese field daisy, a species with small, pure-white flowers. I took the most promising of the triple hybrids and pollinated them with that. And ended up with—”

  “The prettiest and strongest flower in the history of the world!”

  This woman . . . intelligent, witty, and possessing a beauty he’d failed to truly see—much less fully appreciate—until now.

  How could he have ever agreed to share a future with a woman like the Baroness Maria Elizabeth Albrecht von Haas, when there was such a treasure as Eleanor Braddock in the world?

  Hesitating for only an instant, he offered his arm, same as he would have done for any other woman. “Allow me to show you the resulting flower, madam? Quickly . . .” He looked up through the glass ceiling to the purpling sky. “While we still have some light left.”

  She slipped her hand through. “I’d be honored, sir.”

  He led her past the line of cabinets to a door around the corner.

  “Oh,” she said, “I didn’t see this door when—”

  She paused as though having caught herself, and he wasn’t about to leave well enough alone.

  “When I caught you snooping in my surgical wing?”

  She peered up. “That’s what you call it?”

  “That’s what Mr. Gray calls it.” He briefly covered her hand on his arm. “I call it my haven.”

  Her eyes warmed. “I can see why.”

  His hand on the latch, he focused on her, anticipating her reaction when she glimpsed what was beyond the door.

  19

  Color. Everywhere. Explosions of it. And in hues Eleanor had never seen before, much less in flowers. Tones so rich and vibrant. Others so pure, soft as a whisper. She couldn’t decide where to look next or which was more beautiful. Or if the beauty was due, at least in part, to knowing the man responsible for it.

  Aware of him watching her, she tried to find the words to describe it but failed. Finally, she exhaled, then drew in a breath—and that’s when she smelled the familiar fragrance.

  An instant later, she spotted them.

  “Peonies!” Gathering her skirt, she maneuvered down a narrow aisle in order to see them better.

  He followed, his laughter hinting at disbelief. “Out of this entire propagating room, humble peonies are what excite you?”

  She leaned down and inhaled memories of home. “I looked for these in the gardens the first day I arrived here, but didn’t see them anywhere.”

  “That’s because we haven’t planted them outside yet. I’m still trying to win Mrs. Cheatham over to them. She said the plant was a little less grand than she desired.”

  Eleanor said nothing but wasn’t surprised. “Well, I think they’re lovely. Bushy shrub and all.”

  “I do too. In fact, I . . .”

  When he didn’t continue, she looked up.

  “What?” she said softly, reading his sheepish look.

  He fingered one of the leaves, glancing over the room. “I brought these over with me when I came, and have been—”

  “You brought these plants all the way from Austria?”

  “Many of them, yes.” He narrowed his eyes as though debating whether or not to tell her something. “I paid for an extra cabin on the ship and filled it with plants and trees. I’m sure it seems odd, but some of these plants are from grafts and hybrids I’ve been working with for over fifteen years.” His words came faster, as though he were trying to convince her. “I couldn’t leave them behind. Not after all that time.”

  She glanced around the room, taking it in, and imagining what that cabin had looked like. And the expense of such a decision. But fifteen years was a long time. . . .

  She looked up. “You are a most interesting man, Marcus Geoffrey.”

  “And you, Miss Braddock”—his smile came slowly—“are a most intriguing woman.”

  The blue of his eyes deepened, rousing an awareness inside her, an anticipation she wasn’t prepared for. Part excitement, part fear, it made breathing a challenge. As did the step he took toward her.

  He leaned in, deliberateness in the act, and the air around her evaporated. He lowered his face toward hers and—

  “This is the flower I wanted to show you,” he said, reaching around her.

  With his face so close, his body only inches from hers, Eleanor didn’t dare move lest they touch. Still, a small part of her wanted to move just so they would.

  Heart hammering, she got a much better look at those mesmerizing blue eyes and that solid jaw already dark with tomorrow’s beard. Everything about him bespoke strength and masculinity. Even the faint laugh lines framing his mouth and the corners of his eyes only added to his appeal. Adonis, indeed.

  She caught a whiff of his bay rum and spice cologne, and someth
ing else decidedly male, and her gaze went to his mouth, even as her own went dry.

  He straightened, seemingly unaffected, while it took her every ounce of her concentration just to draw breath.

  Her face heated, and she forced herself to focus, feeling both naive and foolish. What on earth had possessed her to think this man wanted to kiss her? It wasn’t as though—

  “Eleanor?”

  She blinked. “Yes?”

  “Are you all right?”

  Not eager to meet his gaze, she lifted hers. “Of course.” She smiled, wondering if her eyes were as wide as they felt. “I’m fine. Why?”

  One side of his mouth tipped ever so slightly, as though he knew a secret she didn’t. “Did you hear what I said just now?” His voice came softer this time.

  He’d said something?

  Then, as if her mind were playing tricks on her, she realized she had heard him. What he’d said simply hadn’t registered at the time. “Of course I did.” She laughed, determined to appear unaffected as well. “You said something regarding what I asked you about earlier. About the daisy.”

  He nodded, his sigh resembling a laugh. “Close enough.” Then he held out his hand.

  He cradled a clay pot that contained the most beautiful daisies, their large petals white as snow, their golden middles perfect little drops of sunshine.

  She felt a swell of pride. “You did it,” she whispered.

  “Mendel and I did, years ago.”

  “And your grandmother?”

  “She loved them. This daisy is a descendant from the ones in her garden.”

  “Hence, why you couldn’t leave them behind.”

  “I’m continuing to perfect it, though, with the help of a botanist in Boston.”

  “Boston?” She eyed him. “Best not tell my aunt you’re getting help from up north. She didn’t like it when the Federal Army confiscated her home during the war. And I can tell you with utmost certainty she won’t welcome a Northerner’s ways infiltrating her garden now.”

  “So I’ve gathered. But he’s brilliant with plants. He’s about ten years younger than I am, and about fifty years ahead of his time.” He returned the daisy to the table. “One more flower to show you. Your aunt’s rose.”

  She followed him down another aisle, and he stopped by a table brimming with roses in every imaginable shade of pink. No, she corrected herself. That wasn’t true. She thought of her pink skirt and jacket. None of these pinks were nearly as offensive.

  “I don’t have the color quite to her liking yet, but—” He picked up a rose whose buds were still closed. “I’m hoping this little beauty will be the one. They should be open in the morning if you want to come back and see.”

  Sensing he wanted her to, she nodded. “Then I’ll be here.”

  He retrieved a lantern from a nearby table, the vestiges of day nearly spent. He lit the wick, then offered his arm.

  “And now, madam . . . your tour awaits.”

  Beneath the conservatory lay another world, a cozy labyrinth of passages and rooms that Eleanor quickly fell in love with.

  She’d always enjoyed the dank smell of earth, equated it, for some reason, with the passage of time. She and Teddy had spent many a childhood afternoon in a cave on their family property, exploring, pretending they were in far-off lands. The memory of her brother tugged at her heart.

  Marcus held up the lantern, continuing their tour. “This is where all the bulbs are kept before planting. The area over there is for storage, similar to the one I showed you a moment ago.”

  “This is larger than I thought it would be.” She peered into an adjacent room. “Are those . . . furnaces?”

  “Yes, exactly. For winter.”

  She followed him inside. The walls of the furnace room were brick, and above them, wooden beams supported the ceiling.

  “The air is heated down here,” he continued, “then travels through pipes and up through vents in the floor of the conservatory. We determine the temperature in each of the rooms by controlling how big the fires are. And also by how far we open the vents.”

  She sighed. “Truly impressive.”

  “That’s what I thought when I first saw it.” He motioned overhead. “Those are the pipes I told you about before.” He knocked on one. “Pure lead. They deliver water from the tower throughout the estate. Watch your step through here.”

  Seeing the tunnel ahead, Eleanor felt a shudder of excitement. And a touch of wariness. It was narrower than she’d anticipated, and very dark, of course. She could see the faint outline of pipes affixed to the ceiling.

  “You’re not changing your mind, are you?”

  “Absolutely not!” She nudged him, grateful they were back to their usual banter.

  “Are you ready, then?” He held out his hand. “It won’t take us long, but I do have something I want to show you.”

  She accepted, trying not to dwell on how good her hand felt tucked inside his. Safe. Warm. Protected. She and Teddy used to hold hands in the very darkest part of the cave simply because the one leading had the lantern. But holding hands with Marcus was a far cry different. And it was a difference she liked.

  “It’s a little muddy through here. You may want to gather your skirt.”

  She paused and did just that, then quickly slipped her hand into his again.

  The walls weren’t as slick as the cave from her childhood. Whoever dug this tunnel had shored up the sides with brick, but left the hard-packed earth on the floor. The path was slippery in spots and inclined slightly, so she stepped carefully.

  Tendrils of roots fingered her hair from above, reminding her she was underground. As if she could forget.

  The lantern’s burnished arc of light bounced from one wall to the other, then back again. With Marcus in front, she couldn’t see much before them. And though nothing but hollowed-out earth lay ahead, she was glad he’d gone first instead of—

  Her foot slipped. She felt herself falling.

  She tried, in vain, to grab hold of the wall for balance, still clinging to Marcus’s hand. Then she grimaced, anticipating the pain, and embarrassment, of the inevitable when—

  Strong arms encircled her waist, preventing her fall. At the same time, she heard a crash. And the tunnel went black.

  “Vorsicht!” Marcus whispered, holding her against him. “Are you all right?”

  Her body spared from injury, Eleanor couldn’t say the same for her pride. She ventured a laugh, his closeness unnerving. But the result came out weak sounding, much like the attempt. “I’m sorry . . . I thought I was watching closely enough.”

  “No harm done. Not yet anyway,” he said, an odd tone in his voice. His arms tightened around her.

  Eleanor couldn’t see his face, but she felt the warmth of his breath against her cheek and the hard muscle of his chest beneath her palms. The temperature in the tunnel jumped by ten degrees.

  She tried to think of something to say—and couldn’t.

  “You’re sure,” he whispered, “that you’re all right? You’re not hurt?”

  His voice sounded different—huskier, deeper. His hand moved over her back, slowly, tenderly. And for the first time in her life, Eleanor knew what women meant when they said they went weak in the knees.

  “Yes,” she said, working to catch her breath, but not from the near fall. “I’m fine. Just . . . embarrassed.”

  “Don’t be.” He loosened his hold. “The same thing happened to me not long ago. I still have the bruise.”

  She smiled in the darkness, grateful he couldn’t see her face. Surely she was three shades of red.

  “Here.” His hand trailed a path down her arm, then he pressed her palm against the brick wall. “You stand right here. No running off now. I’ll relight the lantern . . . once I find it. I didn’t hear the glass break.”

  The tunnel muffled their laughter, and she heard him groping around in the darkness, then the telling clink of metal.

  “Got it!”

  As his
footsteps moved behind her, she discovered a new respect for darkness, and a deeper gratitude for light—and the warmth of someone’s hand enfolding hers. She shifted her weight, and winced at a twinge in her ankle. But she wasn’t about to admit it to him. Not and risk him saying they’d finish the rest of the tunnel some other time.

  She would drag her leg behind her, if need be. She wouldn’t miss this opportunity to be with him down here.

  A moment later, a wash of orangy light cascaded down the tunnel and she happily accepted his hand once again.

  They continued on, and after a few steps, he turned. “Here’s where it gets interesting. Well, more interesting.” He smiled. “Most people could continue without stooping. But not us.”

  True to his word, they both had to stoop as they walked, which made progress more challenging.

  “Where was the leak that night? When Aunt Adelicia asked if you would take a look at the damage?”

  “Some distance on up, before the tunnel branches out. Oh, be sure and keep your eyes open. I saw a rat in here that night, so—”

  Instinctively, she tightened her grip on his hand, and he laughed.

  Realizing he was only teasing her, she poked him with her thumbnail. “That was mean!”

  But she couldn’t help smiling in the dark.

  They walked—or hobbled—another few steps before he stopped. He gave her hand a squeeze before releasing it, then knelt down and placed the lantern on the ground. She knelt too, grateful for the chance to rest her lower back.

  “A fascinating thing about plants,” he said, “and nature in general, is what can be accomplished given time, and persistence. And nature has plenty of both. I remind myself of that every now and then, especially when a graft I’ve worked on for months fails, or a hybrid doesn’t bud. Then I see something like this—” he picked up the lantern and shone the light down the tunnel—“and I am reminded, yet again, of how strong nature really is.”

  Eleanor peered around him, narrowing her eyes in an effort to see better. Something protruded from the wall a few feet ahead, coming right through the brick. “What is it?”