“Remember the oak near the main gazebo?”
She glanced up, imagining the scene above ground. “That’s a root?”
He nodded. “That tree’s well over a hundred years old. And will likely be here long after we’re both gone.”
“Thank you, sir, for that sobering thought.”
He smiled and so did she.
“I want to touch it,” she whispered.
“Why does that not surprise me?”
With some maneuvering—and hitting her head once on the overhead pipes—Eleanor moved closer.
She ran a hand across the rough surface, grateful the tree had been spared during the war. “Over a hundred years old. . . . It feels more like rock.”
“And yet it’s alive, as much as the rest of the oak. And has as important a role as the leaves and branches.”
She tried to wrap both hands around the root, and couldn’t. “I’ve walked by this tree countless times, and never once have I stopped to think about what was beneath.”
When he didn’t respond, she looked over and read understanding in his expression. And even . . . appreciation. She marked the moment to remember. This man . . .
Adonis, undeniably so. But perhaps there was more to Marcus Geoffrey than met the eye.
Walking beside Marcus back to the mansion, Eleanor found herself admiring him more than she’d ever thought possible based upon their first meeting.
He was quiet. But it was late, and likely he was as tired as she.
With October almost upon them, the night air held a touch of cool. A northern breeze rustled the trees, and Eleanor tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. Her ankle was still a little sore, but she wouldn’t have missed tonight for anything.
Like a lighthouse beacon, a three-quarter moon hung over the mansion, spilling its light across the estate and giving the gazebos and marble statuary a silvery, dreamlike cast. How extravagant this estate was—the grounds, the mansion, the conservatory, bowling alley, ice house, and on and on it went. Especially when she compared it to what Naomi and Caleb had. Or didn’t have.
Eleanor couldn’t begrudge her aunt owning such an estate. Aunt Adelicia was quite generous with her possessions and had opened her home so graciously for a niece by marriage who had nowhere else to go. But . . . Eleanor took in the surroundings. Such extravagance was simply too much for her, personally. She didn’t see the need.
She preferred things more practical. After all, the function of a building could lend as much beauty to the structure as did the outward facade, perhaps even more so.
When she and Marcus reached the main fountain, a few yards from the front steps, he briefly touched her arm.
“Eleanor . . .”
She paused.
“I want to thank you for being my guest this evening. It was a pleasure to share those things with you. And to see them through your eyes.”
“I’m the one who’s grateful, Marcus. Everything was wonderful. The tour, the tunnel, learning more about your responsibilities here. And seeing that daisy and hearing the story behind it. You really are so gifted at what you do.” She hesitated, deciding whether she should confess her next thought. “I suppose I can admit something to you now . . . At one time, I considered you to be fortunate to have the opportunity to work here at Belmont. But now . . . I believe my aunt is the fortunate one—to have you in her employ.”
He glanced away as though uncomfortable beneath her praise. “You’re kind to say those things, Eleanor. But . . . about my being an under gardener . . .”
He looked back, and though she couldn’t see the precise definition of his features, she sensed embarrassment on his part. And after tonight, seeing what an ambitious and intelligent man he was, she thought she knew why.
“Please, don’t misunderstand what I’m about to say,” he continued. “Being an under gardener is a respectable profession, especially here at Belmont, but I—”
“Of course it is, Marcus. And you should be proud. Look at all you’ve accomplished. One day, probably very soon”—she hoped he could hear her belief in him—“you’ll be the head gardener of an estate. But what head gardener, much less an under gardener, has managed to do what you’ve already done? You’re doing what you enjoy. I’d even say . . . what God created you to do. And that’s what matters. No matter what anyone else tells you.”
He shifted his weight, and although his expression remained lost to the shadows, she could see well enough to know he was looking at her.
“And what is it you enjoy doing, Eleanor? That you would say . . . God created you to do?”
Hands laced together at her waist, she heard subtle challenge in his tone. How honest should she be? After all, he already knew about the building in town. But compared with the work he was doing—and was capable of doing—her own little dashed dream of opening a restaurant seemed so inconsequential.
Still, considering what he’d done for her tonight . . .
“Do you remember the building in town? Where you saw me that day?”
“Hmmm . . .” He cocked his head. “Would that be the building that goes with your key? And that you’ve avoided answering my questions about? And that is now clean and has a rental sign in the front window?”
Only mildly surprised at his response, Eleanor couldn’t stem a smile. “That would be it.”
“Then, yes.” A smile tinted his voice. “I think I remember it.”
She shook her head. “You’ve been spying on me, Marcus Geoffrey.”
“Not at all, madam. I’m simply observant. And . . . you did drop the key that day.”
She appreciated his levity. It made what she had to say a little easier. “Earlier tonight, you said you didn’t realize women of my . . . social status knew how to cook. Well . . .” She lifted a shoulder and let it fall. “That’s what I enjoy doing. Cooking.”
His silence encouraged her to continue.
“Before my—” She caught herself just in time, not wishing to introduce the subject of her father into the conversation. “Before I moved from Murfreesboro, I read an advertisement in a newspaper about a building for lease, and after exchanging letters with the proprietor, I made the decision to rent it”—saying it aloud, and to him, was harder than she’d thought it would be—“in order to . . . start my own restaurant.”
His head tilted as though he hadn’t heard her correctly. “A restaurant . . .”
His tone hinted at skepticism, and her guard rose accordingly. Still, she understood why he was surprised. Hers wasn’t a conventional choice.
“Yes, that’s right. But I wasn’t able to secure the capital for the restaurant.” She decided to skip the part about having asked Aunt Adelicia for a loan. “So the day you saw me in town, I was meeting with the proprietor to tell him I wouldn’t be renting the building after all.”
He didn’t say anything at first, his nod coming slowly. “I’m sorry the loss of that opportunity was disappointing for you, Eleanor.”
“Thank you.”
“But I’m wondering . . . if you didn’t rent it, who cleaned up the building? It looked like it was ready to be occupied last I saw it.”
“Well . . .” She told him about her proposition and about Mr. Stover accepting the terms. “The building hasn’t rented yet, of course. But it stands a much better chance now than it did.”
“That was a very wise move on your part.”
“I appreciate that, but . . . in hindsight, I realize I shouldn’t have signed that contract sight unseen, or before I had the money to start my business. It was simply too risky.”
“Sometimes you have to try, regardless of the risk. Because how else will you ever know?”
The soothing tumble of water from the fountain filled the silence between them, along with the chirrup of crickets bedded down for the night.
The breeze picked up, and Eleanor reached again to tuck that same wayward strand into place. But to her surprise, Marcus beat her to it.
He gently slipped her
hair behind her ear, and his hand lingered.
He walked her to the door, the gas lamps that adorned the front of the mansion providing ample light. It occurred to Eleanor then that nearly twelve years had passed since she’d been escorted to the front door by a man. She remembered both times well. She’d been eighteen, and the men—both much older and clearly interested only in her family name and connections—had been nothing like Marcus.
Her father had proven understanding when she’d spoken to him about not wishing to marry either of the men. He’d assured her there would be plenty of time for marriage later. But then . . . her mother had died. And after two years of mourning, the war had come, which had taken most of the men. Except for a very few.
And none of them were anything like the man standing before her now.
Eleanor hesitated, not exactly certain what she should do. The evening hadn’t been a formal outing, after all. And Marcus wasn’t courting her, by any means. Did she curtsy to him first? Or did he—
He bowed, a touch of mischief in his eyes. “Thank you, Eleanor, for the pleasure of your company this evening.” As he straightened, he leaned forward. “Now,” he whispered, “you curtsy, then offer me your hand.”
A little embarrassed that her naivety was so obvious, she did as prompted.
He kissed her hand. Not once, but twice.
She slipped inside, grateful to find the entrance hall empty. Just before she closed the door behind her, she glanced back outside and saw Marcus look back at the very same time.
“Remember,” he called softly. “In the morning.”
She smiled and nodded. Foolish man. . . . As if she could forget.
Later, as she lay in the dark of her bedroom, it occurred to her that Marcus had never finished his thought about being an under gardener at Belmont. It did occur to her, however, that perhaps he’d intended to suggest she use her influence with her aunt for the advancement of his position.
But that possibility conflicted with the man she knew. Or thought she knew.
And yet—that familiar voice rose inside—why else would someone like him be interested in someone like her?
She turned onto her side and pulled the covers close beneath her chin. If that was Marcus’s intent in getting to know her better, then he would be sorely disappointed.
But not nearly as disappointed as she would be.
20
Early the next morning, working in the propagating room, Marcus heard the telling creak of a door. “Good morning!” he called, already knowing who it was. He went to welcome Eleanor. “I was hoping I hadn’t kept you out so late last night that you’d—”
He stopped short. “Mrs. Cheatham!”
“And a good morning to you, Mr. Geoffrey.” Curiosity laced the woman’s expression. “Although . . . I’m fairly confident I am not the person you were expecting.”
Unaccustomed to being caught off guard, Marcus knew better than to try to bluff his way with Adelicia Cheatham. But neither was he eager to admit who he was expecting, not in light of what he’d just said. He hadn’t been a schoolboy in years, yet he remembered well the begrudging apprehension he’d felt when called to give account for his actions.
It wasn’t as though he and Eleanor had done anything wrong last night, so why did he suddenly feel as though they had?
“No, madam, you’re not.” He chanced a look toward the mansion, but the moisture filming the glass walls obscured the view. “But it’s always a pleasure to see you, whether by appointment or otherwise.”
She smiled. “You, Mr. Geoffrey, are far too kind.” But her guarded expression said she hadn’t forgotten his greeting.
Whatever business she had, Marcus knew he needed to get it done swiftly and then see her on her way. “Mr. Gray isn’t in yet this morning, madam. But is there a way that I might be of service?”
“Indeed, there is, Mr. Geoffrey. I want to see the progress you’ve made on my rose before Dr. Cheatham and I leave town. Our plans to take the children to visit family in Alabama have been significantly extended. After receiving a rather heart-tugging letter from Dr. Cheatham’s daughter, Mattie, we’ve decided to surprise her at her school in Maryland. We’ll be gone for a month, perhaps a little longer should we decide to stop in New York.”
Movement in the gardens behind Mrs. Cheatham drew his attention, and through the clouded glass, he spotted someone making their way toward the conservatory. Definitely female judging by the skirt. Why couldn’t Eleanor have chosen this time to be late?
“Your rose is right through here, madam.” He swiftly ushered Mrs. Cheatham into the propagating room, but she took her time joining him. Was she moving at so leisured a pace by coincidence? Or was she doing it just to spite him?
He wouldn’t put the latter past her. Because it was what he would do in the same situation. He didn’t like to be coerced. And neither did she.
“This is the latest version of the rose, madam. I hope you’re pleased.”
He could tell immediately by the quirk in her brow that she was not.
“It’s quite an . . . orangy pink, don’t you think, Mr. Geoffrey?”
He hadn’t heard the sound of a door yet and could only hope Eleanor had seen something outside that would delay her.
“I think it’s actually quite nice, Mrs. Cheatham. It has the hue of pink at sunset that—”
“You mean sunrise,” she corrected. “I said sunrise in my original description.”
“Yes, madam, you are correct. You did. And I meant sunrise. But—”
“But just now you said sunset, and I’m wondering”—she eyed the flower as though it might respond—“if perhaps that’s not why this bud has more orange to it. You thought I said sunset, when, in fact, I said sunrise.”
Now she was toying with him. He could tell by the way she kept glancing outside, watching and waiting, just as he was doing.
“Unfortunately, Mr. Geoffrey, I think we still have some distance to cover before we achieve the desired color. But you’re doing very fine work, and I appreciate your dedication to the task. Speaking of which . . . in my absence, I would greatly appreciate your keeping a watchful eye on the progress of the billiard hall. I’m not much pleased with the current height nor style of the parapet along the roof, nor the size of the windows. I told the architect to incorporate your recommendations exactly as you drew them for me. They’re far better than the original design.” She paused, exhaling. “Do you know what I wish, Mr. Geoffrey?”
Marcus thought of several things he would wish for in that moment, but none that he could voice. He simply shook his head.
“I wish you were building my billiard hall. It would be completed by now, and would be stunning, I’m sure. Mrs. Foster, wife of the gentleman for whom you did the renovation on the textile mill, went on and on about how pleased her husband was with your improvements. How exacting you were, and detailed.”
Now she was simply stalling.
Marcus heard a door open, and his thoughts jumped to how he might salvage the moment since escaping it was impossible.
“Mrs. Cheatham, despite what you may be—”
“Marcus? Are you back there?”
He clenched his jaw, not missing the look Adelicia Cheatham gave him. As though she were thinking, “Marcus? Instead of Mr. Geoffrey? How interesting . . .”
“Yes, Miss Braddock. We’re back here,” he called, hoping she would catch the subtle hint.
“Miss Braddock?” Eleanor’s voice carried a smile. “After exploring the depths of a tunnel with someone, I believe you have earned the permanent privilege of—”
Seeing them, Eleanor paused midstride through the doorway, having much the same look on her face that Marcus imagined had been on his moments earlier.
“Aunt Adelicia!” She smiled. “What are you doing down here? I thought you and Dr. Cheatham were already gone.”
“We had planned to be, dear. But we got a later start. Dr. Cheatham is having Armstead bring the carriage around, so I deci
ded to walk down here on the off chance of catching Mr. Geoffrey.”
Eleanor crossed the room to them. “If I’d known you were coming, we could have walked together.”
Not a trace of pretense layered Eleanor’s tone, Marcus noted. And surely Mrs. Cheatham did too.
“And pray tell, my dear, what brings you down here so early on a Saturday morning?”
Marcus knew he wasn’t imagining the faint inflection in her tone.
“You, actually, Aunt.” Eleanor laughed. “Last night when M . . . Mr. Geoffrey and I were unearthing the secrets of the tunnel below—”
The way she scrunched her shoulders when she said it made Marcus smile, but the way Mrs. Cheatham looked at him didn’t.
“—he also showed me the roses he’s grafted for you. The latest was set to bud this morning, so . . . here I am, anxious to see it in all its splendor.”
If he had scripted a response with the hope of allaying Mrs. Cheatham’s suspicions, he could not have penned a better one. Eleanor Braddock . . . Open. Honest. Unpretentious.
Mrs. Cheatham’s features relaxed. A little.
Marcus stepped forward. “Please allow me to show you the bloom, Miss Braddock. Though, I must warn you”—he slipped Eleanor a discreet wink—“voice your opinion at your own risk, for we have both already expressed ours.”
He held up the flower and easily read Eleanor’s expression. “Apparently, you share your aunt’s opinion, Miss Braddock.”
Mrs. Cheatham beamed.
“No, I don’t. I . . .” Eleanor flushed. “I mean . . . it’s not that I agree or disagree. It’s simply that . . .” She winced. “Pink is not a favorite color of mine.”
Mrs. Cheatham frowned. “But you adore pink, Eleanor! You have that lovely pink ensemble, which you don’t wear often enough, quite frankly.”
“Reason being,” Eleanor said gently, “I don’t like the color.”
The rumble of a carriage reached them, and Mrs. Cheatham briefly peered outside, then back at Marcus. If he’d still been a betting man, he would have wagered the whole lot on what she was about to say.
“Eleanor, dear, are you certain you don’t want to go with us? Pauline would adore your company, and so would I. We would happily wait while you gather your things.”
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