It didn’t help that a few days ago he’d received another letter from the baroness. He hadn’t responded to the missive yet, but needed to.
The baroness’s letters—always long, detailing recent shopping outings and what she’d purchased, or plays she’d attended and who she’d seen there—came with increasing frequency. As verbose as her letters were, they communicated very little, yet also spoke volumes. About her. About them as a couple. About what their life together would be like.
She inquired incessantly, wanting to know what he was doing with his time, what comprised his days. Perhaps if he told her a little, she would be pacified. Sensing a cage closing in on him again, Marcus pushed that part of his life to the furthest corner of his mind. And locked the door.
With the measurements for the base of the statue recorded, he confirmed the distance from all four sides of the rectangle to the outside edges of the area lined with bricks.
He recalled again Mrs. Cheatham’s response to finding out about their tour of the tunnel and could understand her perspective. She was simply trying to protect her niece. The woman obviously had plans for Eleanor. He didn’t think the fated dinner with Mr. Hockley had taken place, though. He’d made sure he was at Belmont in recent evenings and had kept watch for any strange carriages coming up the lane.
Eleanor deserved a future as fresh and bright as she was—one that did not include her working in a restaurant.
He’d been truthful when he said he was sorry the lost opportunity with the restaurant had been a disappointing one for her. But he wasn’t sorry it hadn’t worked out. His opinion had nothing to do with her intelligence or ability. He, of all people, understood what it was like to pursue a goal you wanted more than anything.
But Eleanor? Running a restaurant? In that ramshackle building? And in that part of town? Nein, nein . . . That would never do. What would Adelicia Cheatham say if she knew her niece had attempted such an endeavor? He had no doubt Mrs. Cheatham would disapprove.
He’d chosen not to voice his own disapproval to Eleanor, and with good reason. First, it was a moot point, as the opportunity had passed. Second, it would have ruined one of the most enjoyable evenings he’d ever spent.
He reached for his pack and withdrew a mallet, wooden stakes, some string, and a level, eager to be done so he could ride out to Belmont and check on the maturing potato plants. Or that’s what he told himself. . . .
“Give me the string, and I’ll tie it around the stakes,” a voice said behind him. “It’ll be easier with two people.”
Marcus looked over his shoulder, surprised to see one of the patients standing over him. The older gentleman from the swing. Marcus glanced around but saw no sign of Dr. Crawford.
Meanwhile, the patient squatted across from him, arm outstretched. The man wiggled his fingers as though impatient to get the task under way.
Marcus hesitated. But what harm could come from letting the old man help? Unless, of course, the man became agitated, lunged for him, and tried to drive a stake through his temple. Chances of that happening were doubtful, he knew. Still, Marcus gripped the mallet a little tighter.
“I’m assuming statuary of some sort will reside in this space?” the man said.
“Yes, sir, that’s right.” Having heard stories about patients in asylums, Marcus decided to keep his answers brief and to the point. And as lighthearted as possible.
He handed the man the string, keeping the stakes and mallet to himself. Marcus quickly drove the stakes into the ground, then watched, with no small surprise, as the man tied the string to the first stake, pulled it taut—but not overtight, as to disturb the stake’s placement—then looped it twice around the next stake, and repeated the process until it was done.
Marcus looked over at him. “I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be. I was building houses before you were born.”
“You’re a carpenter?”
The man frowned. “Do I look like a carpenter?”
“Well . . . no, sir, not really. But I—”
“Too much jabbering. Give me the level.” He held out his hand. “Let’s get this done. I’ve got other work to do.”
Marcus curbed a grin. He couldn’t remember if he’d ever been accused of jabbering. He wasn’t totally certain he even knew what the word meant.
He handed over the level.
The man crouched in the dirt, heedless to all else, and held the level perfectly still above the string, his whitish beard brushing the ground. “Up on my right about a quarter inch.”
Looking around to see if anyone else was watching—they weren’t—Marcus humored the man by following his instructions.
Finally, the man stood and returned the level. “Check me, if you like. You seem to want to.”
Amused but also feeling reprimanded, Marcus did as he directed. Every string . . . perfectly level. He couldn’t believe it.
“Just because I’m in this place doesn’t mean I’m lame in the head.”
Marcus blinked. “No sir, of course not. I never said—”
“No, you didn’t say it. But I can see it in your eyes. Eyes don’t lie.”
Marcus’s first instinct was to look away, but then he figured the man would call him on that too. Remembering how he’d planned on framing his responses, Marcus offered his hand.
“Thank you, sir, for your help today. You did a fine job, and I appreciate it.”
The man looked at his hand, then back at him. His chin trembled. Warily, as though he feared it was a trick—and that Marcus might pull his own hand back at any moment—the older man extended his arm.
Marcus winced at his grip. Rock solid. Only one other man in his life had owned a grip like that.
“Will you be out here again?” The man’s voice held supplication now.
“Yes, sir. I will.”
Eyes moist, the man released his grip. “Maybe I’ll have time to see you again, then.”
Marcus returned his arm to his side, flexing his hand. “If you’re not too busy, sir.”
A ringing like that of a school bell—only softer, briefer—pulled the man’s focus back to the door.
“I have to go now,” he said. “But I’ll watch those strings from my room and make sure nobody messes with them.”
Marcus nodded.
The man was halfway back to the door when he suddenly turned and ran back. Marcus braced himself, not knowing which man was returning.
The man pulled something from his shirt pocket, and for the first time, he smiled. “It’s my favorite kind.”
Marcus accepted the gift and waited until the door closed behind the last patient before looking at it more closely.
A lint-covered sugar stick.
Later, as Marcus guided Regal back into town, memories of his brother pressed close. He didn’t have to question why, or why now. He knew the answer to both. Because he knew the truth.
He thought of the elderly man again and of how threadbare the cord that tethered him to reality seemed to be. Marcus gripped the reins. As embarrassed as he’d been when Adelicia Cheatham asked him to install a garden at the city’s insane asylum, he was proud of what he and his men were accomplishing.
But he was even more surprised by how the patients had responded to it.
He enjoyed watching them walk the pathways, stopping to look overlong at the fountain or a tree or a flower, delicately fingering the petals. Or enjoying the peaceful to-and-fro of an arbor swing as the elderly gentleman had done.
But the stigma of such a place was inescapable. What shame and devastation the families of these patients bore. And with good reason. So while he was proud of his work, he still didn’t want his name publicly associated with it.
His conscience burned with an increasing awareness as memories of his brother pressed closer still.
Marcus searched the boundless blue overhead, regret welling in his throat. If only he’d known how upset his brother had been, how sad and hopeless he’d felt, he could have talked to him
.
As it was, only a handful of people would ever know the truth of what had happened that night. Because Selbstmord—Marcus hated even thinking the word—was a coward’s way out. And though his family’s history was rife with deceit, greed, betrayal, and even murder, suicide was something that didn’t occur in the House of Habsburg.
Even when it did.
22
When Naomi Lebenstein said she didn’t mind hard work, Eleanor had believed her. What she hadn’t realized was how meticulous Naomi was, or what a difference a coat of properly applied whitewash could make to a room. Not a streak or accidental drop anywhere.
Eleanor turned in circles, taking it in. “Is there anything you cannot do, Naomi? And do to perfection?” She appreciated Mr. Stover giving Naomi the work. It meant steady food on the table for mother and son, which hadn’t been the case until recently.
Naomi beamed. “Mr. Stover saw it earlier and has asked me to paint the whole inside of the building now. You do not mind, do you, Miss Braddock?”
“Mind? Why would I mind?” Eleanor continued to the kitchen and placed the crate of groceries on the table, her Saturday shopping complete. “It’s his property. And the better it looks, the sooner it’s likely to rent, which means I stand to at least get a portion of my money back.”
She’d confided in Naomi about her original plan for the building, and—contrary to Marcus’s tepid response to the idea the night they’d visited the tunnel—Naomi had considered it a wonderful undertaking. Even if a failed one.
“But if he rents it”—Naomi gave her a knowing look—“where will you cook?”
Eleanor shook her head, touched by her friend’s concern, especially when considering Naomi’s own situation and her husband’s passing. Naomi still hadn’t shared any details, and Eleanor wasn’t about to pry. “I have no idea. But as you’ve said before, each day comes with trouble all its own. No need to borrow more.”
Naomi’s smile was bittersweet.
Eleanor started to unpack her purchases. “Besides . . . there are far more troubling things in this world. But what I do know”—she reached for her apron hanging on a peg—“is that I’m here right now. And while you continue painting upstairs, I’m going to enjoy making us a delicious dinner.”
Eleanor lit the stove, then set to peeling potatoes, feeling quite at home in “Weezie’s kitchen.” She’d cooked for Mr. Stover, Naomi, and Caleb twice in the past week, dividing the remains among them, and they’d been so appreciative. But she was the one grateful to them.
The pleasure cooking gave her, the joy she took in preparing the meal, was nothing compared to seeing the contented smiles around the table and knowing that, even if only for a while, Naomi’s and Caleb’s bellies were full and their appetites sated.
Caleb had asked, quite shyly, if he could bring a couple of friends with him to dinner tonight, and she’d said yes without hesitation, eager to meet the boy’s companions.
She remembered Teddy and his friends when they were about Caleb’s age, how rowdy and boisterous they’d been. Oh, how they could eat after their playful shenanigans! She looked forward to seeing Caleb in that setting and was hopeful that she could stretch the food she’d purchased to curb the hunger of another child or two.
She had a very special dessert in mind too, and since Marcus had enjoyed the sweet potato pie she’d made, she planned on taking him a sampling. The man had an affinity for sweets, which she liked about him.
She paused from peeling. Was there anything she didn’t like about him?
Her initial opinion of him had changed significantly. She now understood why he sometimes came across as having a superior air—in his tone, other times in an expressed opinion, or a look. It was because of his education. And likely due to his European heritage as well.
But truly . . . an architect? She smiled again at how long he’d allowed her to believe he was an under gardener.
Wielding the paring knife like a scalpel, she cut the thinnest potato peel she could manage, remembering the physician’s scalpel she’d seen in Marcus’s haven, as he’d called it.
“Be sure to wear your pink ensemble for your upcoming dinner with Mr. Hockley . . .”
Eleanor tossed the paper-thin peel into the bucket, wishing the dinner was already over and done with.
Mr. Lawrence Hockley . . .
The man had returned from abroad and, according to his elegantly written note, would be “calling upon her person at precisely seven o’clock on the eve of Wednesday next.”
Eleanor laughed in the kitchen’s silence. Who penned a letter in so formal a fashion anymore? The man must be at least one hundred and two years old. No doubt, he would wear his powdered wig when they went to dinner.
Marcus hadn’t said one word to her about it. Not that she expected him to. But part of her liked to think he cared—at least a little—if she went to dinner with a man. If she knew he was having dinner with a woman, she would be interested—too interested.
She slowed her peeling, imagining him asking someone to dinner like that. It did something funny to her insides, twisted them in a not-so-comfortable knot. It was an undesirable sensation, and she knew what she was feeling.
Which made her like it even less.
Aunt Adelicia had written inquiring if she’d stopped by the Nashville Women’s League yet. Eleanor blew a wisp of hair from her eyes. She hadn’t but needed to. And would . . . before her aunt returned.
She paused. Something familiar niggled at her memory. She couldn’t quite think of what it—
The fog cleared, and the memory rose. What had Aunt Adelicia meant when she’d said “Preferably before next summer, for obvious reasons” to Marcus, regarding the rose he was cultivating for her?
Eleanor turned the paring knife in her hand. She’d intended to ask him about it the last time they were together. But she’d forgotten.
She slipped the knife beneath the skin of the next potato and felt its flesh give. She sliced it open. Rotten. So was the next one. And the next. From the outside, they appeared fine. But by the time she’d finished peeling them, nearly a third of the potatoes resided in the garbage pail—riddled with dry rot.
She had a good mind to take them back and dump them as they were onto Mr. Mulholland’s pristine white counter. Either that, or take a knife with her the next time she went shopping for potatoes at his mercantile. Establish a new “slice before you buy” policy.
The mere thought of doing so provided satisfaction.
A while later, with the chunked potatoes waiting in a bowl of water, the chicken frying in an iron skillet, and the dried beans she’d left soaking overnight simmering their way to tender, she mixed together cream, milk, and flour, eager to taste the au gratin potato dish again. One of her father’s favorites.
She’d finally received a letter from him two days ago. In his own hand. It had been short, all of five sentences. And kind, even if stiltedly so. But at least he’d written and had acknowledged the receipt of her letters.
She couldn’t deny, though, it wasn’t the outpouring of a father’s heart as she’d hoped it would be. Nor did it include the invitation to come and visit him. Reading it had hurt almost more than it had helped.
She removed the browned chicken from the skillet, covered it with a cloth to stay warm, then placed the drained potatoes into a casserole. The creamy cheese sauce, absent of lumps, poured smooth as pudding over the top. Using a cloth, she placed the potatoes in the hot oven.
Needing a lift in her spirits, Eleanor turned to an unfailing remedy. And by the time she’d mixed the dried-peach filling, and kneaded and rolled out the dough, she was already imagining what Marcus would say when he took his first bite.
She tucked the blanket of dough snug around the edges of the cobbler, as her mother had taught her, giving it a slight crimp. Then she cut slits into the top for the cobbler to breathe as it baked.
Into the oven it went, and out came the potatoes. She added the last touches of crushed herbs
to those, then returned them to baking, making note of the time. She couldn’t wait to sit down and eat. Lunch seemed forever ago.
Hearing footfalls on the stairs, Eleanor turned. “I was just about to call you. Dinner is almost ready. Did you make good progress?”
Naomi breathed deeply. “It smells divine in here, Miss Braddock. And yes, the first coat of whitewash in the smallest bedroom is done.”
Naomi, ever observant, pitched right in and seemed to anticipate what needed to be done before Eleanor asked. As they chatted and put the finishing touches on dinner, Eleanor’s gaze fell on the frayed edges of Naomi’s dress along the sleeves and collar. Even the hem of her skirt too. In Eleanor’s memory, Naomi had this dress and one other. She couldn’t remember her ever wearing anything else.
Mr. Stover arrived right on time, and as Naomi placed the last tin cup on the table, the door in the front room opened.
“Guten Tag!”
Eleanor recognized Caleb’s voice, and could hardly wait to see his eager face, along with those of his friends, as they sat down to dinner. But, oddly, she heard none of the boyish rowdiness and laughter she’d expected.
And following Naomi around the corner, she realized why.
23
Standing hand in hand on both sides of Caleb, children huddled together like baby birds pushed too soon from the nest. Three girls, two boys, their hair matted and unwashed, none of them over the age of seven. The girls’ dresses, wrinkled and stained, rose to midcalf and revealed shoes that could barely be called such, they had so little wear left in them. The boys’ clothes looked as though they hadn’t seen a washing in weeks, their trousers worn through at the knees.
But what Eleanor noticed most about them was the hollowed-out, wounded look in their eyes. The shadow of fear fed by hunger and disappointment, and nurtured by the dread that life promised little more.
Eleanor finally found her voice. “Welcome, children. I’m so glad you’re here.”
Caleb smiled, but the children immediately looked to Naomi, who spoke to them in German, her voice soft. They nodded, except for the youngest—a little girl who couldn’t have been more than four. She all but disappeared behind Caleb, her startlingly blue eyes watchful.
A Beauty So Rare Page 24
