A Beauty So Rare

by Tamera Alexander

  Atop the salad were sliced sugared almonds and bits of juicy orange. She could only imagine the cost of this meal. She quickly worked the numbers in her head and estimated she could provide a modest but filling dinner for approximately one hundred people, maybe more, for the same amount.

  Mr. Hockley followed the servers’ actions, neither smiling nor frowning but simply acknowledging their presence with watchful attention. He was a man of detail, and Eleanor took the opportunity to observe him more closely.

  Though she’d feared she would tower over him, as it turned out, he was almost her height. He was absent the imagined powdered wig and walking cane she’d visualized when anticipating this evening in one of her earlier, more pessimistic moments. Bookish, is what her father might have called him. He was intelligent, no question. And his sense of humor—

  She pondered that for a moment, checking her memory. Had he smiled at her even once during the evening? If so, she couldn’t recall.

  Precious few strands of once-blond-now-graying hair framed an unremarkable, yet not unpleasant countenance. In that regard, they were very well matched. All in all, he was quite unlike what she’d pictured—which was a relief, in one sense, while a concern in another.

  Because if it turned out that Lawrence Hockley was interested in pursuing something more with her, the possibility of a future with this man wouldn’t be as easily dismissed as she’d first thought. That is . . . if he preferred a woman dressed like a frosted pink petit four from a cheap French bakery. Why had she allowed Aunt Adelicia to coerce her into agreeing to wear this ensemble?

  Not that she was eager to impress Mr. Hockley. Her honest expectations for this evening remained unchanged from when Aunt Adelicia had first told her about him wanting to meet her. Nothing would come of it.

  With the servers departed, Eleanor spoke softly, mindful of patrons at nearby tables. “While I’m uncertain if you would classify these as insightful observations, Mr. Hockley . . .” She inclined her head to one side. “I am a woman who prizes practicality. I have my share of sensibilities, of course, but work to keep them in their proper place. I’m not given to fanciful daydreams but do possess an active imagination and a natural curiosity that finds fulfillment through reading and study. I’m not easily intimidated, but that’s not due to a puffed-up estimation of myself, I assure you. I simply do not devote time to dwelling upon what others may think about me. I learned at a young age, and subsequently since, that to do so is to invite disappointment and disenchantment—two foes that I do my best to keep at arm’s length.” Not customarily so transparent to people she didn’t know, Eleanor surprised herself at the length of her answer.

  Fork poised midair, Hockley looked at her for a long moment, his features revealing neither satisfaction nor displeasure, and the hushed murmur of conversation in the restaurant inched upward in the silence.

  “Dr. and Mrs. Cheatham mentioned your straightforward nature, Miss Braddock.”

  Eleanor finished chewing, not knowing how to respond. Had he meant the statement as a compliment? She couldn’t tell. If Marcus had said the same words, she would have known by the look in his eyes. Or the wry tip of his mouth.

  “I esteem frankness in a person,” he continued. “For I, too, am practical by nature and have only become more so with age.” He sipped his wine, unhurried. “Time has a way of narrowing one’s youthful expectations. You make choices along the way, and move on. But as you grow nearer the end of your journey than the beginning, opportunities lost suddenly become more pronounced. To look back over your life, to see what you have accomplished, and what you haven’t . . .” He paused. “Those are sobering observations, indeed.”

  His words struck a chord inside her. Had she not experienced similar moments of reflection?

  He lifted his wine glass as though to drink again, then apparently thought better of it. “As I told you in my letter, I am widowed. For almost five years now. My wife, Henrietta, was a good woman. Kind.” His brow creased. “Thrifty,” he said, nodding thoughtfully. “And clean. We were married for twelve years. I found the arrangement most amiable, and trust that she did as well.”

  Taken aback by his none-too-intimate summary, Eleanor had to remind herself to nod. Thrifty? Clean? This was how he described the woman with whom he’d lived as his wife for twelve years? How would he choose to describe her someday, if they were to marry? Strong and sturdy, with good teeth, no doubt.

  “I have grieved my wife’s passing. However . . . life rarely turns out the way we plan, Miss Braddock. Time moves on, as they say, and forces us to move with it.”

  Listening, Eleanor glimpsed her own determined, sensible nature in the man. “My condolences, again, Mr. Hockley, on your loss. And—”

  “Lawrence, please—seeing as we are dispensing with the usual formalities.”

  “Thank you . . . Lawrence.” The name felt odd on her lips. “And I agree with your general outlook. In my experience, thinking about what might have been has never made it so.”

  He dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “Well spoken . . . Eleanor.”

  A server approached with warm yeasty rolls. Pats of sweet creamy butter shaped like rosettes clustered at the edge of the plate. Such artistry in how the food was presented. Exquisite.

  “But making it beautiful does nothing to actually enhance the flavor of the food, Eleanor. It’s strictly ästhetisch.”

  Recalling Marcus’s comment, Eleanor could well imagine how he would tease her about the beauty of this meal if he were here. And she half wished he were. Though Mr. Hockley—Lawrence—would likely object.

  She stole a glance across the table and discovered him intent on buttering a roll, in similar fashion to how he’d eaten his dinner. Each food separately, and in specific order. No variation once the pattern was established. He didn’t slather butter on the entire piece of bread like she did, so it could melt down into the yeasty crevices. He sliced off a tiny portion of a rosette and carefully laid it atop the bread. Bite by bite.

  Calling the man meticulous would have been an understatement. Lawrence Hockley made the hands of a clock look spontaneous. And yet . . .

  Such attributes could be seen as a credit to a man of his profession. Surely, serving as president of the largest bank in Nashville demanded exacting attention. If a woman were to purposefully view such a man in a specific light, she might be persuaded to see these dependable, even predictable, idiosyncrasies as something to be valued. Perhaps even treasured, given time.

  Another server approached, but Mr. Hockley kindly, firmly waved him away.

  “You are a gracious and intelligent woman, Eleanor, precisely as your aunt described you.”

  Aunt Adelicia had provided this man a description? That was something Eleanor would’ve liked to have been privy to.

  “You seem quite a disciplined woman, as well,” he continued, “respected, and from an established family. One that is still well regarded, despite the challenge of your . . . current circumstances.”

  His final two words, so succinct and neat, encompassed so much that wasn’t. Yet Eleanor heard no condemnation in his tone. Only frank pragmatism, which she understood.

  He leaned forward. “I am not of a romantic nature. I never have been. Nor do I want to risk a misunderstanding between us in that regard. I have no inclination that ours will be a marriage of the heart—at the outset, at least—should we decide to pursue that course.” He hesitated, then sighed. “I’m not even certain there is such a thing. A marriage of the heart, I mean. A man and woman make a decision to wed and then build a life from there. It’s hard work, both must sacrifice. It’s by no means always enjoyable. But I believe that any man and woman who come together with mutual respect and integrity have as good a chance at happiness as any. Would you not agree?”

  “Oh yes,” Eleanor answered swiftly, intentionally lowering her voice and wishing he would do the same. She wasn’t actually certain she did agree with him. At least, not as certain as she might have been at one tim
e, but . . .

  Seated one table away, a young woman sneaked furtive glances in their direction, and Eleanor got the distinct impression she was eavesdropping. Or trying to. And this was one conversation Eleanor preferred to keep private.

  “At the risk of sounding too forward or indelicate,” Mr. Hockley continued, still speaking at normal volume, “I am forty-one years old, considerably wealthy, and I wish to leave a legacy. But in order to do that, I need—”

  “Children,” Eleanor part whispered, part mouthed, doing her best to signal him with her eyes. But reading signals was apparently not in the banker’s repertoire, nor was catching subtleties of any kind.

  “An heir is what I was going to say. And lest you think I did not spend considerable time contemplating my actions before responding to your aunt, let me assure you I have. I believe we are well suited, Eleanor. I am in need of a wife to give me children, and you are in need of a provider.”

  Uncomfortable enough, imagining their conversation being overheard, Eleanor felt as though she were looking into a mirror, one that magnified her own sensibilities a thousand times over. And she wasn’t certain she liked what she saw.

  “Furthermore, I see no benefit to be gained by delaying this decision. Neither of us could be accused of being youthful anymore. Although . . .” The closest thing to a smile she’d seen from him yet touched his mouth. “Admittedly, you certainly fall closer to that category than I.”

  Eleanor managed a smile at the comment, still aware of the young woman’s close attention. On a whim, Eleanor chanced a look in her direction, and the woman immediately averted her eyes, confirming Eleanor’s suspicion.

  She hadn’t seen the woman before, she was certain. She would have remembered her. Pale blond curls artfully arranged beneath a stylish little hat that screamed high society.

  “To risk the utmost transparency with you,” he continued, “I confide that—”

  Eleanor held up a hand. “Lawrence . . .”

  Mouth hanging slightly ajar, he stared.

  “If we are finished with dinner here . . . might I suggest that we continue this conversation elsewhere.” When his blank stare persisted, she smiled. “Perhaps some place . . . less public.”

  He blinked. “Ah . . . of course, of course. You wish to see my home, to determine what you might well be mistress of.”

  Eleanor’s face heated. “No!” she whispered. “I assure you, sir, I was not implying that I—”

  “No, no.” He tucked his napkin beside his plate. “I admire you for it. It’s most logical and is a necessary requirement for you to make your decision. Home is the woman’s domain, after all. Queen of her castle, and all that. Besides, I have reviewed your family history at length, as well as your father’s long and illustrious career. Quite impressive, I might add. So it’s only fitting that you have opportunity to do the same.”

  Thoroughly mortified—though also moved by his compliment to her father—Eleanor rose from her seat and smoothed the wrinkles from her skirt. She’d been seated for so long, it took a few seconds to get the feeling back in her legs again. Ever the gentleman, Mr. Hockley offered his arm.

  As they passed the table beside them, Eleanor briefly glanced down, but the woman had bowed her head, leaving only her perfect blond curls to shimmer in the candlelight.

  “To continue our discussion from the restaurant, Eleanor . . .”

  Eleanor accepted the china cup and saucer from the servant and smiled her thanks. She sipped the coffee. Fixed to perfection. Rich flavor, yet not too strong.

  “I have not the time nor the inclination to be husband to some young doe-eyed bride with expectations I will never be able to meet. My job is demanding and consumes most of my time. My trips abroad—both for business and pleasure—account for the remainder. And it would be my wish that my wife would accompany me on those journeys.”

  “Of course,” Eleanor responded, knowing some women might have been shocked or even affronted by Lawrence Hockley’s directness. But she wasn’t.

  What he was telling her was nothing she hadn’t already considered. This relationship, for lack of a better term, would be, at its heart, a business arrangement that had absolutely nothing to do with emotions. At least for him. Her emotions, on the other hand, were currently tied in knots at the mere prospect of making such a commitment.

  His house—or estate was more like it—was splendidly appointed. Nothing near the grandeur of Belmont, thank goodness, but lovely. And far beyond anything Eleanor had ever imagined being within her grasp.

  And now it was—she realized with a sliver of wonder—within her grasp. If she hadn’t personally experienced this evening, she wouldn’t have believed it.

  Occupying the settee opposite hers, Mr. Hockley leaned forward, his countenance softening with a surprising glimmer of emotion. “My future wife and . . . prayerfully, our children will want for nothing. And . . . as for your father, Eleanor,” he said softly, “his every need would be quietly seen to. You would never have cause to worry on that account.”

  The mention of her father and the promise of his care tugged fiercely at frayed emotions, and—gripping the handkerchief in her pocket—Eleanor struggled to keep the tattered ends from unraveling.

  Mr. Hockley eased back, his speech apparently delivered. She needed to respond, but how?

  She lifted her coffee cup to her lips and drank, and as the warmth slid down her throat, she looked across at the man who could be the answer to all her prayers. Especially those for her father. And a part of her couldn’t help but be amazed.

  Lawrence Hockley was the perfect resolution for her circumstances. He was precisely the kind of man she had always pictured for herself . . . before she’d given up hope of ever marrying. And also before . . .

  Her heart tightened at the slow-in-coming, but undeniable realization moving over her. He was the kind of man she would have chosen . . . before she’d met and fallen in love with Marcus Geoffrey.

  25

  Lawrence Hockley.

  No matter how Marcus tried—and he had tried—he couldn’t get that name out of his mind. Grateful it was Friday, he tucked the project sketches under his arm and left the warehouse.

  President of the Bank of Nashville. Old money, and plenty of it. From one of the finest families in the city. A widower. No children. And that was only what he’d learned from having dinner two nights ago with Eli and Cordina.

  A casual mention of Hockley’s name to Robert Callahan, his foreman, yesterday had earned him a little more information. According to Callahan, Lawrence Hockley was a pillar of the community and a “more serious sort of fellow.” Apparently, the Bank of Nashville was the only institution willing to loan money to Callahan’s brother and sister-in-law for their new business. And that, only after Lawrence Hockley himself had requested a personal meeting with the couple in order to ascertain their character. Marcus sighed.

  A gentleman who prized character, who stood up for the little man, and who possessed the means to take care of Eleanor in the manner she deserved. He didn’t bother toying with the question of why that discovery didn’t give him pleasure. He knew why.

  He also knew he had no right to stand in the way of anything that Eleanor Braddock wanted to do and that would bring her happiness. On the contrary, he had an obligation to her—and to his obligations awaiting him back home—to do just the opposite.

  So why was he headed in the direction of Belmont? He exhaled again. Because he cared about her, and for her. And he enjoyed her company more than a man with a fiancée back in Austria should.

  The only thing that sated his conscience—even while rankling his pride—was knowing she didn’t care for him in a romantic sense. At least she’d never given him reason to think otherwise.

  Something else occurred to him. . . .

  Eleanor’s dinner with Lawrence Hockley had been sanctioned by Adelicia. He knew that from their exchange in the conservatory the morning Adelicia left town. For all he knew, the woman had arrang
ed it all, which didn’t help his outlook either. Because what Adelicia Cheatham wanted, she usually got.

  Hearing the pattern of his thoughts, he stopped stock-still in the street. Was machst du? What was he doing? He and Eleanor were friends. That’s all there was. At least that’s all he was ever going to act on. So it was fine for them to see each other—on occasion.

  But he needed to give her room, and was trying to do just that. He’d wanted to visit the mansion last night when he was at Belmont but hadn’t. Just like he wanted to go right now . . . but wouldn’t.

  Though dreading the loneliness of the boardinghouse, he changed course—the effort feeling almost Herculean—and made his way toward the boardinghouse. He’d eat a quiet dinner, then try to lose himself in the latest set of notes from Luther Burbank.

  He turned the corner, and a cool breeze met him head on. He welcomed it, along with the touches of fall in the burnt orange and reddish leaves on the trees.

  One of his greatest joys was helping things grow, so how could fall—when plants and trees went dormant, and annuals died—be a favorite time of year for him?

  “Hello, Mr. Geoffrey!”

  Hearing his name, Marcus followed the voice and spotted Caleb headed straight for him, a brood of children in tow.

  Caleb’s grin widened. “Are you on your way home from work?”

  Noting the boy was speaking German, Marcus did likewise. “I am. And where are you and your fine young friends headed this evening?”

  One of the children with Caleb, a tiny blue-eyed blonde, tugged on the boy’s sleeve. Caleb leaned down, and she whispered something in his ear.

  Caleb grinned. “She says you ought to come and eat with us, sir. That’s a compliment. She rarely says anything about anyone.”

  Marcus smiled at her, which sent her ducking behind the lad. “I appreciate the invitation, Caleb, but I’ve got work I need to do.”

  Caleb nodded, then his eyes narrowed. “Are those the design sketches for the building you’re working on now?”