“Really? How many siblings do you have?”
“Only one.” His voice grew quiet. “My brother. He . . . passed away a year ago—last summer.”
Eleanor stopped in the street. Marcus did too.
“I’m sorry, Marcus. I . . . I didn’t—”
“It’s all right.” He began walking again, and she joined him.
She waited to see if he would continue. When he didn’t, she took the lead.
“I’ve lost a brother too,” she said softly. “My only brother. Younger . . . He was killed in the war.”
He slowed his steps, looking over at her. “I’m so sorry, Eleanor. Were the two of you close?”
“Yes . . . very.”
“I was close to my brother as well.”
Again, she waited, sensing he was going to say something else. But he didn’t.
They walked in silence, the air between them anything but tranquil. She felt a restlessness in him. Something she hadn’t sensed earlier that evening. And she wondered if he was thinking about his brother, or about his homeland. Perhaps he was missing Austria. Or his family, or—
“I could make you some tables and benches.”
So unexpected was his offer, she came to a halt again. He turned and looked back.
“What?” Uncertainty clouded his expression. “Would you rather have chairs? Because I can do that too. But to me, benches make more sense with all the children, and . . .”
She smiled.
He frowned. “You’re laughing at me again.”
“You are a most surprising man, Marcus.”
At his leading, they walked the remaining distance to the bakery. The business was closed, but Armstead was waiting, right on time. Eleanor almost wished she hadn’t arranged for a carriage because she thought Marcus might have asked to escort her home otherwise.
But she had, and he hadn’t.
“Thank you again for the delicious dinner, Eleanor. And the company. It was a most pleasant evening.”
“I’m glad you met up with Caleb and the other children when you did.”
“I am too.”
She curtsied and offered her hand, remembering the night they’d visited the tunnel. But unlike that time, Marcus grasped her fingertips ever so lightly and his lips barely brushed her skin.
He assisted her into the carriage and closed the door—and then surprised her by leaning close.
“I meant what I said tonight. About being proud of you. You’re a good person, Eleanor. Kind. Generous. And . . .” His mouth firmed for an instant. “I’m grateful for the friendship we share.”
Eleanor caught the undertone in his voice and felt her spine stiffen against the seat. “Yes,” she managed, focusing all her energy on maintaining the brightness in her voice while fully understanding his meaning. “I am too, Marcus.”
By the time she returned to Belmont, she had reviewed every look, every conversation and smile, every exchange she’d had with Marcus, and knew she only had herself to blame.
When she climbed into bed and turned down the oil lamp, she realized, again, what a part of her had known all along, had known all her adult life. . . .
To men in general, but especially to men like Marcus, she would only and always ever be . . . a friend. Either that—she hugged her pillow tight—or another line on a banker’s ledger.
26
Eleanor peered from behind the tree, watching her father from a distance as he sat swinging in the garden. She didn’t want to disobey Dr. Crawford’s orders, but she couldn’t stay away any longer. She needed to see him, to make sure he was all right. But also . . .
The part of her that still remembered what it was like to be a young girl wanted to see her daddy again. Needed to see him.
In that respect, she wasn’t unlike the little boy who had wrapped his pudgy little arms around her legs after dinner at Mr. Stover’s building and had held on tight. That had been two weeks ago, and he’d done the same thing every dinner since.
The boy, Stephan, Naomi told her, was orphaned, having lost both parents to illness after his family’s recent arrival to Nashville. With no brothers or sisters, Stephan—four years old—had been found alone in the one-room shack, his parents’ bodies on a moldy straw mattress in the corner.
At one time, Eleanor couldn’t have imagined such a thing. But now, having met so many of these immigrant widows and children and through hearing their stories—heartbreaking and all too familiar—she could well imagine that happening. But Stephan was fortunate.
A widow had taken him in to raise alongside her children, which often occurred among the community of widows, she discovered. No formal court hearing, no legal rendering of any kind. Simply a child needing a home, and a home choosing to love him. Though based on the number of older children Eleanor saw wandering the streets, that wasn’t always the case.
She turned her attention back to her father as he swung—back and forth, back and forth—his faced tilted toward the sun. His beard had grown but wasn’t unruly. He’d always liked wearing a longer beard.
The garden Marcus had designed boasted a beauty reminiscent of those at Belmont, yet this one had a more welcoming feel. Being smaller in scope aided that, of course. But the meandering stone paths and number of small alcoves claiming either a swing or a bench seemed to beckon the wanderer to sit and partake of the peacefulness.
She’d wondered, at first, why Marcus—an architect—would agree to do this for her aunt. Then she’d thought better of the question. Aunt Adelicia was, after all, a most persuasive woman.
To Eleanor’s surprise, Marcus had shown up for a handful of the dinners in the last couple of weeks. He always arrived after it had started, stayed until the end and helped her clean and lock up, then he would leave. Other than that, their paths hadn’t crossed. Since she knew he was at Belmont nearly every day, that felt more than a little intentional.
But mostly, it just hurt.
Her father slowed the swing’s motion and leaned forward, peering in her direction. Yanked from her musings, Eleanor swiftly stepped behind the tree, wondering if he’d seen her.
Seconds passed, and she peered out again. He was simply sitting there, staring ahead, dazed-looking, hands folded in his lap. And her heart broke a little.
So many needs in the world. How did the Almighty keep up with them all? She felt exhausted just thinking about it. And at times, overwhelmed. But she’d learned something back in the war, back when the world felt as though it was being torn apart at the seams.
She wasn’t responsible for seeing to everyone’s needs. That was God’s responsibility. Hers was to do what He brought to her attention, what He placed in her path. Whether it was bandaging a wound, making a pot of soup, taking care of her father, or holding the hand of a man as he died.
But the needs within the Nashville community seemed insurmountable. The cost of food for the dinners she provided was ballooning, because with each dinner, more people heard about it and more people came.
She continually looked for ways to stretch her budget and reduce expenses. She cared about nutrition, certainly, but far more about filling empty bellies.
Potatoes, a staple ingredient when feeding so many, was a category of waste she was determined to cull. She’d spoken with Mr. Mulholland, the mercantile owner, but he was unwilling to budge on price. She’d see about that. . . .
She had an appointment tomorrow with a potato farmer on the outskirts of town. Perhaps buying in bulk directly from a supplier would lower her costs.
Ideally, she would like to have offered a meal every night. But after reviewing her finances—and the time it took to shop and prepare the meals—three times a week was all she could manage. And even that, she couldn’t do much longer. Not without monetary assistance.
She’d thought about asking Aunt Adelicia for help, but it was hardly a subject to broach in a letter. Not considering her aunt’s response to her first request. What she was undertaking now was a far cry from opening a restaurant,
yet this request—if she decided to make it—would require finesse.
Per her aunt’s last communiqué, the family was extending its trip and wouldn’t be returning for several weeks. Eleanor knew her personal finances wouldn’t fund the dinners that long, yet she couldn’t bring herself to say anything to Naomi or the other widows. They were always so grateful for the meals, as were their children.
Eleanor watched her father rise from the swing, his tall frame gradually unfolding to its full height. He looked a little thinner through the shoulders, perhaps, but was steady on his feet. He walked toward the door in the side of the building, a worn volume in his hand, and she smiled.
Tennyson, no doubt. His favorite. She wished she could join him for the afternoon and read to him, but—
She was determined to abide by the doctor’s wishes, however contrary they were to her own.
“There’s nothing I can do about this, Miss Braddock. I’ve told you before, I get my produce from—”
“I know what you’ve told me, Mr. Mulholland. But what I’m telling you is that if these potatoes”—she glanced at the two crates at her feet—“are as riddled with dry rot as the others I bought two days ago, I’m taking my business elsewhere. Yesterday I threw away a third of the potatoes for my potato soup. And that’s money I do not have to waste, sir.”
Seeing the proprietor’s frown, Eleanor felt her own forming.
Her meeting with the potato farmer on Saturday had proven enlightening, though not promising. The cost of purchasing potatoes from him would be considerably less expensive than buying them from Mr. Mulholland. But if she bought the potatoes directly from the farm, there was the fee for transporting them, and she would need to find a place to store them, because the farmer was only willing to sell them to her in the same quantity he sold to anyone else—by the wagonful.
She scarcely had enough room in the kitchen to store the needed supplies for each meal and still have room to cook for the eighty-plus people coming to each dinner. How would she store a wagonload of potatoes? No, there had to be another way to lower her costs.
She rubbed her forehead, aware of Mr. Mulholland watching her.
What had started as a way to help others was quickly turning into a larger-than-she-could-handle operation. And her dinner last evening with Mr. Hockley wasn’t helping her nerves. Or her mood.
“Ma’am . . .” Mr. Mulholland shook his head, frustration evident in his tone. “All the stores in the city buy from the same farms around here. It’s simply the way of it. Just like corn has earworms and tobacco has hornworms, potatoes have dry rot. That’s the way it is. You just have to cut around it.”
Knowing the tidy profit he made per pound on the potatoes, even after transportation fees, Eleanor only became more frustrated. “I refuse to buy food that is already rotten, sir.” She picked a potato at random from one of the crates, then pulled a paring knife from her reticule. “When did the farm deliver these to your store?”
He eyed her, his expression skeptical. “Yesterday.”
“And how long ago were they harvested?”
He looked from the knife to her and then to the knife again. “I wasn’t here when they were delivered, so I’m not—”
With a quick flick of her wrist, Eleanor sliced clean through the flesh of the potato. Just as she’d suspected. She held it out, the core blackened with rot.
The proprietor grimaced.
She picked up another and did the same thing. And another. And another. She laid them all on his pristine white counter, rotten side up. “Mr. Mulholland, I’m not trying to be difficult.”
The look he shot her held doubt.
“I’m simply trying to spend my very limited funds in the wisest manner possible.” She sighed, feeling boxed in and not liking it. Then from nowhere came an image. That of Aunt Adelicia bargaining for twenty-eight hundred bales of cotton during the war, skillfully playing one army against the other to get what she wanted, property that was rightfully hers. And the image gave her fresh courage.
“I understand your predicament, Mr. Mulholland. And I appreciate your time.”
He smiled, relief—and victory—lifting his features.
Eleanor studied the crates of potatoes at her feet. “Perhaps I need to start buying my produce directly from the farms. Maybe it would be fresher that way.”
She nodded as though thinking the idea through, seeing his frown returning, deeper than before.
“Buying directly from them,” she continued, “would be less expensive, I’m sure, though not as convenient for me, admittedly. But that savings could go far toward transportation costs, as well as offsetting the cost of the wasted product that you insist on—”
“Hold on now! Just hold on.” Mr. Mulholland held up his hand. “There’s no need to do something so drastic. I’m sure we can come to some sort of agreement.”
He glanced beyond her, and Eleanor became aware of two female patrons paused in their shopping, staring in their direction.
With a jerk of his head, Mr. Mulholland beckoned Eleanor to join him farther down the counter, where he pulled out a sack and swept the rotten potatoes into it. Then he wiped down the surface with the hem of his apron.
He stared at her, looking none too pleased. “I don’t want to lose your business, Miss Braddock. So how about I . . .”
Eleanor listened to his proposition, made some suggestions of her own, and ten minutes later, satisfied with the negotiated terms, she paid her bill.
“I appreciate doing business with you, Mr. Mulholland. I’ll return the rotten produce no later than Saturday of each week, then will expect half the price per pound I paid to be credited back to my account.”
He nodded, all traces of victory long gone. “And don’t forget, be sure they’re delivered to the back. I don’t want crates of those things coming through the front door.”
“I won’t forget, sir, I assure you.”
Grateful she’d thought to negotiate delivery for her groceries too, she smiled as he gave her change. It was only a few blocks from the mercantile to Mr. Stover’s building, but transporting the amount of groceries she was buying these days often took two or more trips—even with Naomi’s help. She slipped the change into her reticule and turned to go.
“What you’re doing, ma’am . . . it’s a real good thing.”
Eleanor looked back.
Mr. Mulholland stood just where she’d left him.
“Word travels fast here, Miss Braddock. At least with folks living on the street.” His exhale came heavy. “I see my share of little urchins every day, trying to steal an apple when they think I’m not looking. Even the widows . . .” He looked past her toward the street. “They come in every day begging for food.” He shrugged. “I do what I can. But I’m running a business here, ma’am, not a charity.”
Eleanor nodded. “I understand, Mr. Mulholland, which is why I especially appreciate your willingness to work with me on the price.”
That earned her a begrudging smile. “Who knows, maybe what I save on apples will make up for the potatoes.”
She felt a touch of humor. “Perhaps.” His mention of apples reminded her of Marcus’s comment about his Mutter’s strudel. Though she’d never made a strudel before, she looked forward to the challenge.
“Anyone ever tell you you’re a lot like your aunt, Miss Braddock? From what I’ve heard, and from people who should know . . . she drives an awful hard bargain too.”
Eleanor smiled, rather surprised at how much she liked the comparison.
On her way to the post office, Eleanor recalled something Mr. Mulholland had said and slowed her steps. He’d said word travels fast. But . . . how fast?
She was losing her anonymity. People were starting to make the connection between her and Aunt Adelicia. Had Aunt Adelicia—though still out of town—gotten word about what she was doing? Surely not. At least Eleanor hoped that wasn’t the case.
She doubted her aunt would be pleased with her decision to sponsor t
he dinners, despite the woman’s philanthropic nature. In fact, remembering their conversation upon her first night at Belmont, and what Aunt Adelicia had said—“No niece of mine is going to serve as a cook. And certainly not at some . . . common establishment in town”—she felt certain her aunt would not approve. Like Marcus had said.
Thankfully, the family wasn’t due back until shortly before Thanksgiving. So she still had time to think of a way to present the idea to her aunt in a way she would accept it. If such a way existed.
At the post office, she gave the clerk a letter addressed to her father, along with three pennies for the stamp, then thanked him. She’d written her father every day for nearly a month now. Yet had received only that one oddly worded letter from him in response.
“Miss Braddock?”
Already at the door, her hand on the latch, Eleanor looked back.
The clerk walked around the counter, an envelope in his hand. No, two envelopes. And a small package in his other. “These came for you today. We were about to put them on the mail wagon. But since you’re here . . .”
She took them and, recognizing the handwriting on the top envelope, felt a flicker of hope. Then she saw the return address on the package and felt that boxed-in feeling again. “Thank you, sir. Very much.”
Outside, she found a bench beneath a tree and tore open the flap of the first envelope, leaving the others for later. Her gaze devoured the brief missive, cherishing every elongated curve and slanted loop of her father’s script.
Dear Eleanor,
I am well and hope you are the same. A visit from you in the future would be welcome. If you should choose to bring another savory custard, I pledge to accept it far more graciously than I did the last.
Most sincerely,
Theodore
A soft laugh escaped her. She could imagine the intonation of his voice as though he were standing here, speaking the words aloud. She could also hear Dr. Crawford’s—or perhaps Nurse Smith’s—gentle coaching as her father had put pen to paper. In the future . . . It wasn’t the warmest invitation. Yet, it was an invitation. What she’d been waiting for.
A Beauty So Rare Page 28
