Theodore, though. Why had he closed the letter with the name Theodore instead of his customary Your loving father?
“Good news, I hope?”
Eleanor looked up, already recognizing the voice. But even if she hadn’t, and even with the sun in her eyes, the broad shoulders and commanding stance would have eliminated any need to guess.
“Yes, it is,” she answered, slipping the letter back into the envelope and both envelopes—the second from her aunt—into her reticule. She placed her reticule strategically atop the small package to mask Mr. Hockley’s name and address.
If Marcus remembered Aunt Adelicia’s mention of her dinner with Mr. Hockley, he had never let on. Nor had he asked her about it. She’d halfway expected he might—or maybe just hoped.
Marcus gestured. “May I?”
“Of course.” She scooted over on the bench.
“I was on my way to see you.” He settled beside her.
“You were?” Her tone revealed more delight at that prospect than was likely prudent.
He nodded. “I have something I’d like to show you.”
“And . . .” She glanced around. “Where is this something?”
He turned and looked at her, and whether it was his eyes—so blue, like pieces of glass with the sun behind—or the kindness in them that she’d somehow overlooked early on, she thought him the most handsome man she’d ever seen. Which made her think, again, oddly enough, of her dinner with Lawrence last night.
When he had walked her to the door of the mansion, and brought her hand to his lips in a good-night “kiss,” not the tiniest hint of attraction had stirred inside her. Though she had to admit she hadn’t felt the opposite either. Lawrence Hockley was far from repulsive, after all. He was a little older, yes, and certainly not the most charming man alive. But he was also refined, even dignified. Wealthy, to be sure. And kind. But . . .
He wasn’t Marcus Geoffrey.
“Walk with me,” Marcus whispered, and stood.
Giving her thoughts a mental shake, Eleanor steeled herself against emotions she knew better than to trust. She rose but checked the watch pinned to her jacket. “I need to get dinner started soon, so—”
“This won’t take long. And I promise”—he offered his arm—“it will be worth it.”
She tucked her hand inside and walked with him to a warehouse a few streets away.
He paused when they reached a side door. “Close your eyes.”
“I’m not fond of surprises, Marcus.”
“That’s fine. But you need to close your eyes anyway.”
She looked at him. “Are you going to surprise me?”
“Yes . . . I am.”
“But I just told you, I don’t like surprises.”
“Which is why”—he looked at her as though she were daft—“I just warned you about it. Now, close your eyes, Eleanor.”
Trying to hide her grin, and failing miserably, she did as he asked.
He took hold of her hand. “Follow my lead.”
Hand tucked in his—and loving the feel of him—she obeyed, her steps timid at first, then growing bolder after the first few. She heard hammering and sawing in the distance.
“There’s a step up here. But just one.”
She leaned into him, her grip tightening. “I hate surprises,” she whispered.
“If only you’d mentioned that before,” he whispered back. “Come along. We’re almost there.”
Finally, he stopped, so she did too, eyes still closed.
“All right . . . Open them.”
She did, and blinked. It took a second or two for her eyes to adjust to the dimmer light. Then she saw it. “Oh . . . Marcus . . .” She could scarcely believe it. She ran a hand over the top of the wooden table, then over one of the two benches. “These are wonderful.”
“We had some scrap lumber left from the project here. I drew up a design and asked a couple of my men if they’d be willing to help me.” His mouth tilted. “We started it over lunch yesterday, and finished it today. It’s nothing fancy. And we still need to sand it down and put some finishing touches on it. But it’s solid. And will handle those children, for certain.”
“And it’s a narrow table too, which I like. Very functional.”
He nodded. “My thought exactly. It allows enough room for two plates—or tins—right across from each other.” He motioned. “But since you serve the food in the kitchen, you don’t need all that extra room on the table. Besides, this size allows us to get more tables in the limited space. I estimate eight or nine could fit in there without overcrowding.”
Us. Eleanor’s heart warmed. He’d said us. “It’s perfect, Marcus. Just perfect. I . . .” She laughed softly. “I don’t quite know what else to say, other than thank you!”
“You’re most welcome. But there might be another more . . . culinary way to express your gratitude.” He rubbed his jaw as though deep in thought. “If only I could think of something.”
Eleanor shook her head. “Truly? This is what it’s come to?”
His slow grin—part boy, mostly man—acted like hot cocoa on a winter day and threatened to thaw her steeled reserve.
“How about . . . a buttermilk pie?”
“How about . . . I give you, and each of the men who helped you, your very own buttermilk pie.”
“Ja, danke.” His expression proclaimed victory. And mischief. “Wir beide haben einen Deal.”
Knowing he was testing her, she didn’t flinch. “Ja,” she said, giving the word the accent she’d heard countless times from Naomi and others. “Wir haben einen sehr guten Deal,” she said more slowly than she would’ve liked. We have a very good deal.
Pleasure lit his features.
Then something he’d said registered with her. “From your project here,” she repeated, taking in the structure, “is this where you’re working?”
He looked around. “Where we’re almost finished working. We have another week or so, then we’ll be done. The men are finishing a storage area in the back of the building.” He pointed in the direction of the muffled hammering. “We built a new office for the company’s foremen and replaced portions of the roof that were rotting. A common practice these days. Companies are short on capital, and it’s cheaper to—”
“Renovate than to build,” she finished, catching his inquisitive look. She gave a shrug. “I briefly considered—or dreamed, is more like it—of building a café when I was thinking about opening a restaurant. But I swiftly discovered it was cheaper to buy, or rent, something already established.” She looked beyond him to see a room constructed of fresh lumber in the far corner. Centered in one of the walls was a large window allowing full view of the warehouse. “Is that the new office?”
He trailed her gaze. “It is. Would you like to see it?”
She nodded and fell into step beside him.
“The warehouse is closed today, so there shouldn’t be anybody here.” He knocked on the door, then entered. He offered his hand as she managed the two steps.
Windows had been cut into the two outer walls allowing ample light into the office, which had a higher ceiling than customary. Work surfaces and cabinets gave the room a utilitarian, efficient feel. Perfect for its intended use.
Eleanor breathed in. “I’ve always loved the smell of freshly cut wood.”
He inhaled. “So have I.”
She ran a hand along the walls, not a warped or ill-fitting board among them. Same for the flooring. Winter’s cold wouldn’t dare show its face here. “Very nice work, Marcus.”
“Thank you, madam.” He gave a slight bow.
An architect’s table sat in the corner. “Is that yours?”
“Yes, I brought it over with me. It belonged to my maternal grandfather.”
“He was an architect?”
“A builder. And a good one. I learned a great deal from him.”
And she was learning a great deal more about this man. She sensed his pride in his work, and with goo
d reason. But she knew this wasn’t what he truly wanted to build. She hoped he would someday get the chance to construct the building he’d told her about—despite her having objected to the way he’d described it, and even her questioning his motivation behind building it. Anything Marcus Geoffrey would build was something she would like to see.
He checked his pocket watch. “Do you need help with dinner tonight?”
She eyed him. “You want to help me cook?”
He looked almost affronted. “I’ll have you know that I—” the flash in his eyes gave him away—“know absolutely nothing about cooking. But I can provide company and conversation while watching you.”
She grinned, thinking of nothing she would like more. “Herr Geoffrey . . . Wir haben einen Deal.”
A fountain pen?
Lawrence Hockley had sent her a fountain pen? Seated in the small study later that evening, enjoying a cup of Cordina’s spiced tea, Eleanor opened the enclosed note.
Dear Eleanor,
In keeping with the custom of lavishing gifts upon one’s future intended, please accept the enclosed token of my gratitude for your kind attention and consideration of my offer.
Eleanor shook her head. “. . . kind attention and consideration of my offer.” It sounded as though she was considering their becoming business partners instead of husband and wife. Merely thinking of making that commitment with him made her shiver. And not in a good way.
She continued reading. . . .
I sincerely beg your pardon but I must cancel our scheduled dinner for this Wednesday evening. Business in New York demands it. I return late Sunday and would appreciate your company for dinner on Monday evening, along with your decision.
Most cordially,
Lawrence D. Hockley
P.S. Lest you infer that I have taken leave of my strongly voiced opinion that we dispense with customary traditions associated with matrimony, please know that my opinion remains unchanged. I merely noted during our last dinner that when you searched your reticule for a pen to make note of a book I recommended, you did not have one in your possession. Now you do.
Eleanor had to smile. Pragmatic though he may be, Lawrence Hockley was apparently not without thoughtfulness. She picked up the pen and turned it in her hand. Then laughed aloud when she saw Bank of Nashville engraved on the side. He’d sent her a pen from the bank?
Even as she laughed, something deep inside rose to Lawrence’s defense. It was a very nice fountain pen, after all. And it demonstrated that the man was observant, at least to some extent. She sighed.
What would it be like to be married to Lawrence Hockley? Predictable. Dependable. Safe. And think of the good she could do in the community. Mr. Hockley was a wealthy man, and from all accounts, he was generous and kindhearted. As she had learned firsthand, taking care of people’s needs took money. And she would have money if she married him. Yet things wouldn’t be the same.
To think that she could continue cooking for and serving the widows and children of Nashville would be naive. But perhaps if she spoke with Lawrence about it, if she presented the opportunity in the right light, and had time to explain it to him, much like she would do with her aunt, he might be more open to it than she expected. He was, after all, a logical man.
But what would their life together be like? As husband and wife? What would—she shifted a little on the settee—sharing an intimate relationship with him be like? If they married, they would likely have children, Lord willing, and that yearning to be a mother that she’d struggled—without success—to fully surrender, would finally be fulfilled. Yet it was the actual . . . coming to be with child—Lawrence Hockley’s child—that made her cringe a little.
Her thoughts seemed reluctant to follow that intimate thread, and after a full moment with her imagination not so much as budging, she decided that was enough envisioning for one night. As her mother once told her in an extremely brief conversation when Eleanor was a young girl, “Not to worry, my dear. All of that will take care of itself when the time comes.”
Feeling unsettled, Eleanor took a long sip of spiced tea, then looked up, her gaze drawn out the front window to the gardens, then to the conservatory beyond.
This time, she had no trouble at all considering the intimacy between a husband and wife—but with an entirely different man. One she couldn’t have. But even more importantly, who wasn’t seeking to have her.
All her life, she’d listened to the voice of logic, and could hear it even now. Only recently had the stirrings of her heart been awakened, and they were insistent, persuasive, and counter to those of her nature. So which did she listen to?
If she married Lawrence Hockley, she would never want for anything again. Except for the one thing, the one person, she wanted more than anything else.
Needing a diversion, she remembered and reached for Aunt Adelicia’s letter and opened the envelope. Her aunt’s descriptions of the family’s outings and of humorous things the children had said cheered her. But her aunt’s repeated question from previous letters—Have you visited the Nashville Women’s League, as I requested?—did not.
Eleanor knew she needed to visit soon. But she dreaded it.
Sighing, she turned to the last page—and nearly came off the settee.
She read the words again. Then, frantic, hurriedly flipped back through the stationery, searching for the date on the first page. She’d paid no attention to it when she’d started. But seeing the date the letter was written, she frowned, compared it to the current date, counted, and—
Her exhale came through clenched teeth. Aunt Adelicia had changed her plans yet again and was due home any day!
27
Eleanor stood outside the imposing two-story brick building, not wanting to go inside, yet knowing she had no choice. The brass plaque to the right of the door caught her eye:
Nashville Women’s League, established 1820,
welcomes women from Nashville’s finest families who are dedicated to the social betterment of this city and its growing community.
And, after reading it, she resisted the urge to turn and run. Social betterment . . . What did that even mean? Eleanor sighed, hand on the latch, eager to get the ordeal over with. She felt as if she were entering the Nashville Women’s Academy again, where she would be compared to her aunt at every turn.
The entrance hall of the Nashville Women’s League was every bit as ostentatious as she’d imagined. Only with far more lace. It was everywhere. Lace draping antique tables and dripping from arms of chairs. Lace even fringed the bright pink floral curtains that contrasted with the deeper mauve floral of the carpet. Absolutely dizzying . . . But at least she knew where to send her pink ensemble for its final resting place when the time came.
“So are you saying you don’t think this is a good option for me, Mother?”
“What I am saying,” a strident voice responded from a side room, “is that the first option suits you best. However, if that is no longer available, then you must be willing to accept the second. And you must decide quickly, lest someone beat you to it!”
The conversation coming from the open door on Eleanor’s left continued in hushed tones, and she resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She’d just stepped through the door and already there was talk of fashion. Not wishing to eavesdrop further, however unintended, she cleared her throat. “Hello?”
The conversation fell silent.
She’d stepped forward, almost to the door, when movement on her right brought her around.
“Good morning!” A young woman called, turning to close a door behind her. “My apologies I wasn’t here to”—her gaze lifted considerably in order to meet Eleanor’s, the gesture a comment in itself—“properly welcome you, ma’am. How may I assist you today?”
“Good morning.” Eleanor had her little speech ready. “I recently arrived to Nashville and was encouraged by one of your members to make a visit here.” Not revealing her relation to Aunt Adelicia was one way to avoid comparison.
“Ah! How wonderful. I’m Mrs. Daniel Jacobson Smith-Warner, the third,” the woman said, giving her a look that seemed intent on conveying shyness, but that did just the opposite. “And you are?”
“Miss Eleanor Elaine Braddock.” Eleanor clenched her jaw. Why had she used her middle name? How idiotic! Her first and last name had just seemed so small and insignificant venturing into the conversation all by themselves.
The woman’s gaze flitted briefly to Eleanor’s hair, and Eleanor resisted the urge to smooth the sides. She’d worn it the way she always did—pulled back and knotted at the nape of her neck. Nowhere near as elaborate a style as that of her new friend.
“Braddock . . . Braddock,” the woman repeated, eying her as though trying to determine if her blood was blue enough. “I don’t believe I know that name.”
“My family is originally from Murfreesboro,” Eleanor offered, and knew immediately by the sideways tilt of the woman’s head that her hometown had not impressed.
“I see . . .” The woman continued to stare, tiny lines between her eyebrows telling the true story. “How wonderful for you. But, may I ask . . . which member encouraged you to make a visit here?”
Eleanor wished she could turn and leave right then, and never come back. “My aunt . . . Mrs. Adelicia Cheatham.”
Eleanor had never witnessed an eclipse of the sun—but she imagined it was something like what she saw. Every trace of skepticism vanished, and Mrs. Daniel Jacobson Smith-Warner, the third positively beamed.
“Oh, of course . . . that Miss Braddock!” She pressed a hand to her lace-trimmed bodice and her smile spread unnaturally wide. “Oh, my dear, it is a pleasure to meet you. Your aunt told us you would be joining us. But that was weeks ago. We wondered why we never heard from you. . . .”
The woman’s words trailed off, signaling Eleanor that an explanation was expected.
“Yes, I’m sorry for the delay. I’ve been very busy . . . adjusting to life here.”
“Well, of course you have. There’s so much to do as a”—Mrs. Smith-Warner’s smile faltered—“woman such as yourself.”
A Beauty So Rare Page 29
