Marcus opened the pocketknife. “How about I cut the ropes and you remove the blankets?”
“Yes, that will work nicely.” The man leaned close. “They don’t like for me to have sharp things, Mr. Geoffrey,” he whispered, his tone secretive.
Marcus attempted to look surprised, as though that revelation were new to him. “Then you’re right, this works out nicely, Mr. . . .”
“Theodore.”
Marcus extended his hand. “Pleasure to formally meet you, Mr. Theodore.”
The man’s grip tightened. “No!” The muscles in his neck bulged. “It’s simply . . . Theodore.”
“Theodore, then,” Marcus swiftly corrected, recalling how the gentleman could become agitated. It felt odd to be calling a man so senior in years by his Christian name. But eager to retain the use of his right hand, Marcus complied.
“All right, then.” Theodore gestured, eyes bright once more. “Enough of this. Let’s get to it.” In a blink, his mood had altered. “The people are waiting.”
Cautious but also a little bemused, Marcus slit the ropes and pulled them clear, careful to leave the blankets in place. Then, with the flourish of a museum curator, Theodore stepped up, gripped the blankets, and pulled.
A chorus of soft gasps sounded from behind, accompanied by muted applause and rhythmic taps on windowpanes.
Marcus’s gaze moved over the marble sculpture. He was certain he’d never seen it before. But what Mrs. Cheatham said about it was true. The sculpture was exquisite.
“Are you familiar with the piece?” Theodore said beside him.
Marcus looked over, hearing a touch of sanity in his friend’s voice that, oddly enough, he found disturbing. “No, sir.” He frowned. “Are you?”
Theodore gave a pitying scoff. “It’s The Prodigal Son,” he said quietly. “The work of Joseph Mozier, based on the parable in the New Testament.” He squinted. “Sculpted in . . . eighteen fifty-seven, I believe. I may be off by a year, but I don’t think so.”
Marcus stared, which in turn earned him a surprisingly droll look from Theodore, one similar to what Eleanor gave him on occasion.
“I may be in an asylum, Mr. Geoffrey, but as I told you before, I’m not lame in the head.”
Marcus smiled this time. He couldn’t help it. And Theodore did too.
Recalling something, Marcus reached into his shirt pocket. “Here. For you.”
Theodore studied the sugar stick before accepting it. “You remembered,” he whispered.
“Of course . . . I’ve been enjoying them nearly every day at work.”
Theodore stuck the candy in his mouth, swirling it between his lips, then turned abruptly and walked to an arbor swing. The same swing Marcus had seen him in that first day.
Marcus followed and sat beside him, noticing a book on the seat between them. Theodore picked it up and held the book close, as though fearing Marcus might take it. The cover was worn and the pages frayed, signs of a book well loved.
Marcus settled back and let the older man set the pace, enjoying the gliding motion.
“And what is it you do when you aren’t here, Mr. Geoffrey?”
“You can call me Marcus, sir, if you’d like.”
Theodore shook his head. “I prefer Mr. Geoffrey.”
“Fair enough.” Marcus pulled a second sugar stick from his pocket, growing accustomed to the man’s frankness. “I’m an architect. I build things.”
Theodore slowed from his swinging. “I assumed you were a gardener.”
Marcus laughed. “You’re not the first, sir.”
Several of the patients stood around the statue, their expressions revealing the same appreciation, even awe, Marcus felt as he took it in. The two figures chiseled from marble looked so lifelike, he half expected to see the rise and fall of their chests as they breathed.
He knew the parable. A wayward son demanding his inheritance and leaving home, only to return a beggar, broken and penniless, without birthright or honor, without any expectation of acceptance. And yet . . .
When the father sees him, from a long way off, he runs to him. Runs to his dishonored son.
Marcus lowered his gaze and studied the sugar stick in his hand. “We will never speak of this again, Marcus.” His father’s voice was clear in his memory. “No one can ever know the dishonor your brother has brought to this family. No one in this family will ever speak his name again. You will take your brother’s place in succession to the throne. You will restore the honor and trust my eldest son betrayed.”
Marcus lifted his head and stared into the sightless eyes of the prodigal’s father, then at the upturned face of the son who had been lost, and yet was found, upon returning home.
Home . . .
He swallowed. If he returned home, what would he find? The man he wanted to be? He would have a life there, certainly, but not one he desired. But if he stayed here, if he defied his father and uncle, defied the House of Habsburg and the very throne of Austria . . .
A quick intake of breath drew his attention, and he looked beside him. To his surprise, he found Theodore’s eyes awash in tears.
“Are you all right, sir?” he asked softly.
Theodore nodded, his white beard trembling. “I wish my son were here. But . . . he’s gone away. And”—he swallowed—“he won’t be coming back. My daughter . . .” His voice hardened. “She’s made certain of that.”
Not knowing whether the man spoke from a right mind or from an imagination twisted by some unseen, diseased hand, Marcus was nevertheless moved. “I’m sorry, Theodore. I know you must miss him.” Yet he also knew the disgrace that accompanied being in an asylum.
According to Dr. Crawford, some people—perhaps like Theodore’s daughter—admitted their family member to the institution and never returned. And though it shamed him, Marcus could understand, at least in part. Hadn’t he shared a similar opinion? Before coming to this place. Before meeting Theodore.
“I enjoy our visits, Mr. Geoffrey.”
“So do I, Theodore.”
A bell clanged, and the patients began to make their way toward a side door. Marcus rose, and Theodore rose with him, book clutched to his chest.
Theodore took a few steps, then paused, his back to Marcus. “Will you come again?” So soft was his voice, Marcus barely made out the words.
“Yes, sir. If you’d like for me to.”
Theodore turned back. “Next time we’ll read a book, and discuss it. Germans do like to read, don’t they?”
Marcus laughed. “Very much, sir. In fact, the next time I come, I’ll bring you one of my books.” Marcus knew exactly which one he’d choose. “A book I believe you’ll enjoy.”
Theodore smiled. “Very good, then.” Yet he didn’t move. He just stood there, gripping the book.
The bell clanged again, the woman at the door looking their way.
Marcus studied him. “Is something wrong, Theodore?”
He shook his head and frowned, then with a determined stride, walked back and held out the book. “You will come again.”
It was a question, cloaked in a statement, wrapped in a plea, and Marcus felt as though he were looking at a boy instead of a man. He accepted the book. “Yes, Theodore, I will. I promise.”
Theodore nodded, eyes misty. “Then, I’ll see you soon . . . Marcus. And we’ll speak together again.”
Marcus waited until the side door closed, just in case Theodore turned to wave, but he didn’t.
He strode to the tree where he’d tethered his horse, the enormity of the man’s trust sinking in. It was just a book. But it also wasn’t. It represented so much more. Regal snorted and pawed the ground at his approach, and Marcus gave the thoroughbred’s neck a good rub.
If the front of the book had once borne a title, that day was long past. Marcus lifted the cover and it opened right to the title page. He stared, unable to believe it.
The Collected Works of Lord Alfred Tennyson. He couldn’t resist . . .
He thu
mbed the pages until he found the familiar poem, the one he and his grandfather had reenacted so many times. “The Charge of the Light Brigade.” To his delight, that section was especially well worn. Something slipped from between the pages and fluttered to the ground. He picked it up. An old cigar band. Very old from the look of it.
Marcus opened the book again to return the marker to its place when writing on the inside cover snagged his attention. A name. Which he read. Then read again. It couldn’t be . . .
He looked back at the asylum, then back at the name, remembering the day he’d seen Eleanor out here. And while everything in him told him it was impossible, the name staring back at him—Garrison Theodore Braddock—told him it was not.
“Giving to those less fortunate is one thing, Eleanor. That’s a very right and noble thing to do. But working in a kitchen, cooking for them, is another.” Color had returned to Aunt Adelicia’s face in the past hour, and reserve to her demeanor. But a tension still hovered in the dining room. “Have you given any thought at all about how this . . . incident will likely affect your future with Mr. Hockley?”
Eleanor fingered the rim of the china cup. “First, I never intended for it to be an incident, Aunt. I had planned to speak to him about it, but—”
“But that opportunity is now gone. Just as others may well be.”
The gravity of her aunt’s expression conveyed how important this potential union was to her. Eleanor searched for the words to help her understand why she’d done what she’d done, growing more aware by the minute of how dependent she was upon her aunt’s charity.
She looked at the newspaper heading again, her gaze hovering on the word wealthy. She’d already deduced where the reporter had gotten his information, however inaccurate in parts. Yet her frustration at Mr. Stover’s gullibility was all but dispelled when she realized there was no potential renter. It had all been a ruse by the reporter to persuade him to talk.
Once Aunt Adelicia had read the article and realized the establishment wasn’t a restaurant, the tone of the conversation calmed to a degree, and Eleanor had explained everything to her and Dr. Cheatham. Starting with how she and Naomi had cleaned the building, to the night Caleb had brought the children for dinner, to the first night they’d served the widows and children.
But nothing she’d said thus far seemed to persuade her aunt. Dr. Cheatham—who she was fairly certain was on her side—had taken his leave a while ago, claiming another appointment. Eleanor envied him, wishing she could do the same.
“I have the utmost respect for what you’re attempting to do, Eleanor. But it’s simply not an appropriate choice for a woman of your distinction and upbringing. This has likely cost us both dearly. I hope you realize that.”
Lifting her gaze, Eleanor met her aunt’s steady stare, and—for better or worse—she spoke from the heart. “I have the utmost esteem for you, too, Aunt Adelicia. I value your opinions, your courage, your . . . steadfastness. I’m grateful for all you’ve done for me, and for my father. And I would never do anything to intentionally embarrass you or bring shame upon your family. But . . . I must ask you to consider that the life you have in mind for me might not be the life I’m intended to live. Nor . . . the life I want to live.”
“But, my dear . . .” Aunt Adelicia placed a hand over hers. “You must know that the likelihood of ever receiving an offer like the one from Mr. Hockley is narrow at best. Not because of anything you lack, but because there simply are so few men left. Much less men who have retained their wealth and who could offer you the stability you need. And deserve. You must think of this practically, Eleanor.” She exhaled. “Decisions of the heart, I’ve learned at great cost, are best made with one’s head. If you can manage it.”
“And that’s precisely what I’m trying to do.” Eleanor searched her aunt’s gaze. “These women and children I feed have lost everything. Their husbands, their sons, their homes. The widow’s pension they receive from the government, those few who are entitled to it, is paltry compared to their needs.”
Her aunt started to speak, but Eleanor beat her to it, feeling a rogue surge of courage.
“I would think that you of all women, Aunt, would understand what I’m trying to do. When you believe something is right, you act on it. Regardless of what others may think.” Eleanor glanced at the newspaper. “I remember reading an article written about you not that long ago. . . .” She shook her head. “I don’t know if I would’ve had the courage to do what you did with the cotton in Louisiana—to face both armies like that—but I hope I would have.”
A flicker of understanding—or was it anger?—flashed in her aunt’s eyes.
Eleanor continued, “As for Mr. Hockley, I do owe him an explanation, I realize that. And I’ll offer that explanation when I see him next week for dinner. At which time . . . he is expecting my answer to his proposal.
“However, as you have stated so succinctly, that opportunity may be gone. If that’s the case, then . . .” Did she dare say this? But did she dare not? “While I realize the fault will be mine alone, I also believe that, given the circumstance, it says an awful lot about a man who would choose not to marry a woman simply because she’s helping others in this way.”
She took a deep breath. It had felt so good to say the words out loud, but now they seemed to hang in the air, suspended like tiny daggers waiting to fall. And seeing the inexplicable expression on her aunt’s face, Eleanor questioned whether that had been rogue courage she’d felt a moment earlier, or complete and utter stupidity.
A knock sounded on the front door, and Mrs. Routh’s stoic tones soon drifted in through the partially open door, along with a murmur of voices.
“Is there anything else you wish to say to me,” her aunt said softly. Too softly.
Eleanor swallowed, wishing Cordina would return with more coffee. But if she were Cordina, she wouldn’t come back either.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Cheatham.” Mrs. Routh stood in the entryway of the dining room. “Mrs. Holbrook and two of the other ladies from the Nashville Women’s League are here to see you, ma’am. They say it’s most urgent. I’ve installed them in the tête-à-tête room.”
Aunt Adelicia applied pressure to her temple. “Thank you . . . Mrs. Routh.”
Seeing her aunt peer through the front window, Eleanor did the same, and spotted a carriage pulling up to the front door—right beside two other carriages already there. She didn’t know what her aunt’s league friends were doing here on a morning when no event was planned.
She only knew it couldn’t be good.
30
Eleanor kneaded the dough with fierceness. Beneath her hands, the mixture of flour, yeast, water, and salt became smooth and supple and turned into a living thing. She blew a strand of hair from her eyes and continued the therapeutic rhythm—push, fold, push, turn—that was as familiar to her as breathing, and almost as vital. Especially in the aftermath of what happened at the mansion that morning.
The somber look Aunt Adelicia had given her—part disappointment, part consternation—prior to closing the door to the central parlor was one she wouldn’t soon forget. Despite not caring what most people thought about her, she did care what her aunt thought.
More than she’d realized.
She oiled the mound of dough, placed it in a bowl and covered it to rest, then dusted the worktable with flour and started kneading the next batch.
More than anything, she wanted to talk to Marcus. She’d looked for him at the bakery, the livery, then finally at the warehouse where he’d taken her the other day. She hadn’t found him, but had met Mr. Callahan, his foreman. Callahan seemed like a very nice man who thought quite highly of his employer, regardless of having no idea of his whereabouts.
It occurred to her then that—in a lovely yet lonely way—Marcus was her closest confidant. She shared a special relationship with Naomi, as she did with some of the other widows, but she didn’t feel comfortable sharing the specifics of this particular struggle with them.
But with Marcus she could recount every single nuance, and he would listen without interruption or judgment.
But he was nowhere to be found.
She worked the batches of dough until her fingers and shoulders ached, making more bread than usual due to the article in the newspaper. No telling how many women and children would show up tonight. She arched her back and stared out the window at the gray skies building in the west. Feeding so many people was becoming too much.
And though she hated to admit it, part of her was embarrassed to admit defeat—in front of her aunt, Marcus . . . and the entire town now. But mostly it pained her to let down the widows and children.
She enjoyed providing for them. She enjoyed the cooking, the nurturing. It filled a place within her she’d once thought could only be filled by becoming a mother, or—when that hadn’t happened—by starting a restaurant.
Funny how often something she’d been so certain she needed turned out not to be a need at all, but a want—when the real need was something else entirely. Something that could only be gained by giving, not by getting.
When Naomi arrived, they started on the potato soup and stewed apples, a favorite dinner among the gathering, and one of the easiest to stretch and least expensive—which was an ever-increasing necessity as her funds dwindled.
Naomi was quiet, and Eleanor wondered if she’d read the newspaper that morning, or had heard whispers on the streets.
Peeling her third potato, Eleanor felt its flesh give. She sliced into it, and grimaced. Rotten. Into the crate it went to be taken back to the mercantile. Men had figured out how to graft flowers and trees to make them stronger or various selected colors. But could they create a potato that didn’t have dry rot? She shook her head. Apparently not. She would have to speak to Marcus about that.
She still intended to ask Aunt Adelicia if she would be willing to help sponsor these meals. But their last conversation somehow hadn’t seemed like the best time to pose that question.
She stole a glance at Naomi across the growing pile of potato peels, unable to keep silent any longer. “Did you read the article?” she asked softly.
A Beauty So Rare Page 32
