A Beauty So Rare

by Tamera Alexander

  Naomi kept focused on her task, then slowly nodded. “The newspaper was wrong to print those words. They make it sound like what you do here is wrong, or . . . that you should be ashamed.” Naomi lifted her face, her eyes darkening. “They are the ones who should be ashamed. You are doing good, Miss Braddock.” A pained look crossed her face. “But I am sorry I did not know you were such an important lady.”

  Eleanor laughed. “Oh, I’m not. Not at all. My aunt is the important lady. I’m merely Mrs. Adelicia Cheatham’s niece.”

  Naomi paused from peeling. “Before this”—she gestured to the kitchen—“every night, women and children in my building went to bed hungry. Then woke up with bellies sore from lack of food. Now . . . three nights every week, they come here and eat your food. And not only that, they are fed in their spirits. They laugh, they share. We have all been reminded, Miss Braddock, that we are part of a larger family. And you . . .” Her eyes misted. “You have done this. And that makes you very important in their eyes. And in mine.”

  Seeing the gratitude and trust in Naomi’s expression warmed Eleanor’s heart, while also compelling her to admit the truth—that she only had enough money left to cover a handful of meals, depending on how many people showed up. But . . . she couldn’t say the words.

  Not only because she didn’t want to see the disappointment in her friend’s eyes, along with the fear of where the next meal would come from, but also because she couldn’t begin to imagine her life without these people, and all they offered her. Which was far more than she’d ever given to them.

  Marta, Elena, and the other women arrived as scheduled, and with their assistance, dinner was soon ready. When the front door was opened, women and children started crowding in, and kept coming. And coming. Many of the faces were familiar to Eleanor, though some were not.

  She visited with them, listening to their stories of how they’d “passed on the kindness” as she always asked them to do, while also trying to keep an eye on those still entering.

  Finally, she raised her hand, the signal for conversation to quiet and for them to take a seat on the floor. Marcus had told her the tables and benches he’d promised were nearly finished, and while she was eager to put them to use, she hated for him and his men to have gone to so much trouble for the scant use the furniture would receive now.

  “Welcome to everyone, I’m so grateful you’ve come and . . .” As she greeted everyone in English, pausing briefly to allow Naomi to translate, she peered past those seated and those few people crowded around the door, and—in a flash of panic—she saw a crowd still waiting to enter. In fact, the street outside was full of women and children.

  “For those w-who . . . who have been . . .” Every thought left her head, save one. They didn’t have enough food.

  Somehow she muddled through the welcome, aware of Naomi watching her. Eleanor indicated for Mr. Stover to step forward and offer a blessing for the food and hoped he would pray as long as he usually did.

  Meanwhile, she discreetly signaled Naomi to join her in the kitchen.

  Once around the corner, Eleanor kept her voice low. “I counted more than seventy in the front room, and at least that many waiting outside. We don’t have enough food for that many people.” She exhaled. “And I’ve always told them no one would leave here hungry.”

  Naomi glanced at the pots of soup. “Maybe there is something else we can put with the dinner?”

  They both started searching the cabinets, but all their effort earned them was a ten-pound bag of dried beans and meager staples such as flour, cornmeal, and odd spices left in the kitchen between meal preparations. Nothing that would effectively bolster the supper.

  “Well . . .” Eleanor reached for a pitcher of water, pained by what she had to do next, especially after working so hard to make the soup taste so good. “I’ll start watering down the pots.”

  Naomi nodded, then held up a hand. “Oh!” she whispered. “What about this?” She grabbed the stack of metal bowls they’d laid out for serving and placed them on a back table. She reached for the metal cups by the pitchers of water. “What the eyes don’t see, the mind won’t tell the stomach to miss.”

  It occurred to Eleanor what she was suggesting. “We’ll serve the soup in cups instead of bowls.”

  “I have done this with Caleb before.” Naomi’s expression turned sheepish. “When food was scarce.”

  “Did it work?”

  She hesitated. “For a moment, your cup is full.” She smiled. “And that is a picture the mind does not soon forget.”

  As they worked to make the changes, Eleanor was reminded of another time she had relied on the potency of suggestion in a dire circumstance. No matter how many years passed, she would always wonder what that soldier had wished he’d done for his Mary girl.

  She reached for the bread knife. “We’ll do the same with the bread. That’s one thing we have plenty of.” She cut the thick slices down the middle. “Everyone will still get a whole piece, but we’ll stack it beside their cup. Oh!” She raced to the icebox, which was empty—except for a large crock of butter she’d been saving to portion out over the next few meals. She turned and held it up.

  Naomi nodded. “We’ll put extra butter on each slice!”

  “No,” Eleanor whispered, feeling almost wanton. “We’ll let everyone put their own butter on tonight!”

  Naomi’s eyes widened. Then she covered her mouth and giggled like a schoolgirl. “Caleb will not believe it! He loves butter.”

  “Who doesn’t!” Eleanor skirted around the table as the telling shuffle of feet and excited voices indicated that Mr. Stover had more than amply blessed the food.

  Eleanor greeted the first few in line, knowing them by name since they’d been coming all along. Though they said nothing when they saw the soup being ladled into cups instead of bowls, something in their eyes caused Eleanor’s heart to wrench, and it was all she could do not to apologize.

  She served the cups of soup with a smile. “And please help yourself to the butter tonight. It’s down on the end.”

  When the first pot of soup was empty, Naomi brought the second of four, leaning close to whisper in Eleanor’s ear. “I told Marta to count how many are left.”

  Eleanor nodded. “Very good. You might want to water down the remaining pots a little more.”

  “We already have,” Naomi whispered.

  Next in line came Little Magpie, the girl’s blue eyes wide and watchful, with her mother, Gretchen. Eleanor guessed Gretchen to be in her early to midtwenties. But the dark circles beneath the woman’s eyes and her stooped shoulders—helped along by the burdensome weight of her unborn child—gave her an older, more worn look.

  “Good . . . evening, Miss Braddock,” Gretchen said with deliberate enunciation, her German accent heavy.

  “Good evening, Gretchen. How are you feeling?” Eleanor ladled the soap into the first cup, then the second, noticing the mixture was already tepid due to the water they’d added.

  “Big,” she said, barely smiling. “And . . .” She frowned as though searching for the word. “Needing . . . bed.”

  “Weary,” Eleanor supplied, handing both cups to her while noticing how little Maggie’s eyes widened. The girl loved potato soup and had come back for seconds on earlier visits. But there would be no seconds tonight.

  Maggie had yet to fully open up to Eleanor, but Eleanor was still working on her. She slipped the girl a wink, and Little Magpie smiled before catching herself and going cautious again.

  Eleanor smiled. “How much longer until the baby comes, Gretchen?”

  “Mmmm . . . sechs?”

  “Six weeks? That’s not long. Be sure to let me know if there’s anything I can do for you or Maggie.”

  “Thank . . . you, Miss Braddock.” Gretchen nodded and moved on down the line, gesturing for her daughter to get the bread.

  But Maggie shook her head and pointed to one of the cups in her mother’s hand. “Ich will die Tasse nehmen.”
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br />   “Nein.” Gretchen sighed and pointed again to the bread. “Ich nehme die Tasse. Du nimmst das Brot.”

  Eleanor served those next in line, watching Maggie’s frown escalate to a scowl at her mother’s comment. “I’ll take the cup. You take the bread,” if Eleanor translated it correctly. Gretchen turned to go sit down, but Maggie grabbed at one of the cups. It was on the tip of Eleanor’s tongue to warn the young mother, but it was too late.

  The tin cup clattered to the floor, spilling soup onto the dusty plank wood. Chatter in the room fell silent, all eyes turned, and Eleanor’s heart wrenched when she saw Maggie’s face crumple. Maggie dropped to her knees and began sopping up the soup with her bread. Gretchen, tears welling, gently pulled her daughter up by the arm, whispering in hushed tones as the little girl cried soft, hiccupping sobs.

  Eleanor’s vision blurred as she swallowed back the knifing pain in her throat and continued to serve those waiting. Conversation in the room gradually edged up again. But not enough to cover Maggie’s quiet sobs from the corner.

  By the time Eleanor said good night to Naomi and Caleb, it was a little past nine and she was long past exhausted.

  Key in the lock, she paused and looked back at the darkened front room, then at the corner in which Maggie and Gretchen had sat. When mother and daughter had left, the little girl’s eyes had been puffy and swollen.

  Everyone who had come tonight had been served a cup of soup, but only because—with Naomi’s discreet assistance—the last two pots of soup had been watered down. Three times. Eleanor had foregone eating anything, and saw Naomi drink only half of her cup before giving the rest of hers to Caleb. Every crumb of bread and speck of butter had been devoured.

  For a long time to come, Eleanor would remember Maggie’s soft cries, and the pain etched in Gretchen’s face.

  She inhaled, then let out a shaky breath, wiping away the tears she’d fought so hard to keep inside earlier, and feeling almost blasphemous at the thoughts she was having.

  She believed God saw every hurt, every tear, that He knew the intimate details of every life. Believing in His sovereignty and power wasn’t an issue for her. Not anymore. He’d proven that to her time and time again. What she couldn’t understand was how He could see those hurts, those tears, the excruciating pain of lives broken and torn apart—and yet chose not to act on their behalf. At least not the way she would have, if she were God.

  Her chin shook, both from crying and from knowing that, even now, the Lord heard every accusing thought in her head. “I trust you,” she whispered, wishing she trusted Him more. “I just don’t understand you.”

  As confident as she was that He had led her to this juncture in her life, she couldn’t fight reality. Unless Aunt Adelicia—or someone else—supported her in providing these meals, she was all but finished. Perhaps this idea had been doomed from the start, and in her exuberance, or maybe her pride, she simply hadn’t seen it. Until now.

  “Focus only upon what is before you. What you can see, Eleanor. Not on what your imagination attempts to convince you is there.”

  Oh, Papa . . . If only it were that easy.

  If only her father were still with her. Oh, he was, in a sense. But so much of their relationship had been lost. And she feared it would never be regained. Would he have to live in the asylum for the rest of his life? That thought alone was daunting. But the financial cost it would demand was even more staggering. How could she possibly ever pay for it? She couldn’t.

  That reality forced another decision to the forefront of her mind. A decision she needed to give to Lawrence Hockley. It was unsettling, realizing how much time she spent thinking about the decision she had to make regarding the man, rather than the man himself.

  She’d been telling herself she was simply weighing all the variables, but her lack of eagerness to give him an answer wasn’t due to her not knowing her response. She knew her decision. In light of her alternatives, there was only one answer she could give Lawrence Hockley.

  Her struggle lay in reconciling her heart to that answer, and that was especially hard since her heart felt reconciled to another man.

  She closed the door and locked it behind her.

  The street was dark and empty. A gusty wind carrying more winter than autumn knifed through her shawl.

  With no reason to keep the building a secret any longer, she’d had Armstead drive her to the building earlier that day, and he’d promised to be back by nine. But . . .

  She peered down the road, frowning. He was late. Which was odd, because Armstead was always so—

  “Need a ride home, madam?”

  She jumped at the familiar voice and turned. “Marcus!” She exhaled, heart thudding yet also pining a little at the sight of him. “You scared me.” She popped him in the chest like she used to do her brother, but the gesture felt far more intimate with Marcus. The faint flicker of a gas streetlamp illuminated his smile. “While I appreciate your offer,” she continued, wishing she could accept, especially seeing he was on horseback, “I’m waiting for Armstead.”

  “Which creates a problem . . . since I met him as he was coming from Belmont and told him not to come.”

  She stared, curious. “Why would you do that?”

  “Because it’s been a while since I’ve seen you.” He gave a one-shouldered shrug that was distinctly male. “And I wanted to congratulate you on your debut in the Republican Banner.”

  While the first part of his comment tempted her to smile, the second part didn’t. Especially after tonight. She briefly bowed her head. “Oh, Marcus, my conversation with my aunt did not go well. She and the family returned sometime during the night. And as soon as I left my bedroom this morning, she was there, in the dining room, and we—”

  He put a finger to her lips. “I want to hear every single word, but after we’re on our way. I’m guessing you’ve had a very long day, Eleanor. And I . . .” He paused as though about to say something else, then pulled something from behind his back. “I’ve brought fortification.”

  He unwrapped the paper, and she smelled them before she saw them.

  Her eyes watered. “You got me doughnuts?”

  “I did. This morning. I was on my way to see you then, but . . . the day got away from me.”

  “And you didn’t eat them?”

  He frowned. “I told you I got them for you.”

  “Yes, but”—she laughed, hoping to offset a reprisal of tears—“saving doughnuts all day long isn’t for the faint of heart.”

  “Neither is cooking for all these women and children.”

  She sniffed. “True enough.”

  “Which reminds me . . . We’re nearly finished with your tables and benches. The men and I will bring them by first of next week. I think you’re going to be very pleased.”

  Oh, this man . . . Eleanor was glad her face was partially shadowed. “I’m sure I will be,” she whispered. “Thank you, Marcus, for”—her voice caught—“doing that for me. And for them.”

  He cocked his head and leaned down a little. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. And no . . .” She blew out a breath. “We had a multitude of people show up tonight, and we all but ran out of food. Then . . .” She thought of little Maggie again and knew if she said anything else she wouldn’t be able to hold her emotions in check. “I’m mostly just tired, I guess.”

  “Well . . . let’s get you home, then.” He extended his arm. “Shall we?”

  She accepted his help onto the horse and arranged her skirt over her legs as he eased into the saddle behind her. He reached around her for the reins—did she imagine his brief pause when their faces nearly touched?—and she found herself trying to memorize what being close to him felt like. The warmth from his body chased away her chill, not only outwardly but on the inside too. And as they made their way south of town—the cadence of the thoroughbred’s stride a lulling metronome inside her—she soon discovered the desperate what ifs of moments earlier all but silenced.

&n
bsp; What she wouldn’t give to have a man like Marcus—

  No, not a man like Marcus, but to have Marcus care about her the way a man cared for a woman. Logic reminded her of the nature of their friendship, and she told herself she could be satisfied with that. That it would be enough. But her thoughts and emotions betrayed her reasoning and refused to toe the line.

  And the lie.

  Despite saying she was tired, Eleanor talked most of the way back to Belmont—between bites of doughnuts. Details of her day poured from her. Marcus listened, having his own questions he wanted to pose but willing to be patient. Especially when it meant he could listen to her voice—the rhythm of her sentences, the rise and fall of her tone—as she shared personal insights he sensed she wouldn’t tell just anyone.

  Maybe not even Lawrence Hockley.

  And the way the curves of her body fit against him—like Eve fashioned just for Adam in the garden—wasn’t too bothersome either. He smiled. Though the ride into town had been chilly—the wind kicking up, bringing the cold with it—there was nothing chilly about him now. Quite the opposite.

  If not for his pledge to Armstead to deliver Eleanor directly back to Belmont in keeping with “Mrs. Cheatham’s firm request,” he would’ve been tempted to keep riding.

  But when the turnoff for Belmont came, he took it.

  Nestled warm against him, Eleanor grew quiet, and a minute later, her head lulled forward before she snapped it back again. She took a deep breath and shifted positions, and Marcus gently tightened his arms about her waist.

  He thought again about the book in his satchel, as he’d done throughout the day, and about how she had responded to his questions about her father in the past. She hadn’t lied to him. She’d simply . . . evaded the issue. A practice he was quite familiar with and couldn’t fault her for. Not without sentencing himself to the same guilty verdict.

  Theodore had commented so negatively about his daughter that morning. Was Eleanor the type of daughter who would leave her father at an asylum and never return? Marcus had a hard time reconciling that behavior with the woman in his arms right now. Yet, the antagonism Theodore displayed had been unmistakable.