A Beauty So Rare

by Tamera Alexander

  Eleanor’s face went warm. Now she wished she’d let Marcus wait outside. Dare she attempt to defend herself to these ladies? But how could she not? Heart pounding, she sat straighter. “If you would allow me to—”

  Mrs. Holcomb raised a hand, her sigh holding truce as well as consternation. “And yet, Miss Braddock, you have single-handedly done what we, as an organization, have attempted to do since the war concluded. We exist to do good within this community. Time and time again, we have invited less fortunate women to come to the league’s building in town for a meal on Saturday mornings. We provide the finest food. Many of the ladies here have donated their own family china, table linens, and crystal. We wanted the experience to be one that makes the women feel special, that makes them feel welcome.”

  “We’ve passed the word through neighbors and friends,” another woman said. “But only a handful of women ever attend.”

  “And most times they ask to take the meal with them,” yet another woman volunteered. “Then they leave, quickly as they came. And rarely do they return.”

  “Even though we know they could benefit from the assistance,” a third woman added.

  Eleanor recalled the wording of the plaque that hung beside the front door of the league building. “. . . women from Nashville’s finest families . . . dedicated to social betterment . . .” No wonder the widows hadn’t felt comfortable visiting there. She hadn’t either.

  She listened as the women continued to lay out their complaint. And, gradually, she realized they didn’t sound angry with her so much as confounded as to why she’d succeeded at something when they had failed. And slowly, understanding dawned. . . .

  She wasn’t in trouble. At least not in the sense she’d initially thought. She looked around the room. All of the women were dressed in the finest, most fashionable garments. Jewels on their fingers and dangling from their earlobes, hair neatly arranged, not a thread out of place. Then she glanced down at her own state of dress and—oddly—wasn’t bothered by it anymore. Because she knew in that moment that she’d happened upon something more valuable, more precious than anything money could buy. Even though—the irony of her next thought tempted her to smile—it did take money to do what she was doing. And these women had that in abundance. They had the heart to help too. They simply didn’t know how. But neither had she. Until God had shown her, in a very roundabout way—one she never could have anticipated.

  She’d wanted to open a restaurant. And, instead, God had opened her life. Her heart.

  She slipped a hand into her skirt pocket and felt the soft, worn cotton between her fingertips, and thought again about Mary girl. Wherever she was, whatever had happened to her, Eleanor prayed someone was taking care of her . . . the way she sought to take care of Nashville’s widows and children.

  “As I’m sure you’ve gathered by now, Miss Braddock”—hearing Mrs. Holcomb’s voice, Eleanor refocused—“we have invited you to meet with us for a purpose. After reading the newspaper article this morning, we immediately came to consult with your aunt about it. Following a lively discussion, and after your aunt shed insight on the intentions behind your actions”—Mrs. Holcomb’s air of formality seemed to soften—“we came to an agreement. And your aunt graciously invited us all back here this evening to discuss a possibility with you.”

  Wavering between feeling thoroughly chastised yet also complimented, Eleanor waited.

  Mrs. Holcomb continued, “As you may be aware, we had planned . . . and still plan, in the future,” she added, tossing a perfunctory nod to a stoic Mrs. Hightower, “to build a new tea hall. But after a less than enthusiastic response from the community, we have decided to put that project aside for the time being and instead, sow our resources in more . . . philanthropic soil.”

  For the first time, Mrs. Holcomb smiled, and Eleanor was certain her earlier prediction about liking the woman would hold true.

  “Miss Braddock, we would very much like to partner with you in caring for the widows and their children.”

  Radiant. That’s the only word Marcus could think of to describe Eleanor in that moment. Well, that and sprachlos, or dumbstruck as Americans termed it. Drinking her in from his position at one side of the room, he could see the sheen of tears in her eyes, tears she was doing her best to hide.

  “Y-you want to partner with me?” Eleanor whispered. The crackle of the fire in the hearth filled the silence. “You want to help feed these women and children?”

  “Oh my . . .” Mrs. Holcomb’s hesitant laughter was telling. “If you’re this taken aback by our proposal, Miss Braddock, I fear that we, as a league, have a great deal of work to do in fulfilling our mission in this town.”

  “No, no,” Eleanor said quickly. “I wasn’t suggesting you lacked the desire to help, Mrs. Holcomb. It’s just that I came in here with the expectation of . . .”

  “Being scolded?” Mrs. Holcomb supplied.

  Eleanor hesitated, then nodded.

  “Yes, I can see why you might have expected that. However, that’s not the case. I assure you.”

  The league president shot a look at Mrs. Cheatham. Marcus noted the silent exchange, and suddenly the fortuitous comment made earlier by Mrs. Holcomb took on new meaning. His thoughts jumped ahead. It occurred to him what Adelicia Cheatham might be about to propose, and even more, what his role in such a proposal might be. Already, his mind stirred with possibilities. He only hoped he was right.

  Adelicia rose from her seat like a queen from her throne, and Marcus quelled a smile. Watching her brought Aunt Sisi, Uncle Franz’s wife, to mind. And he knew that, given the opportunity, the two women would become fast friends.

  “Eleanor, my dear . . .” Adelicia moved nearer the hearth. “The Nashville Women’s League would like to do more than simply partner with you to feed the widows and children of this city. Much more.”

  When Adelicia looked in his direction, Marcus was certain he’d guessed correctly.

  “We want to build a home for them,” Adelicia continued. “A place where they would not only take their meals but would live in safety with one another. And we believe it would be best if you, Eleanor, facilitated the project, since you’re the one who’s had such success in helping them.”

  Already watching Eleanor, Marcus felt a measure of pleasure when she sought out his gaze. The tender hope in her eyes nurtured the seed of it in his own chest.

  She didn’t speak immediately, and if he hadn’t known her so well, he might have guessed she was searching for the right words to say. As it was, he knew she was struggling to contain her emotions. She was a private person, not comfortable with showing her feelings. Something else they had in common.

  Finally, she smiled. “I would be honored to undertake the project.” A rush of breath left her. Half laugh, half sigh. “And I’m so grateful, ladies . . . more than you can know, for your partnership.”

  A ripple of excitement skittered through the women in the room. All but two of them, Marcus noticed. The young Miss Hightower, whom he’d met prior to this evening at the Nashville Women’s League building, and her mother. The pair looked as though they’d been chewing on rancid lemons. Heaven help the man who married into that.

  Miss Hightower chose that moment to look in his direction and flashed him a smile before he could look away. He returned the gesture, kindly but swiftly, and engaged his attention elsewhere, careful not to make that mistake again.

  Spontaneous chatter grew to a steady hum, and he marveled at the sheer volume of it. These women would use more words in one evening than he’d likely use in a lifetime. How “Queen Adelicia” would ever regain control, he didn’t know. But he enjoyed watching the scene, especially with Eleanor at the center of it all.

  He was so proud of her. Her love and dedication for the people she cooked for still amazed him. They loved her with equal fervor, and not only because of her benevolence. He’d been there, had watched her serving them. It hadn’t felt like charity. It had felt like family.

&nbs
p; “I’ve received an offer of marriage.”

  He’d failed to ask if she’d accepted the offer. But he doubted whether she had. She would have told him. Wouldn’t she have?

  After a few moments, Adelicia raised a delicate hand, forefinger slightly extended, and a hush fell over the room.

  Marcus made note. So that’s how it was done.

  “I know the hour is late . . .” Adelicia glanced at the clock on the mantel. “But I have one more thing, ladies, before we adjourn. We discussed a general budget earlier, but now we must each confirm our own donations as well as contact the members on our individual lists to confirm theirs.

  “Let’s work to have that completed by the end of the week at the latest. We must have a solid projection of available funds before we can move forward. And knowing my niece as I do”—Adelicia’s tone held unmistakable pride—“she’ll want to get started on this as soon as possible.

  “Speaking of which . . . Mr. Geoffrey . . .” Adelicia gestured for him to join her.

  Not really wanting to, Marcus did as bade. Though having been the focus of attention all his life—and enjoying it then—he’d come to prefer the relative anonymity of his new situation. It had been oddly freeing, in a sense.

  Besides, as he’d already learned, he was never quite certain what Mrs. Cheatham was going to say. Which made him a little nervous even now.

  Adelicia nodded toward the league president. “As Mrs. Holcomb stated earlier, your presence here this evening was a fortuitous coincidence, Mr. Geoffrey. Because only this afternoon, I recommended we seek your services in this venture. If your schedule allows, of course, and”—a trickle of humor laced her voice—“granted you gain my niece’s approval.”

  The women laughed, and he did too. “Then I’ll simply have to make Miss Braddock an offer she won’t be able to refuse.”

  That prompted even more laughter. But the twinkle in Eleanor’s eyes was his true reward.

  As the ladies took their leave, he stood in the front hall beside Eleanor, speaking to each of them as they passed while itching for a pencil and pad of paper, eager to start drawing up plans.

  “Can you believe this?” Eleanor whispered to him between bidding the board members good night.

  He enjoyed seeing her so happy. Especially with the knowledge he had about her father.

  “Mr. Geoffrey . . .” Miss Hightower extended her hand to him in exaggerated fashion as though she were offering a rare jewel. “What a pleasure to see you this evening, sir.”

  Aware of Eleanor’s attention, Marcus kissed Miss Hightower’s hand, the woman’s fingers tightening around his before he let go. “Likewise, Miss Hightower.”

  “We’ve been considering adding a wing onto our family home. Perhaps you could stop by and . . . give me a bid?” Her smile turned overtly impish, something the woman considered attractive, no doubt.

  “I’ll be happy to do that, Miss Hightower. I’ll ask my foreman to stop by this week.”

  Her gaze cooled even as her smile remained perfectly in place. “Yes, you do that, Mr. Geoffrey. And we’ll see what comes.”

  Marcus dipped his head, not looking at her again. That type of woman he knew well . . . and had once actually preferred. Though he couldn’t for the life of him imagine doing so now.

  “Mr. Geoffrey . . .” The last to leave, Mrs. Holcomb paused on her way out. “This is all so exciting, isn’t it?”

  “Indeed, madam, it is.”

  “And you, Miss Braddock”—Mrs. Holcomb grasped Eleanor’s hand—“are a most impressive woman. And the perfect person for such a mission. Thank you for agreeing to help with this.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Holcomb. I’m so grateful for the opportunity. The need is monumental, and at times overwhelming, I’ll admit. But together, we can accomplish much, I know.”

  “I’m certain we can as well, Miss Braddock. Now to get it done before Mr. Geoffrey returns to Austria next summer.”

  The words sliced the moment with painful precision, the air around them pulsing with it. Marcus looked over at Eleanor and read the disbelief in her eyes, the questioning.

  But it was the shadow of betrayal that wounded him most. Especially knowing how deserved it was.

  “Yes, of course, we must,” Eleanor said quickly, scarcely missing a beat. She broke his gaze and turned back to their guest. “We’ll simply have to work extra hard to make that happen.”

  Mrs. Holcomb moved to speak with Adelicia at the door, and Marcus seized the moment, keeping his voice low. “Eleanor, I had intended to tell you about my departure, but—”

  “It’s all right, Marcus.” She put on a smile that didn’t suit her. “You don’t owe me an explanation. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I—”

  Marcus gently took hold of her arm and steered her into the library, then pushed the door all but closed. Lamplight on the desk cast a halo of yellow-orange about the room.

  “But I do owe you an explanation, Eleanor.” He searched her eyes. “At least, I would hope you think I do.”

  She stared up at him, the contrived smile gone. “Has this been your plan all along?”

  If he’d anticipated this reaction and the look in her eyes—the sadness, disappointment—he would have told her weeks ago. Better yet, he would never have allowed himself to become so close to her. He’d thought it had only been his heart he was risking. Not hers. But now, he wondered. “Yes. I’ve always known I must return to Vienna.”

  She nodded, then lowered her eyes. Seconds ticked past.

  “I’m sorry, Eleanor.” And he was. But for so much more than what he could put into words. He waited for her to lift her head, to respond. And when she didn’t, he gently urged her chin upward.

  Tears traced her cheeks, and what he read in her eyes, in the way she gripped his forearm even now, answered the question he’d pondered a moment earlier. It wasn’t only his heart . . .

  His lips were on hers—and the kiss deepened—before the part of him that knew better could warn otherwise. But it was when she slipped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer, then rose on tiptoe to better meet his kiss that Marcus felt a yearning more powerfully tender than he’d ever known. Her lips seemed at once both hesitant and insistent. Which made him wonder . . . was this kiss her first?

  If it was—oh, the sweetness of her mouth—then he couldn’t begin to fathom what—

  “Eleanor?”

  Steps sounded in the hallway outside.

  Heart thundering, Marcus drew back. Breathing heavily, her eyes wide, Eleanor looked up at him as though questioning whether they’d really done what they’d just done. Tempted to smile at her reaction, he heard the steps coming closer.

  “I appreciate you sharing your concerns with me, Miss Braddock.” He spoke at normal volume, but it sounded overloud in the silence, almost harsh in comparison to seconds earlier.

  He gestured to her to respond, but she looked at him, confused.

  “Oh . . .” She blinked. “Yes, of course, Mr. Geoffrey,” she said with a bit too much emphasis. But he granted her points for trying.

  “So,” he continued, “we’ll meet later in the week to discuss—”

  A knock sounded on the library door.

  Marcus opened it immediately. “Mrs. Cheatham.” His shirt collar shrank two sizes beneath the woman’s appraising gaze.

  “Mr. Geoffrey . . .” Adelicia said it slowly, a dark brow arching as her gaze moved to take in her niece who—to Marcus’s pained discovery—looked a great deal like a woman who had just been thoroughly kissed. And who—much to his delight—had thoroughly enjoyed it.

  Still, at the moment, the first discovery outweighed the second, and it fell to him to say something—anything—to encourage Mrs. Cheatham’s acceptance of doubt over the evidence at hand.

  “Tomorrow I’ll begin drawing up preliminary designs of the building.” He directed the comment to them both. “Then we’ll meet again once the budget is approved.”

  “Yes, I appreciate that.” Eleanor�
��s voice held only the slightest waver. “Thank you again for explaining everything in such detail just now.”

  “It was my pleasure.” Unable to give Eleanor any type of communiqué without her aunt witnessing, Marcus simply nodded to Adelicia as he took his leave. “Good night, Mrs. Cheatham.”

  “Good night . . . Mr. Geoffrey.”

  Throughout the day Sunday, then into Monday, as Marcus supervised his crew, all he could think about was Eleanor. He’d seen her at church yesterday but only from afar. He’d relived that moment with her in the library over and over and didn’t want to think about it as having been a mistake—because it certainly hadn’t felt like one. But how could it be anything else? Where did they go from here? Nowhere. Because in June, he was going back home. But what if . . .

  What if he didn’t go back?

  That thought kept pushing to the forefront of his mind, no matter how many times he dismissed it as ludicrous. Even treasonous, in a sense. At least that’s how his father and uncle would view it.

  But . . .what if there was a way for him to stay in Nashville? Would he do it if he could? It was one thing to come to this country for a few months, to try his hand at living among the “common, everyday rustics.” But would he give up everything, including the security and wealth of the Habsburg dynasty?

  He was more than happy to give up an arranged marriage he’d never wanted, in exchange for a chance at one he did. And for a woman who had a far greater hold on his heart, on him, than she likely knew.

  Of course, that woman had a standing offer of marriage from another man—which he still didn’t know whether she’d accepted or not. But after that night in the library, how she’d responded to him. . . . A woman like Eleanor couldn’t kiss like that—wouldn’t kiss like that—unless it was genuine.

  Oh, God, what am I to do?

  Standing at his drafting table in the warehouse office, pencil in hand, he stilled, hearing that last thought return to him. Only, it wasn’t so much a thought, as it was . . . a prayer. He sighed. If only God did care about the tiny bits and pieces of lives. But He didn’t. Marcus knew the truth about kings and commoners. Neither Uncle Franz nor any of the past emperors took interest in the everyday lives of their subjects. They were kings, after all.