She clearly heard what he hadn’t said. That he didn’t want to go into detail. She understood. She’d been grateful the other night when he hadn’t pressed her about Mr. Hockley’s offer of marriage.
“When will you . . .” The rest of the sentence stayed poised on the tip of her tongue, refusing to obey.
“June at the latest. But I will get this done, Eleanor. Either way. Don’t worry about that. My men are very good. I only hire the best.”
“Why does that not surprise me?”
He took a step toward her . . . and stopped. The look in his eyes was much like it had been that night in the library, and the newly roused stirrings inside her responded to him just as they had then. Yet neither of them moved. They just . . . stared.
“Are you ready to see the other floors?” he finally whispered, voice hoarse.
She nodded. “Yes. Thank you.”
He led the way upstairs and she followed, Aunt Adelicia and Mrs. Bennett in tow.
Climbing the staircase, Eleanor admired the woodwork. “The craftsmanship on the banisters is exquisite, Mrs. Bennett. Similar to the mantel downstairs.”
“Oh, thank you, Miss Braddock. My father-in-law adored woodworking. It was his hobby, you might say. He was an attorney by day and a craftsman by night. Once he retired from the law firm, construction consumed most of his time.” She paused on the second-story landing. “He once told me that if he had a chance to live life over again, he would build things for a living instead of litigating them to death.”
Aunt Adelicia laughed softly, running a hand over the railing. “I wouldn’t be surprised to hear many attorneys agree with him. But this was more than a mere hobby for your dear father-in-law, Mrs. Bennett. This building was truly his gift.”
Marcus, unusually quiet, Eleanor noted, simply nodded in agreement and continued down the corridor.
To her dismay, a thorough perusal of the second floor proved correct his predictions about the water damage. And by the time they finished touring the third floor, she found herself overwhelmed by all the repairs the building would need in order to be inhabitable, much less functional.
Marcus found access to the roof and climbed the ladder, the rungs creaking with his ascent.
“Be careful,” Eleanor warned.
He leaned back down and gave a smart salute, leaving her feeling a little foolish. It was something her father or Teddy might have done.
She hoped her father was feeling better this morning. She’d visited the asylum yesterday, and though he’d appeared content for the most part, he’d twice wept for reasons he couldn’t seem to explain. Deep, gut-wrenching sobs that broke her heart. As she’d tucked him into bed before she left, he asked if she would make corn bread with butter and honey “like your mother used to make.” She’d stayed until he fell asleep.
After visiting him, she’d met with the board of the Nashville Women’s League, at which time she was formally appointed to facilitate the building project.
She’d been so excited, it was all she could do not to tell Naomi, Marta, Elena, and the rest of the women about it last night at the dinner. But it had been decided—and she agreed—that it was best to wait until plans were finalized.
Her appointment as facilitator had disappointed one Miss Hillary Stockton Hightower, whose mother had nominated her for the position, then as co-facilitator when that met defeat. But the second motion was denied as well, much to Eleanor’s relief. She didn’t think she and Miss Hightower would see eye to eye on much, if anything.
With the board’s overwhelming support, she was determined to not only provide for the needs of the widows and children and stay within the proposed budget, but also to make Aunt Adelicia proud.
“This building,” Mrs. Bennett said, “was used as a barracks for the Union soldiers during the war.” She sighed. “I’m afraid it suffered more damage than I realized. Both inside and out.”
Aunt Adelicia gave Mrs. Bennett’s arm a squeeze. “I’m certain Mr. Geoffrey will make a sound assessment. And when Miss Braddock weighs the options and makes her final decision, it will in no way—regardless of the direction we take—diminish the depth of your family’s generosity, Mrs. Bennett.”
“When Miss Braddock makes her final decision . . .”
Hearing Aunt Adelicia state it so confidently only made Eleanor more nervous. She’d not considered how it might affect Mrs. Bennett were they to reject the gift—or propose to raze the building and erect the new structure on this land.
Minutes later, Marcus descended the ladder, expression somber. “Well, I discovered where our leaks are coming from. But we can fix them . . . by replacing the entire roof. Portions of the parapet are either loose or missing as well.”
Mrs. Bennett looked crestfallen.
“It’s by no means an insurmountable task,” Marcus added hurriedly. “But it represents a sizable expense. This is a large building and . . . the necessary repairs are numerous.”
The silence lengthened, and Eleanor sensed the three of them waiting on her for direction. “Thank you, Mr. Geoffrey.” She nodded with borrowed confidence. “The next step, then, will be for you to submit a list of needed repairs as well as a firm estimate for the renovation. Then together we’ll look at both the design and expense of a new building. That will enable us to compare the two and make the final decision. For many reasons, time is of the essence, so the sooner we can meet, the better.”
“My foreman and I will come back this afternoon and get started right away. I’ll have both estimates for you before the week is out, Miss Braddock.”
As they turned to make their way back downstairs, Eleanor caught Marcus looking at her. He didn’t wink, he didn’t smile, but an endearing emotion passed over his face just the same, and seeing it caused her heart to squeeze tight.
34
Friday morning, arriving at the asylum later than she’d planned, Eleanor knocked on the door of her father’s room. A meeting with Marcus at the old courthouse earlier had taken longer than expected. He’d said he would have the final costs on the renovation as well as comparative costs for a new building ready by that evening. She prayed, as she’d done often in recent days, that her decision would be a clear one.
“Enter,” a familiar voice answered.
She pushed open the door and found her father sitting in his chair by the window, clean shaven, hair brushed, glasses perched on his nose, and attention aimed at the heart of a book. She smiled at the scene, and it occurred to her then that when he was gone—prayerfully, a long time from now—this was the image she would carry in her heart.
“Papa?”
He peered up and blinked as though not seeing her well. Then resignation pinched his features and he lowered his book. “Eleanor.”
Though she didn’t hear explicit welcome in his voice, neither did she hear anger or agitation.
She stepped inside his room. “May I come in?”
“I believe you already have.”
She was tempted to smile, thinking of how often he’d said something humorous like that in the past with the goal of drawing a chuckle from her. But he wasn’t smiling now.
She held out the covered plate. “I brought you corn bread slathered with butter and honey.”
“No savory custard?”
She set the plate on a side table and removed her shawl. “You said you wanted corn bread, remember?”
“I said no such thing.”
She smiled. “When I was here on Tuesday—”
“You haven’t been here in weeks. I keep track of it all.” He held up a pad of paper, blank, save for series of marks made at odd angles all over the page.
She said nothing, only smiled, thinking that might help. But the sharp planes of his face only grew more so.
She pulled the cloth back, the bread beneath still warm. “Would you care for a piece now? Or would you rather wait?”
“Wait,” he said, voice curt. Then he firmed his lips and added, “Thank you,” as though he’d b
een coached to do so.
She left the corn bread uncovered, hoping the scent might tempt him. “So, tell me”—she settled in the chair opposite him—“how have you been feeling?”
“Fine, thank you.” He stared out the window.
Only three days since she’d last seen him, yet he seemed older somehow, more frail. But perhaps it was the sunlight highlighting the touches of time that wreathed his eyes and mouth.
Her gaze fell to a stack of books on the side table. “You’ve been reading some of our favorites.”
“Nurse Smith is reading them to me now—since you don’t anymore.”
The barbed comment found its mark. But determined to keep their visit civil, Eleanor hid the hurt and looked for his favorite volume. Hmmm. It wasn’t in the stack. Nor on the shelf.
“Where is Tennyson, Papa?”
His jaw edged up. “I loaned it to a friend.”
That, she found surprising. For years, he’d carried that volume with him everywhere. She hated to think he’d loaned it out only to have it lost. “What friend? Is it someone you met here?”
“You don’t know him.”
She smiled. “I might.” It occurred to her then that this friend might be a figment of her father’s imagination. “Perhaps I could meet him . . . if you’d introduce me.”
“He’s my friend. Not yours. And it’s my book!”
Deciding it best to move on, she picked up a treasured edition of poems by John Donne and opened it. “It’s been a while since I’ve read this one.”
“You can’t take it.” He reached for it. “It belongs to me.”
She quickly relinquished the book. “Of course, it does, Papa. I only thought I might read a portion of it aloud while I’m—”
“I told you . . . Nurse Smith does that now!” Clutching the book against his chest, he returned his gaze to the window.
Knowing better than to push the subject, Eleanor decided to try another. “You remember how I’ve always liked to cook, Papa?” She wasn’t surprised when he didn’t respond. “Well, I have a job now. I prepare dinners for a group of . . .”
She caught herself and decided not to mention widows or fatherless children or anything that might remind him of the war. Or Teddy. “I’ve been cooking for a group of people. And I enjoy it very much.” She wished he would acknowledge that he heard her. “We’re actually building a home where these people can live.” She prayed he would look at her. See her. “Maybe one evening, Papa . . . once you’re feeling better, you could come with me, and meet some of my friends. Have dinner with us, perhaps.”
Nothing. Just the occasional blink of his eyes as he stared out the window.
She sat up a little straighter and followed his line of sight. The garden. An idea forming, she touched his hand. But he drew back as if she held a lit match.
A moment passed before she trusted her voice again. “Would you like to go down there, Papa? To the garden? I’ll take you.”
“We can’t go now. It’s not time.”
She smiled. “I bet I can convince Dr. Crawford to let us—”
“I said it’s not time!” The muscles in his neck corded tight. “We have rules here, Ellie, and”—he cursed beneath his breath—“you will obey them or you’ll get the strap, you ungrateful child. Do you hear me?”
Stunned, she stared, wordless. It wasn’t the first time in recent weeks that he’d called her by her childhood name. But never in her youth, not once, had he taken the strap to her—or Teddy. Or even threatened to. And never had she heard those vulgar words from her father’s lips.
“I said”—eyes dark, spittle flew from his lips—“do you . . . hear me!”
“Yes, sir,” she answered softly, deciding it best to play the role. “I hear you.”
A knock sounded on the door, and Nurse Smith swiftly entered, her ready smile in place, signaling Eleanor that the nurse’s timing was no accident.
“Theodore,” she said, her voice a cool breeze on a sweltering day, “everything is going to be all right.” Compassion softened the nurse’s gaze as the young woman held her father’s hand, stroking his hair as a mother would a child. And he clung to her as though she were life and breath itself.
“It’s all right, Theodore. You’re safe. Everything is going to be fine. You’ll see.”
Eleanor watched in disbelief as, in a blink, her father went from grown man to frightened child, and heaved deep, ragged sobs. From nowhere, her own tears spilled down her cheeks.
Nurse Smith’s eyes misted as she mouthed, “Give it time.”
Eleanor nodded, trying to catch her breath even as she felt a rending deep inside her.
A moment passed, and sensing a tenderness in her father’s expression, she knelt before him. “Papa, I love you so much.” Tentative, she placed a hand on his knee. “I’m so sorry this is—”
He shoved her with a force that sent her sprawling. His face twisted in simultaneous rage and fear. “Who are you? Why are you here?”
Eleanor gained her feet. “P-Papa, it’s me. It’s Eleanor.”
She tried again to come close, but her father screamed and pressed back into his chair, crying and clinging to the nurse.
Eleanor felt a vise around her upper arm and turned to see a male orderly.
“Miss Braddock, it’s best if you leave now, ma’am.”
When his words finally registered, she nodded, tears blurring the image of her father as he stared up, eyes wide with fear. Numb, yet feeling as though her heart had been ripped from her chest, she retrieved her shawl and reticule and did as he asked, not looking back.
35
Marcus studied Eleanor as she reviewed the financial proposal he’d stayed up most of Friday night to finish. He knew she had no idea how lovely she looked standing there in the morning light, the sun streaming in through the glass panels of the conservatory. And he had no business thinking what he was thinking, much less doing what he was about to do.
But whether inspired by her studiously pensive look as she read, or the feeling that he was finally about to build what he’d dreamed of building all these years, he did it anyway.
He leaned close, watching her mouth, her lips moving silently as she considered the numbers, but all he could consider were the seconds until he tasted the sweetness of her kiss again. At the touch of his hand on her cheek, she looked up, and the answer was clear in her eyes. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her full on the mouth. Her arms came around his neck and pulled him closer, closer. Then she deepened their kiss, urging him on in a way he’d scarcely allowed himself to dream much less imagine. He traced the curve of her back and felt the comely shape of her—
“Marcus?”
He blinked.
“So what do you think? I’m not sure about the cost comparisons in these two columns.”
Closing and opening his eyes again, Marcus looked at her standing at the table beside him, his mouth dry, his arms disappointingly empty, and his thoughts on anything but budgets.
Concern creased her brow. “If you’re too tired to do this right now, we can—”
“Nein, ich bin in Ordnung—” He sighed, managing a smile. “I mean . . . I’m fine. Let’s continue. This way, you’ll have everything you need to make your decision this weekend.”
He combed a hand through his hair, weary from too little sleep, too many calculations, and uneasy over a letter he’d received from his father in response to the one he’d written nearly a month ago. His father had a way of phrasing things that always made him feel lesser somehow.
Marcus pointed to the columns in question, working to see past the images of Eleanor still so fresh and vivid in his mind. “On this page, I listed straight comparison costs for every step of both projects.”
Over the next two hours, they reviewed every item on every page, line by line, and he answered all her questions.
To construct the building he’d designed would cost more than the renovation, which hadn’t been surprising. The Bennetts—follo
wing persuasion from women in the league—had finally agreed that if the decision was made to go with the new building, the old courthouse would be razed, and they would donate the land. Marcus would’ve preferred a woodsy acreage elsewhere but the budget didn’t allow for such.
A major portion of the cost of the new construction was labor. Because in order to complete the project by the May deadline, he would have to triple his work force. And the first order of business? Demolish the old courthouse. But that’s what his cash reserves were for. And he was more than willing to fund that portion of the project.
He’d adjusted the bid accordingly, considering it a donation to the widows’ and children’s home, as well as his last chance to put brick and mortar to his dream.
Once they finished, Eleanor stood and arched her back, then rubbed her neck and shoulders. “You are a very thorough man, Marcus Geoffrey. Everything in such detail.” She moved back to the table where he’d laid the designs for the new building. “Aunt Adelicia said you shared these with her yesterday.”
Marcus joined her. “She requested that I bring them by. I think she was pleased.”
“Pleased?” Eleanor scoffed. “It’s all she could talk about this morning at breakfast. That, and how she wished you’d designed and built her new billiard hall. So yes, I’d say she was somewhat pleased.”
He smiled at the compliment. If Adelicia was on his side, the question of which building Eleanor would choose was all but answered.
He studied her profile as she looked at the design sketches again. If she had accepted Lawrence Hockley’s proposal, he felt certain she would have admitted as much the other night when she’d told him about the offer of marriage. But just in case . . .
“Eleanor, I—”
“What are these?” She tapped the page. “On this portion of the roof right here.”
He looked to where she pointed, then smiled, having wondered when she would ask. “Those, madam . . . are roof lanterns.”
A Beauty So Rare Page 38
