The weight of her response slowly settled over him, and Marcus gently released her arm. Monday night . . . He could scarcely make himself nod much less form a reply. That was after he’d kissed her in the library. And here he’d been thinking that . . . well, it didn’t much matter what he’d been thinking. He’d been a fool. Yet he’d been so certain that—
In a wave, a wash of memories—of voices—rushed over him. “I thought our evening together meant something, Gerhard . . .” “I waited to hear from you, Gerhard, but you never . . .”
Over and over the voices came, and the irony wasn’t lost on him.
Looking into Eleanor’s eyes, he felt as though a mirror were being held up before him, and he didn’t like what he saw—any more than she would, if she knew the truth about him.
Knowing he needed to say something, he reached for bravado that had seen him through more awkward situations than this one. But no matter his command, the familiar boldness wouldn’t come. And all he could do was lift her hand to his lips.
“May I offer my sincerest congratulations, Eleanor. Lawrence Hockley is, indeed, a most fortunate man.”
36
Seated directly opposite Lawrence Hockley in Belmont’s formal dining room, Eleanor looked across the table at her future, then down at her nearly full plate, finding neither appealing at the moment.
Following church that morning, Aunt Adelicia had invited Mr. Hockley to join them for lunch. Though Eleanor hated to admit it, every time she was with the man a knot formed in the pit of her stomach. She wished she could blame it on the afore-wedding dithers of a not-so-young bride to be. But she knew better and could scarcely wait for him to take his leave.
She hadn’t seen Marcus at church, and she’d looked for him. She was glad, in a way, that he’d asked about Mr. Hockley. It was easier with him knowing. Or at least, she had thought it would be.
Laughter from the children eating in the next room filtered through the closed doorway, making the already sedate mood at this table seem even more so.
“So how was your trip abroad this season, Mr. Hockley?” Aunt Adelicia glanced in Cordina’s direction, a subtle signal to begin plating dessert.
“Oh, much like the last ones. Hectic. Mostly business. I’ve seen all that London has to offer, what little there is, and have endured the grand tour thrice now. Personally, I don’t understand the affinity that some in our circle have for that continent.”
If Aunt Adelicia had been chewing something, Eleanor was certain she would have choked on it.
“But what about Italy, Mr. Hockley? Austria? France?” Her aunt’s eyes lit. “Surely the museums and cathedrals, the timeless works of art, appeal to a man of your culture and standing?”
Working to balance the very last pea on his fork, Mr. Hockley took his time to respond. “I have toured museums and cathedrals enough to last a lifetime. And as for timeless works of art . . .” He cast her a look. “You have seen my home, Mrs. Cheatham. And my office. I have little interest in such things. Except in rare cases, when one may purchase them with a measurable guarantee of return on his investment. But even then, there are surer ways to secure one’s financial future.”
Eleanor’s gaze swung from her aunt back to Mr. Hockley, who seemed completely oblivious to the silence in the room and the tight-lipped smile of his hostess. Even Dr. Cheatham, seated at the head of the table, seemed slightly taken aback by the man’s frankness.
The knot in Eleanor’s stomach cinched tighter.
Pound cake with fresh cream was served and eaten in relative silence. Eleanor took two bites of hers before the knot told her that wasn’t the wisest choice on her part. She set her fork aside.
“Come spring, Dr. and Mrs. Cheatham”—at Lawrence’s voice, all heads came up—“Miss Braddock and I will herald our pending nuptials, then be married in June. I have given some thought as to the date of the wedding, and also to the destination of our honeymoon, but haven’t yet made my decision. I will relay that information in ample time for plans to be set and announced accordingly. May I confirm that the wedding will take place here, as you have so generously offered, Mrs. Cheatham?”
Grateful she was sitting down, Eleanor blinked to make certain she wasn’t in some horrible dream. He’d stated his decree as though she wasn’t sitting in the chair directly across from him. Not only had he not spoken with her beforehand about any of the arrangements, he hadn’t so much as looked her way as he’d made the announcement.
She stared, watching him cut his cake into even little squares and then eat it in much the same way—in quick, efficient little bites. A flash of pain that she was certain showed in her expression suddenly registered, and she consciously unclenched her jaw, still working to hold in the emotion.
Feeling someone’s attention, she turned to see her aunt watching her.
“Yes,” Aunt Adelicia said quietly, an emotion passing across her face. A silent admonition, perhaps? Or maybe a warning? “That’s correct, Mr. Hockley. The wedding will be at Belmont.”
Eleanor bowed her head, feeling almost as if she were dying on the inside. In her mind, she pictured her father. She was doing this for him. And not only for him, but for the widows and children. But until the day she died . . .
She had a feeling she would die a little, day after day after day.
Later that night in the kitchen, Eleanor looked at the pitiful excuse for a strudel and didn’t know whether to laugh, or throw the dish across the room.
Baking usually helped her to breathe on the inside, to think more logically, see things more clearly. It was therapeutic. And she needed that tonight, of all nights. Because tomorrow she had to present her decision regarding the widows’ and children’s home to the Women’s League. And though she thought she knew, she still questioned which option would be best.
She knew what her aunt wanted. What Marcus wanted. Without question, she knew Mrs. Bennett’s desire. She knew what most of the women on the board preferred too. But what she didn’t know was . . .
What was the better choice? She frowned at the soupy mess in the dish. She apparently didn’t know how to make apple strudel either. Her second failed attempt. In one evening!
It was already past midnight, with Sunday put to bed and Monday stirring. She needed to admit defeat, clean up, and set the kitchen to rights for Cordina and the other cooks.
“Nothing is ever as good as your Mutter’s strudel.”
She let out a sigh, hearing Marcus’s voice even now. “That may be true, Herr Geoffrey,” she whispered aloud. “But I’m going to make a strudel as good as your Mutter’s if it kills me.”
“Lawd, ma’am, I tell ya. . . . You start talkin’ to yourself and it’s the beginnin’ of the end!”
Startled, Eleanor turned to see Cordina standing in the doorway. “Oh, Cordina, I’m so sorry.” Eleanor quickly situated herself in front of the strudels. She might not be a head cook or fancy chef, but she still had her pride. “I hope I didn’t wake you . . .”
“Lawd, no, Miss Braddock. Me and Eli, we got us a cabin out back. Just the two of us.” She smiled. “Eli, he got a hankerin’ for some iced lemonade, so that’s what I come for. How’s that fancy dessert you makin’ comin’ along?”
The woman tried to peer over Eleanor’s shoulder, but Eleanor again moved to block her view, which drew a chuckle from Cordina. And then from Eleanor too.
“I’m guessin’ it ain’t turnin’ out too well, ma’am.”
Eleanor slumped her shoulders. “Both attempts were disasters.” She stepped to one side.
“Mmm-hmm” was all Cordina said as she looked between the dishes. “Mind if I get a taste?”
Eleanor hesitated, then shook her head. “But you’ll need a spoon. I cut the apples too thin in this one.” She gestured. “Then too thick in the other. I tore holes in the dough as I was trying to stretch it. I mended them, then they promptly split open again as I tried to roll it up.”
Cordina tasted the first one. “A bit grainy, them a
pples, aren’t they?”
“A bit?” Eleanor rolled her eyes.
Chuckling again, Cordina tasted the second. “Soupy, but better.” Then she paused. “The dough on this one, it got . . . a little hard. Chewy.”
“That’s because I added more flour so the dough wouldn’t split in the stretching. It didn’t work.”
Cordina patted her shoulder. “Makin’ them fancy pastries takes time, and lots of doin’. You get it right, Miss Braddock. Give it time.”
Give it time. . . . Exactly what Nurse Smith had said about her father. But the way he’d looked at her . . . scared, angry. She didn’t think she’d ever forget that moment. “I appreciate that, Cordina. Thank you for letting me use your kitchen.”
“Anytime, Miss Braddock. Who you makin’ this for anyway, ma’am? Surely you ain’t tryin’ to bake somethin’ like this for all them women and children?”
“Oh, gracious no. I’m . . . making it for a friend. And I promise, I’ll clean everything up before I go to bed.”
“You want some help? I be happy to do it.”
“No, thank you. I’ll be fine. You take Eli his lemonade and get some rest.”
“All right, then. Good night, ma’am.”
Eleanor scraped both strudels into the scrap bucket, feeling sorry for whatever animal would have to eat it, then proceeded to clean and wipe down tabletops.
Nearly an hour later, bone weary and with nothing to show for her effort, she crawled into bed. She started out on her left side but couldn’t get comfortable, so turned onto her right.
She didn’t even know Lawrence Hockley’s favorite dessert. Nor did she really even care to. She turned onto her back and stared up at the ceiling, her lack of feeling for the man gnawing at her. Lord, I don’t think I can do this.
Tears slid from the corners of her eyes, and she reminded herself, yet again, of how fortunate she was. Especially when she compared her situation to that of the widows she helped.
She blotted tears from her temples and turned onto her side again, images circulating through her mind—of unsightly strudels, lovely coral roses, and of a building unlike any she’d ever seen. And her prayer was a simple one. Lord, show me what’s best.
She cradled the pillow against her cheek, and finally, finally sleep claimed her.
As her eyes drifted shut, she felt a featherlight kiss on her forehead, then heard a distant, familiar, yet no longer feeble voice. “I love you, Eleanor.” Part of her knew she was dreaming, while another part clung to the hope that she wasn’t.
And she whispered back, “I love you too, Papa.”
Books in hand, Marcus looked first in the garden at the asylum but didn’t see anyone. Not surprising. It was a chilly morning. He walked around to the front entrance and knocked, knowing from experience the door would be locked.
A moment later an orderly appeared and opened it. “Mr. Geoffrey, good to see you again, sir.” He motioned Marcus inside. “Are you here to see Dr. Crawford?”
“No. Actually I’m . . . here to visit a friend. Mr. Theodore Braddock.”
A shadowed crossed the man’s face. Marcus started to explain how he and Theodore had become acquainted, but the orderly turned away.
“I’ll accompany you to his room.”
Marcus followed, somewhat familiar with the layout of the building from his meetings with Dr. Crawford. He trailed the gentleman’s path up the stairwell and down a hallway, the sound of their footfalls hollow on the tile and the scent of antiseptic heavy in the air.
Something about that smell had always put his senses on alert. The reminder of its purpose, perhaps—to prevent decay, to oppose the natural order of things. Just as fall, with its beauty, had brought brilliant color to trees and shrubs otherwise mutely green, it had also thieved the vibrancy of summer. Death, decay, was part of life. He’d been introduced to that truth as a young boy, then had learned it anew as a grown man.
But it hadn’t made it any easier to accept.
He checked his pocket watch. A little after nine thirty. He had less than an hour for his visit. The board of the women’s league convened at eleven to hear Eleanor’s decision. He was invited, of course, and wouldn’t miss it. He’d sent the financial reports to Belmont via courier Tuesday morning, as Eleanor had requested.
Lying awake last night, waiting for sleep to come, he’d replayed the scene in his mind from the garden Saturday afternoon. She was marrying Lawrence Hockley. She’d confirmed it. So why was it still so hard for him to accept?
In thinking about the upcoming meeting, he’d tried to calculate the odds of her choosing the old courthouse versus his design. Without question, the majority of the women’s league wanted the new construction, including Adelicia. And Eleanor knew how much a new construction project meant to him. Yet Marcus also knew she wasn’t a woman easily swayed by sentiment. Something he’d admired about her from the outset. Now, however, that attribute might not play in his favor.
The orderly paused. “This is Mr. Braddock’s room, Mr. Geoffrey. Have you . . . visited with him recently, sir?”
“A little over a week ago. I meant to return earlier, but with work and other responsibilities . . .”
“I understand, sir. But you need to be aware that the disease is progressing rather rapidly.”
He stared. “The disease.”
“That’s impacting his memory.”
Marcus nodded, the news of failing memory not coming as a shock. But the term rapidly gave him pause, especially as he thought of Eleanor. “I see.”
“He’s having increasing difficulty remembering people, sir. And even when he does remember, it can trigger an emotional and sometimes violent reaction.”
Marcus recalled the times Theodore had grown frustrated with him. He’d seen firsthand how the man’s mood could alter without warning. “I understand and will tread carefully.”
Hand on the latch, Marcus couldn’t deny he was a little nervous, wondering if his visit would help or harm. And also wondering what Eleanor would think if she knew he was visiting her father. But a promise was a promise. . . .
He pushed open the door and saw her father standing by the window, one hand pressed flat against the glass pane.
“Theodore?” Marcus said quietly, finding it difficult to use the man’s given name now that he knew who he was.
Mr. Braddock didn’t turn. Didn’t move. Simply stared out the window as though in a trance.
Mindful of the orderly’s warning and remembering the strength of the man’s grip, Marcus chanced a step closer. “Theodore . . . I’m returning your book.”
Still nothing.
Finally, Marcus cleared his throat and spoke in full voice. “Excuse me, sir, but I’m returning your copy of Tennyson.”
As though the spell had been broken, Mr. Braddock slowly turned, blinked. His gaze went first to the books Marcus held, then to Marcus himself.
Mr. Braddock’s countenance crumpled with emotion. “I knew you would come,” he whispered. “She thinks you stole my book, I can tell. But I knew you didn’t.” His face split into a grin. “Because I know you.” In three long strides, he brooked the distance between them and gripped Marcus by the hand. “How are you, Marcus!”
So much for lapses in the man’s memory. “I’m well, sir. And how are you?”
Mr. Braddock frowned. “What is this sir business? We are friends, you and I. Are we not?”
“Of course we are . . . Theodore.”
“Come, come . . .” Mr. Braddock motioned. “Sit and let us speak to one another.”
The older man reached for his book, and Marcus surrendered it.
Mr. Braddock held the volume tenderly, then pressed it to his chest, closing his eyes. “Welcome home, my dear, old friend.” In a quick turn, his eyes popped open. “Did you read it?”
Smiling, Marcus held out one of the other two books he’d brought. “I have that exact volume in my collection. I know many of the poems by heart.”
Mr. Braddock’s eyes
lit with challenge. “ ‘Come, my friends,’ ” he said in a deeply resonant voice. “ ‘’Tis not too late to seek a newer world. . . .’ ”
Marcus leaned forward in his chair. “ ‘Push off, and sitting well in order, smite the sounding furrows, for my purpose holds . . . ’ ”
“ ‘To sail beyond the sunset’ ”—Mr. Braddock jumped in, his expression softening, as did his voice—“ ‘and the baths of all the western stars . . . until I die,’ ” he finished in a whisper.
Marcus applauded. “Well done, Theodore.”
The man took a mock bow from his chair. “Now you take a turn!”
Marcus didn’t have to think long. “ ‘Half a league, half a league, half a league onward . . .’”
“Mmmm . . .” Mr. Braddock’s eyes glistened. “ ‘All in the valley of Death rode the six hundred. Forward, the Light Brigade!’ ” his rich baritone boomed.
“ ‘Was there a man dismayed?’ ” Marcus quoted, seeing his grandfather’s face even as he watched Mr. Braddock.
“ ‘Not though the soldier knew someone had blundered.’ ” Mr. Braddock raised a forefinger in feigned warning. “ ‘Theirs not to make reply . . .’”
“ ‘Theirs not to reason why,’ ” Marcus said.
“ ‘Theirs but to do . . . and die.’ ”
“ ‘Into the valley of Death rode the six hundred,’ ” they finished in unison.
Mr. Braddock clapped, his laughter full and deep. “Oh, how I miss that. My son, Teddy, and I used to read verse together.” Eyebrows shooting up, he glanced toward the door. “He was here just a while earlier. You might have seen him on his way out?”
Marcus stared, then shook his head.
“Ah, well . . . perhaps next time.”
Marcus listened as the man spoke about his son, remembering only too well Eleanor telling him that her brother—her only brother—had died in the war.
A Beauty So Rare Page 40
