A Beauty So Rare

by Tamera Alexander

  “He’s such a good boy, Marcus. A fine young man. Kind, generous. I couldn’t ask for a better son.”

  “I’m certain, Theodore, that your son . . . feels the same about you.”

  Marcus’s thoughts turned to his father’s recent letter, and he wished he hadn’t relayed to the baroness what he was doing in Nashville. Because she’d gone directly to his father. Marcus had read the letter several times. Especially his father’s closing paragraph. Words that, he knew, were intended as royal counsel. When in reality, each was a knife gouging a lifetime’s old wound.

  In closing, your absence has served the crown well, Gerhard. The unfortunate incident of last summer has been all but erased from the people’s minds. But take heed . . . You must be done with the foolishness about which the baroness informed me. Your mother, God rest her soul, indulged your childhood fantasies. As did her father. And they did so to your detriment. Upon your return, you will wed, then assume your new commission with the royal army. I am yet determined to see you become the son I still believe you can be.

  Never once in his letters had his father said that he missed him. But truthfully, it had been a long, long time since Marcus had missed his father. It was hard to miss someone who constantly reminded you that you weren’t what they wanted you to be.

  And when he compared his father’s comments—and their relationship—to the praise, so heartfelt and tender, from Mr. Braddock for his deceased son, he was cut to the quick.

  Sadness shadowed Mr. Braddock’s slow-coming smile. “I only wish Teddy came to visit more often than he does. But . . . that woman is to blame. I know she is.” His pleasant countenance faded. “She tells him not to come. Keeps him away from me. She’s selfish that way.”

  “That woman?” Marcus asked gently, aware of the man’s change in mood.

  “The tall one. The one that put me in here.” Mr. Braddock leaned closer, his gaze conspiratorial. “She comes sometimes,” he whispered. “Creates trouble. Tries to take me outside when it’s not time, takes my things when she thinks I’m not looking. She thinks you stole my book, you know. But don’t you worry, no one here thinks you did. I’ve told them about her.” He gave an assuring look. “They know the truth.”

  Marcus nodded, not so much in agreement as to avoid a potential conflict. It didn’t take any guessing to know who Mr. Braddock was referring to. What he couldn’t reconcile was the woman he knew with the woman the older man described.

  A knock sounded on the door, and a nurse entered, tray in hand. “Good morning, Theodore. I’ve got your medication.” She paused. “Mr. Geoffrey! How nice to see you again, sir.”

  Marcus rose from his chair, not remembering having met the woman. “Good morning, madam.”

  She smiled. “My apologies, Mr. Geoffrey, for assuming an acquaintance. We haven’t been introduced before, sir. I’m Nurse Smith. But I—along with everyone else here—am so grateful for the work you and your men did on the garden. It’s making such a difference in the lives of the patients. And the employees.”

  “It was our pleasure, madam. But we merely designed and installed it. It was Mrs. Adelicia Cheatham who commissioned it.” He gestured to Mr. Braddock. “And I couldn’t have done it without my faithful friend here. Theodore assisted me in installing the statue.”

  “It’s quite true.” Mr. Braddock nodded. “I did.”

  Nurse Smith grinned. “Well, I’m grateful to you both, then.” She set the tray on a table. “Now, Theodore, it’s almost time for lunch, which means you need to take your next medications.”

  Lunch? Marcus pulled out his pocket watch. Five after eleven? The meeting! It had already started.

  He took hold of Mr. Braddock’s hand. “Theodore, I have thoroughly enjoyed our time together. But I’m sorry . . . I must take my leave. I’m late for an appointment.”

  “You have to go?” The man’s face fell. “Now?”

  “I do.” Marcus knelt beside Mr. Braddock’s chair. “But I will be back. I promise.”

  Mr. Braddock looked at him as though weighing whether to believe him or not. Then finally, he nodded. “I know you will.” He held up the book. “Because you keep your promises.”

  “Yes, I do. Speaking of which . . .” He held out the third book he’d brought, one he’d ordered through the mercantile, his own copy being in German. “It’s a favorite of mine. And a gift for you, if you’d like to read it.”

  Mr. Braddock took the book, gently lifted the cover, and drew in a breath. “ ‘Nor, what may count itself as blest . . . the heart that never plighted troth. But stagnates in the weeds of sloth, nor any want-begotten rest.’ ” He looked at Marcus, hopeful.

  Feeling the seconds tick past, Marcus smiled. “ ‘I hold it true, whate’er befall. I feel it, when I sorrow most.’ ” The next verse in the stanza had gained new meaning in recent weeks—painfully so—even as her face came clearly in his mind. “ ‘’Tis better to have loved and lost . . . than never to have loved at all.’ ”

  Mr. Braddock’s eyes filled. “Truer words never penned,” he whispered. “But oh . . . how cruel when made to live out day by day.”

  Marcus reached over and gripped his hand. “Until next time . . . Mr. Braddock.”

  The older man’s smile trembled. “Until next time . . . my young friend.”

  Faithful to the thoroughbred heritage pumping through the horse’s veins, Regal thundered over the dusty roads to town, and Marcus gave the animal its head. The horse’s hooves seemed to barely graze the earth as the miles disappeared behind them.

  Upon reaching the outskirts of town, Marcus slowed the horse to a canter, then reined in sharply in front of the league building, sending rocks and pebbles flying.

  Breath coming heavy, Marcus checked the time. Almost a quarter ’til twelve. He grimaced. He’d wanted to hear the announcement himself, instead of being told.

  He reached the door and heard a flurry of conversation coming from the other side. The meeting was already over. Sighing, he knocked twice for the sake of politeness, then walked in.

  The first face he saw from across the room was Mrs. Bennett’s, and judging by her teary countenance, he knew which choice Eleanor had made.

  37

  She had chosen to build. Marcus felt a weight lift from his shoulders that he hadn’t even known was there. Time slowed to a crawl as he looked about the room.

  Although he regretted Mrs. Bennett’s disappointment and understood her and her husband’s attachment to the old courthouse, he couldn’t deny his own sense of exhilaration. It was finally happening. A building constructed with the goal of blending nature and architectural design. His design. Something accomplished on his own. Without the Habsburg name or influence.

  His father and uncle would scoff. Such petty nonsense to them. Because why would the man second in line to the throne of the Hungarian-Austrian Empire want to embark on such an inconsequential undertaking? But it wasn’t inconsequential. Not to him. Not to Eleanor. And certainly not to the women and children she was helping.

  They were helping.

  Several of the league board members glanced in Marcus’s direction, then quickly averted their gazes. Understandable, considering the circumstances. Now wasn’t the time to celebrate. They were hurting for their friend.

  Eleanor, apparently not having seen him yet, approached Mrs. Bennett and whispered something to her. The woman bowed her head and nodded.

  As the pair embraced, Marcus made his way toward them, nodding to some of the other ladies. He wanted to express his gratitude to Mrs. Bennett and her husband for the land, to assure her he would build something worthy of their generosity. He even planned on salvaging what stair rails and mantels were serviceable and then incorporating them into the new building in honor of the woman’s late father-in-law.

  He didn’t like to think about his life after leaving America. Just like he didn’t want to think about Eleanor being with Lawrence Hockley—or any other man, for that matter. Yet she would marry. As would he. But
in the time he had remaining in Nashville, he planned to do everything he could to build the best widows’ and children’s home for her that he could. And with a kitchen beyond the woman’s wildest imagination, which was well within his power.

  Eleanor patted the woman’s shoulder, then looked up. Her gaze connected with his. Her expression was joyful, and Marcus responded in kind. Then—in a blink—her smile fell away. Her hands, formerly at her sides, were now knotted at her waist. And in the swing of a pendulum, the mood in the room shifted. Or more rightly, came into clearer focus for him. And he realized . . .

  The women weren’t seeking to console Mrs. Bennett. They were celebrating with her.

  Eleanor closed the drawing room door behind her, knowing she was responsible for Marcus’s disappointment. Yet also knowing there was nothing she could do to change it.

  Marcus stood before the cold, unlit hearth, his back to her.

  A single oil lamp illuminated the room, the shadows in the corners in no danger of being overtaken. Muffled conversation and laughter from the women outside in the hallway drifted into the room, forming a dissonant backdrop for this conversation. But this was the only place Eleanor could find where they could speak privately.

  “Marcus, I want you to know that I—”

  “You made your decision, Eleanor. And I respect that.”

  He turned, that confident expression she knew so well back in place. But for a moment, outside, she’d seen what constructing the new building had truly meant to him. She’d thought she understood. But she hadn’t. How much more difficult would her decision have been if she had.

  “My crews are ready to begin immediately. So tomorrow morning we’ll start early, and—”

  “Marcus,” she said softly. “Please, can we talk about this?”

  “Certainly, if you’d like. But . . . what else is there to talk about?”

  His voice—though even-toned and friendly—didn’t sound like him.

  “Well, for instance, all the reasons I outlined at the meeting earlier supporting my decision to renovate instead of build. A meeting I thought you were planning to attend.”

  “I was. But . . . I was delayed.”

  “We waited for ten minutes before we finally commenced.”

  He looked at her. “I’m sorry, Eleanor. As I said . . . I was delayed.”

  She heard a definite abruptness in his tone, so moved on. “Would you like to know my reasons for renovating?”

  “Honestly?”

  He smiled but it wasn’t the easy gesture she was accustomed to. Still, she nodded.

  “No. I wouldn’t. Because right now, in this moment, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is the decision you made.”

  The glimmer of hurt and disappointment she’d seen before returned, and he looked away.

  “Would it help, Marcus, to know I believe, with all my heart, that this is the decision God was leading me to make?”

  His smile was disarmingly handsome, yet without a trace of humor in it. “Actually, no,” he said quietly. “That’s the one thing you could say to me now that would make this choice even more difficult to accept.”

  38

  These three ladies have my full authority to sign on the mercantile account, Mr. Mulholland.” Eleanor glanced at Naomi, Marta, and Elena, who all looked lovely in their new dresses sewn by Mrs. Malloy—to whom she owed another payment for services well rendered. “I couldn’t manage without them. And now that we’ve begun renovations on the old courthouse, I’m depending on them even more.”

  Mr. Mulholland printed each of the women’s names in the ledger, then turned the book around to face them. “If you three ladies will sign your names right here”—he pointed—“then everything will be in order.”

  Each of the women signed, seeming to stand a bit taller as they did.

  Outside on the street, Eleanor thanked each of them again. “I couldn’t do this without the three of you. I hope you know that.”

  Marta beamed. “When can we see the building again, Miss Braddock?”

  “Is the work going well?” Elena asked.

  Eleanor glanced down the street in the direction of the old courthouse. Many of the widows and children had been inside as far as the main floor lobby to view the building before the renovation began two weeks ago. Since then, Marcus had declared it unsafe for women and children.

  She wondered if he’d intended for that formal edict to include her too, and simply hadn’t admitted as much. She knew that her decision had hurt him, but since the night of the meeting, he’d acted nothing less than the perfect gentleman. And that was the problem. . . .

  He was acting. He wasn’t being the friend she hoped he still was—and needed him to be.

  “Yesterday, when I was there, Mr. Geoffrey said he and his men are making good progress. He also said that if they can maintain this pace over the next five weeks, then”—Eleanor offered a cautiously optimistic smile—“we might be able to host Christmas dinner there together, instead of eating in shifts like we’re doing now, and like we’ll do next week for Thanksgiving.”

  “Oh . . .” Elena beamed. “Christmas together would be wunderbar. We could decorate a Yule-tree, ja? And maybe Christkindl would bring gifts for the children.”

  Marta nodded. “It is a hard time of year for so many.” She cast a glance at Naomi, her own smile lessening. “Even more for some.”

  Naomi lowered her eyes, but not before Eleanor caught the look the three women exchanged. Naomi had been especially quiet in recent days, but Eleanor had attributed her silence to fatigue and to the long hours they’d both been working. Since the newspaper reported the renovation of the old courthouse, word about the meals—and the home—had spread, and each night dinner was served, more widows and children showed up. Naomi was helping her implement a procedure in which all the names and birthdays of every woman and child were recorded, along with their specific needs.

  But Eleanor wondered now if her friend’s silence was due to something else.

  “We are going to meet our daughters at Mr. Stover’s building, Miss Braddock,” Marta offered. “And will start dinner for tonight. But first, we will stop to see Gretchen. Three weeks until her baby comes, but already she has pain.”

  “Does she need a doctor?” Eleanor asked, alarmed. “There’s a physician in town who has cared for some of the women and children.”

  Elena shook her head. “She needs rest, ma’am. But she must keep working.”

  “Because if she doesn’t work,” Eleanor continued, having heard the same words from so many of the widows, “she can’t afford to pay rent. And she has not only herself to think about, and the baby, but precious Maggie as well.”

  “Naomi has been caring for the little girl at night.” Elena ducked her head when Naomi threw her a look.

  “Is that true?” Eleanor glanced beside her.

  “She is no trouble, Miss Braddock,” Naomi said softly. “She is a sweet child. And follows Caleb around like a little duckling. But . . . sometimes at night she has trouble sleeping. She is afraid.”

  “Afraid of what?” Eleanor asked.

  “Of being left alone. Bad dreams come and bring thoughts of her mother dying . . . like her father did.”

  Well able to imagine the child’s fear of losing a remaining parent, especially at so young an age, Eleanor hurt for Maggie all the more.

  The wind gusted, and Eleanor tugged the front of her coat closed. “Naomi and I will join you shortly. We need to pay Mrs. Malloy a visit to pick up another order of dresses, then stop by the bakery for any day-old bread Mr. Fitch may have. But we’ll be there as soon as we can.”

  Marta and Elena linked arms, as was the custom among the German women, and headed down the street. Eleanor and Naomi continued on to the dress shop, which wasn’t far from the old courthouse.

  Fall was already giving way to winter, and though she customarily looked forward to the change in seasons, she worried about how these dear women and their children would k
eep warm.

  Earlier in the week, she’d been to see her father but hadn’t gone any farther than the doorway of his room. He hadn’t even seen her. He’d been standing at the window, hand pressed against the pane when Nurse Smith had come along quietly beside her. “It’s not been a good day today, Miss Braddock,” she’d whispered. “You might wish to come back later this week.”

  Sometimes Eleanor wondered if there would ever again be good days for her father.

  She sneaked glances at Naomi walking beside her. “What they said about Maggie . . . Is that why you’ve been so tired lately?”

  “It is no bother, Miss Braddock. You know how dear our Maggie is.”

  Eleanor nodded. “Perhaps . . . if you think she would, she could stay with me for a night or two. Or more, if that would help.”

  Naomi smiled. “You are a kind woman, Miss Braddock. But I believe Caleb and I can—”

  Naomi’s pace slowed, and a wary look came over her. Eleanor turned to see what she was staring at . . . and felt as though she’d tripped headlong from one world into another.

  “Good day to you, Miss Braddock!”

  Tongue-tied, it took Eleanor a moment to react. “Mr. Hockley! W-what a surprise to see you.” Realizing that wasn’t the warmest of welcomes, she tried again. “How are you today?”

  “I am quite well, Miss Braddock. And you?”

  “I am quite well also, thank you.” If only she could breathe past the knotted tangle at her midsection. She’d had dinner with him twice in as many weeks, but to see him out and about in the world—in her world—was jarring.

  Remembering her manners, she made introductions, grateful when he tipped his hat to Naomi.

  “Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Lebenstein.”

  “You as well, Mr. Hockley.”

  Eleanor didn’t miss Naomi’s quizzical look. “Mrs. Lebenstein is not only a co-worker, Mr. Hockley, she’s also a dear friend. She’s been most instrumental in coordinating the meals for the widows and children. I couldn’t be facilitating this without her.”