A Beauty So Rare

by Tamera Alexander

  She followed him back to stand before her father. Marcus placed the coffee on the table—beside a bag of peppermint sugar sticks—then held out his hand to her.

  It felt warm and sure around hers.

  “Theodore?” Marcus said quietly.

  Her father looked up, then glanced between the two of them.

  “I’d like you to meet a very dear friend of mine.” Marcus squeezed her hand. “Her name . . .”

  Eleanor braced for her father’s reaction. Lord, please, please . . .

  “. . . is Ellie.”

  Hearing that name from Marcus was nearly her undoing. Her father peered up, a frown forming, and she felt the air being siphoned from the room.

  Then he smiled, his brown eyes warm and caring. “Nice to meet you, Ellie.” He held out the bag of candy. “Care for a lemon drop?”

  42

  Marcus stood outside the old courthouse on Christmas Day, welcoming the women and children arriving for the noon dinner and doing his best to seem “of good cheer.”

  “Merry Christmas, Mr. Geoffrey!”

  “Frohe Weihnachten, Herr Geoffrey!”

  He returned their greetings, but since losing his mother and grandfather—and especially with Rutger so recently gone—he wasn’t particularly fond of this holiday. It only served to remind him that the family members he’d loved most were gone. And that the people he cared about so deeply now—he looked inside to see Eleanor greeting the new arrivals—would also soon be gone from his life.

  Still no word from his father or uncle, which concerned him, yet also gave him hope. The last mention in a newspaper had been a week ago, and included the words “continued unrest.” Surely if the situation in Austria were dire, his father would have found a way to get word to him.

  At least that’s what Marcus told himself in the absence of news.

  Even his communication with the baroness had fallen off. He hadn’t received a letter from her in nearly two weeks. But he wasn’t complaining on that count.

  Aromas of turkey and ham and other food both savory and sweet wafted toward him from inside, causing his mouth to water. Familiar strains of music drifted to him, but familiar only in the sense that he’d heard the music before on the streets. Not on any streets in Boston or New York, however. This sound was distinctly Nashville.

  Eleanor said she’d hired the former soldiers to play for the event after hearing them on the street herself. The group of men played the banjos and violin—or fiddle, as one man called it—as if the instruments were born to them. Although the tunes weren’t any Marcus recognized—and were far from those of Vienna’s own proud son, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart—they did have a certain charm, and a way of getting inside a person.

  He thought about Mayor Adler’s comment from months back and doubted, with this type of music so engrained among the people of this region, that Nashville would ever become the classical focal point of the country, as the mayor desired. If Marcus had to guess, this type of . . . Southern opera was what would take root and grow.

  Knowing that was in direct opposition to what Mayor Adler wanted, Marcus found himself tapping his foot and silently cheering the musicians along.

  “Frohe Weihnachten, Herr Geoffrey,” came a faint whisper.

  Marcus looked down to see a pair of big blue eyes peering up. “Little Magpie!” Her grin melted him, and he scooped the little girl up into his arms. His throat tightened when she hugged his neck.

  Marta, who had apparently escorted the girl there, smiled at the scene. “All the way from home she has talked of you. I think she is more excited about seeing you than even Sankt Nikolaus.”

  Marcus caught the teasing gleam in Marta’s eyes and knew that she and Eleanor had been speaking about events yet to come that evening. “Miss Braddock can be far too persuasive at times,” he said softly, mindful of the child in his arms and the others filing past into the building.

  Marta laughed. “But when she has so kind a heart, Herr Geoffrey, how can you say no?”

  If the woman only knew how true that is . . . He nodded, the ache of loneliness ticking up a notch. “How is her mother?” he mouthed, pointing to Maggie.

  “Elena and a midwife are with her now,” Marta whispered.

  Marcus gave her a questioning look.

  She nodded. “We’re hoping tonight. For Gretchen’s sake.”

  Marcus brushed a kiss to Maggie’s head before setting her down, adding the precious child to the list of people he would miss.

  Those arriving went on in, but he waited for a couple of minutes, watching for stragglers before joining everyone in the gathering room. He scanned the crowd. Had to be upwards of two hundred, at least.

  Midday sun streamed in the windows, and nearly fifty pots of red and white camellias from Adelicia’s conservatory dotted the room, giving it a festive touch. Eleanor and the women had worked from dawn till dusk for the past two weeks getting everything ready.

  After all their hard work, he hoped the celebration went just as they’d planned.

  Because the kitchen here, still boarded off, wasn’t nearly ready yet, the women had cooked the meal at Stover’s place, then brought it over in a wagon. But at least they had a spacious hearth.

  He’d modeled the fireplace in the main gathering area after an enormous one in the entry hall of the palace back home. Except instead of polished marble and a hand-carved mantel, he’d followed Eleanor’s guidelines of “homey, not fancy,” and had used Tennessee limestone and a roughhewn beam. He had to admit, it had turned out nicely. Had a warm, rustic charm to it, and the fire, blazing strong, heated the room well.

  He wasn’t surprised to find Eleanor in complete charge as she offered the welcome—in English and in German. She glanced at him, more than once, as she did, and he thought again of how tightly she’d held his hand that day in her father’s room. He would never forget sharing that moment with her.

  They’d spoken with Dr. Crawford about her father’s condition, and the physician offered little hope that Mr. Braddock would ever return to himself. But he’d also added that physicians still knew so little about how the mind worked.

  Marcus could tell Eleanor had taken hope in that statement. He only hoped she hadn’t taken too much.

  Mr. Stover led the prayer for the meal, and then the serving commenced. Considering the bounty of food on the tables and the gifts stuffed beneath the candle-lit Yule-tree, no child’s wish would go unmet today.

  Marcus stayed off to the side, waiting until everyone else had gone through the line. Then he saw Eleanor smiling at him.

  “It’s your turn, Mr. Geoffrey,” she mouthed.

  He cut a path through the rows of tables and benches his workers had brought from Stover’s building. Nearly everyone in the room had a seat because, unbeknownst to him until yesterday, a few of his men had gotten together after hours and made more tables and benches, donating the materials and their time. And judging from nearby laughter, the few children who congregated in circles on the floor didn’t seem to care that they didn’t have a place at the tables.

  Eleanor handed him a plate laden with foods he now loved as much as he did his favorites from home. Which reminded him of the strudel she’d made for him. Seven times. This woman . . .

  How he wished their paths in life had crossed before now. Before the Baroness Maria Elizabeth Albrecht von Haas, and before Lawrence Hockley.

  “It’s your turn, kind sir.” The smile in her eyes lessened a little. “Any news?” she whispered.

  Knowing what she referred to, he shook his head. “I went by both the post and telegraph offices before they closed. Nothing.”

  “I know you’re worried, Marcus. But . . . perhaps not hearing anything is good news.”

  He loved the way compassion lit her eyes when she truly cared about something. “Thank you, Eleanor. I had that very same thought earlier.”

  She made herself a plate, and they—along with Naomi and the others serving—claimed the last table and benches.
It was a tight squeeze for them all to fit, and Eleanor gave him a brief, almost apologetic, look when she sat much closer to him than she customarily would have.

  Marcus, on the other hand, wished they could start eating like this every night.

  Quiet conversation encircled the table as they ate, quieter than he would’ve guessed for such a festive occasion.

  Finally, Marta sighed, taking in the room. “It is good to have everyone together for this meal.”

  The women at the table nodded.

  “But it is still so difficult,” Marta continued, “to believe this building is going to be our home. That we will live in such a palace as this!”

  Marcus looked up, his conscience pricked.

  He’d spent most of his life never thinking twice about all he owned and all that his future as archduke guaranteed. How odd that now, after so many years of searching for happiness and fulfillment amidst such wealth and privilege, he would find the seed of it here—in a city devastated by war and loss, and among people who had so little, yet were grateful for so much.

  Never having been one to swoon over a man, Eleanor had difficulty accounting for the flush she felt when Marcus’s thigh brushed hers beneath the table. He seemed unaffected by it, while it was all she could do not to melt right then and there.

  Either that, or combust. And he smelled so good . . . like something woodsy with a hint of sunshine thrown in.

  She sneaked a look at him as he engaged in conversation around the table. He could talk to anyone, whether highborn, like her aunt and the ladies in the league, or more common, like her and the others in the room. Likely, his father’s career in government had facilitated that.

  All the women listened to him with rapt attention. All except Naomi, who had seemed distant in recent days. Eleanor was beginning to think it wasn’t due only to little Maggie staying with her at night. Perhaps she was concerned, as they all were, about Gretchen being in labor, but Eleanor had an inkling it was something more than that.

  Naomi had been upset when learning of her plans to marry Mr. Hockley and became even more so when Eleanor shared that the marriage would preclude her working with the home thereafter. Maybe that was contributing to her friend’s reticence.

  Eleanor looked at her forkful of whipped sweet potatoes, her father’s Christmas favorite, and thought of him.

  She’d been to see him yesterday, and like other recent visits, their conversation had been pleasant. No angry outburst, no tense moments. But also no recognition of her. Not even the slightest hint of fatherly affection in his gaze. And that made this time of year, when memories of her mother and Teddy pressed especially close, even lonelier.

  But she had so much for which to be thankful. It was far better to focus on that instead. Which is precisely what her father would have said to her, if he could still remember who she was.

  Marcus turned in her direction, the others at the table involved in quiet conversation. “Dinner was delicious,” he whispered. “Well done.”

  “Thank you. I’m glad you enjoyed it.” Why did his praise always mean a little bit more than that of others? “I’ve been meaning to ask you, have you planted the seedball yet?”

  “No. But don’t worry, I’m keeping it safe. I don’t want to plant it”—his voice lowered, his tone going sober—“until I know without question that I’ll be here to watch it grow. Which . . . I hope I will be.”

  She nodded, hoping the same thing. “Please let me know when you do plant it. I’d like to be there. To make certain you do it right, of course.”

  He smiled. “Of course.”

  “So”—she attempted a serious expression—“when are you submitting plans for the building you’re constructing next door?”

  His smile turned downright devilish, stoking her former flush into a flame. “As soon as you approve the roof lanterns I wanted to install in this building.”

  She laughed but felt a flicker of regret at having dashed his hopes in that regard. “I see you’ve boarded up the windows—so I can’t see inside, I assume.”

  “Very astute, madam.”

  After leveling the existing plank-wood building, his crew had laid a new foundation, then swiftly begun construction on a brick building that would boast oversized windows—if the boarded-up openings were any indication.

  “You wouldn’t, by any chance, be building a small conservatory, would you, Mr. Geoffrey?”

  His blue eyes warmed. “With brick walls, Miss Braddock? To inhibit the sunlight? And without a furnace system beneath the floor to warm the plants during the winter?” He tilted his head. “But that’s a very nice try.”

  She held back a laugh. “You’re not going to tell me, are you.”

  He just stared, his eyes saying no, while also enticing her to guess again. Which, on the grounds of pride alone, she refused to do.

  “Are you ready for what’s coming next?” she asked.

  He groaned. “Do you know how out of character this is for me?”

  “Do you know how much the children are going to love it?”

  He sighed, his expression inscrutable. “In the event I forget to tell you this later, Eleanor . . .” He looked around the room, then back at her. “It’s truly amazing what you’ve done here. The good you’re doing. I’m grateful to be a part of it.”

  “Thank you, Marcus. But I can’t take credit for this. I simply started out wanting to open a—”

  He reached over and gave her hand a brief squeeze. “I know what you started out wanting. But when that door closed, you said yes to those that followed. When most people wouldn’t have.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “I’m grateful for the opportunity.” She scanned the room. “Looking at how everything has come together, there’s no way I could have orchestrated this on my own. I had asked God to open a door. I just never, in a thousand lifetimes, would have imagined it to be this one. And I couldn’t be doing this without your help, Marcus. So thank you for all you’re doing as well.” She grinned. “Especially for what’s coming next.”

  His expression turning sheepish, and he shook his head.

  “Would you like dessert now or after?”

  “After. I’ll enjoy it more once this is over.”

  Still smiling, she excused herself to help serve dessert.

  As she ladled warm chocolate sauce over the bread pudding—a favorite of the children’s—she caught Naomi wiping away a tear.

  Eleanor leaned close. “Are you all right?” she whispered.

  Teary, her friend nodded and handed her another bowl of bread pudding. “I am fine, Miss Braddock,” she whispered. “I am missing my sweet Viktor. That is all. It is coming up on a year that he . . .” She bit her lower lip. “He was taken from us almost a year ago.”

  Seeing the pain lining Naomi’s expression, “I’m so sorry” was all Eleanor could manage to say. But that felt like too little. Naomi, a very private person—as many of these women were, she’d learned—had never mentioned her husband’s name before, or how he’d died.

  Aware of those waiting, Eleanor ladled the sauce and presented the bowl to the next child in line. But she glanced back at Naomi, telling her with a look that she was loved. And that they could talk more later.

  Eleanor didn’t recognize the next woman in line, nor the little boy with her. But she was certain the Negro woman—tall and slender, stately looking, with flawless skin and discerning eyes—hadn’t been to Mr. Stover’s building for a meal before. She would have remembered her. And her small son.

  “Welcome to you both, ma’am. I’m Eleanor Braddock, facilitator of the home we’re building here.”

  The woman dipped her head in greeting. “I’m Belle Birch, Miss Braddock. Mrs. Belle Birch. And this is my son, Elijah.”

  Hearing her speak, Eleanor felt an immediate and unexpected kinship with the woman. Her voice was deep, wonderfully so, and oak-tree strong. And her son, five or six years old at the most—a beautiful boy with skin a few shades lighter than his
mother’s—smiled up at her, his striking green eyes watchful and alert, and all but confirming the truth of his lineage. A disturbing truth. One that didn’t change Eleanor’s feeling about the child or his mother, but that she knew might affect others’ feelings toward them.

  The boy grinned when she handed him a bowl of bread pudding.

  “This is your first time with us, I believe, Mrs. Birch.” Did she imagine the flicker of uncertainty in the woman’s expression?

  Mrs. Birch nodded. “It is, Miss Braddock.”

  Eleanor held her gaze as she served her the pudding. “I’m so glad you’re here, Mrs. Birch. I hope you and your precious son will come again. Often.”

  Belle Birch smiled, an almost tangible understanding passing between them, and Eleanor felt the warmth of it in her chest.

  As the last few people were being served, excited squeals of children filled the room, and everyone’s attention was drawn to the door where Sankt Nikolaus himself stood—white-haired and bearded, clothed in the regal white robe of a bishop with a scarlet cloak draped behind him. In his left hand was a pastoral staff, and Eleanor had to blink twice to make sure it was Marcus.

  The transformation was remarkable. Rebecca Malloy had outdone herself with the costume she’d sewn. It was perfect. Even more, Marcus was perfect. The air about him, the regal quality, was remarkable. The man knew how to play a part.

  More squeals and laughter as Sankt Nikolaus moved among the children, visiting with them, asking some to say a verse, others to sing a song.

  Eleanor caught Marcus looking her way and laughed, shaking her head. Since the majority of children were German and the idea of Kris Kringle had originated in Germany, they’d decided to present Sankt Nikolaus at the celebration today. But in deference to American tradition—and at the request of some of the mothers—Marcus planned to read a poem well known to American children. Albeit a day late, in one respect.

  All the children—Eleanor had counted well over a hundred—gathered around him, and he motioned for them to be seated.

  “How wonderful it is to see everyone today,” he said, his voice lower than normal and slightly disguised. “Wie schön zu sehen, alle heute,” he repeated for the German children.