A Beauty So Rare

by Tamera Alexander

  The door opened, and Eleanor started to rise. Then she saw it was Mrs. Routh, not the men, and settled back.

  The housekeeper stepped inside and closed the door behind her. “Mrs. Cheatham,” she whispered, then glanced at Eleanor. “Mr. Geoffrey is here, ma’am. For . . . Miss Braddock.”

  Eleanor shot a look at her aunt, determined to keep her none the wiser about what had happened Christmas Day. She didn’t need Aunt Adelicia telling her “I told you so,” and certainly didn’t welcome her silent scolding. Or her pity, which would be even worse.

  “Mrs. Routh,” she began, trying not to imagine Marcus standing on the other side of the wall, just feet away. “Please tell Mr. Geoffrey I’m not available for guests at this time.”

  Mrs. Routh, usually a stickler for decorum, hesitated, and Eleanor felt her precariously stacked house of cards about to crumble.

  “But . . . Miss Braddock, this is the third time he’s called on you in as many days.”

  From her peripheral vision, Eleanor saw her aunt look her way and briefly closed her eyes. “Eleanor, my dear, what if it’s about the home? The renovation? You need to—”

  “It’s not about the renovation, Aunt.”

  “But how do you—”

  “Because I know,” Eleanor said, turning to her.

  Just as she’d predicted, understanding filtered into her aunt’s expression, followed by a look that made the words “I told you so” seem almost syrupy sweet.

  But it was the nearly imperceptible shake of her aunt’s head that stung Eleanor most.

  Mrs. Routh nodded and left the room, closing the door behind her.

  The noise of the carpenters next door nearly drowned out the opening and closing of the front door, and Eleanor forced herself not to look toward the front window.

  Then, counting the seconds, she waited . . . and waited for it to come. Though not for the ticktock of the clock this time.

  “I see you have discovered I was correct,” Aunt Adelicia said softly.

  Fifty-two seconds. Eleanor nearly smiled. She’d wagered under a minute. “I would rather not discuss it. Please, Aunt Adelicia.”

  “Wisdom always comes at—”

  “A price. Yes, I know, Aunt. But please . . . suffice it to say I have paid the price in full this time, and”—she took a needed breath—“I am all the wiser for it.”

  Swallowing back tears, Eleanor knew she could never explain the course of events to her aunt. It had taken her three days to sort out her own feelings. Learning Marcus was engaged wasn’t what bothered her most. She hadn’t lost her man. He’d never been hers, in that way, to lose.

  Although, she had to admit, it hadn’t felt good learning about his engagement in such a way.

  It was more that she’d thought she’d known him. And that he’d known her. That they were friends. Good friends. Dear friends.

  Archduke of the House of Habsburg. Part of her was still inclined to laugh, while the greater part couldn’t.

  She and Naomi had agreed not to tell anyone what had happened. It was best for the sake of the renovation of the home if things continued as they had, at least until the project was completed. If word got out that Marcus was an archduke, it would create a spectacle and shift the focus from where it needed to remain—on helping the widows and children.

  Naomi assured her that Caleb could keep a secret, and Eleanor had no reason to doubt that.

  Eleanor again pictured herself standing before the baroness in that filthy apron, and her face heated with shame as she relived the scene. She’d felt so out of place and more than a little foolish. But what had wounded her most was that she’d felt so very, very common, and plain by comparison.

  Not only to Marcus’s fiancée, but to him. In every way.

  It had felt like looking at herself through the eyes of Dr. Adonis all over again. And she was certain she’d read the same—was it contempt?—in Marcus’s eyes.

  The door opened, and this time it was Dr. Cheatham and Lawrence. Eleanor rose, feeling the knot within her twist a little tighter.

  “We have finished our negotiations,” Lawrence announced. “And they are quite amiable for all involved. But especially . . . for me.” He laughed as if he’d told a joke, though no one else did. “The only detail you need trouble yourself with, Miss Braddock, is that I have decided we will formally announce our engagement in April, one month earlier than planned. All other necessities, you may rest assured, are under my control.”

  As they walked around the corner to the front entrance hall, Eleanor caught the swift but severe look Aunt Adelicia gave Dr. Cheatham. But it was the raised eyebrow he directed back to her aunt that most earned Eleanor’s curiosity. Yet when it came to saying good-byes, the couple was all smiles and graciousness.

  Eleanor accompanied Lawrence outside and down the steps, welcoming the cold and chill. As his carriage drove away, she pulled the air into her lungs, then expelled it—in and out, in and out—until her lungs burned. Perhaps marrying someone you weren’t in love with wasn’t all bad. . . .

  She thought of Naomi and Rebecca, and so many other widows who still mourned their men. Men they’d loved. Still loved, even in death.

  Eleanor pulled her shawl closer about her shoulders. If the loss she felt over Marcus hurt—and it did—she couldn’t imagine the pain of losing a man you’d shared your heart, life, body, and soul with. Her breath puffed white about her face as she watched the carriage maneuver the final curve. Yes, maybe this arrangement was for the best, after all.

  Turning to go back inside, movement down the hill, near the conservatory, drew her attention, and as soon as she looked, she knew she shouldn’t have.

  Marcus. Standing there. Watching her.

  She retraced her steps to the front porch, feeling his gaze on her back. She needed to talk to him, and would. Eventually. It would be easy enough, after their conversation, to limit their time together. She simply wouldn’t go to the home as frequently. She opened the front door and stepped inside.

  Then come summer, the renovation would be done, Marcus would be gone, and she would be married. As would he, apparently. It was quite simple, really. Although, at the moment it felt anything but.

  She turned to close the door behind her—Do not look back at him. Do not look back—and, head bowed, gave it a firm push.

  The next evening brought gray skies and spitting snow, and Eleanor, along with Naomi and the others, hurried to put finishing touches on the corn chowder, stewed cinnamon apples, and corn bread.

  After hosting the Christmas dinner in the new home, its gathering area so large and spacious, the front room in Mr. Stover’s building felt especially cramped. But it would do—it would have to—until May. As Marcus had said early on, “children and construction do not mix.”

  Marcus . . . The more she determined not to think about him, the more she did.

  Naomi set the crock of butter on the end of the serving table. “Have you spoken to him yet?” she whispered.

  Eleanor shook her head. “He’s tried, but . . .” She shrugged, a little embarrassed.

  It had been awkward enough explaining their friendship to Naomi that day in the dress shop, when she’d told her about Lawrence Hockley. Eleanor had sensed then, and still did, that Naomi knew her feelings for Marcus stretched beyond friendship. And knowing who Marcus really was made his friendship with someone like her seem even more unlikely. Almost like charity, in a sense, and she hated feeling that way.

  Naomi looked as though she might say something else, but she didn’t.

  Eleanor gave each of the seven pots of corn chowder a last stir and tasting, then added salt to them all. Earlier that morning, she’d discreetly borrowed a book about European history from Aunt Adelicia’s library. The House of Habsburg had a colorful, and tragic, past. As much as she tried to imagine the Marcus she knew coming from that lineage, she couldn’t. He seemed so different.

  She returned her attention to the present and, noticing the crowd of peopl
e gathered outside, opened the doors. The snow was falling harder, and she and Naomi encouraged the women and children to come inside.

  “Please fill up the benches first,” Eleanor instructed. Naomi repeated the instructions in German. “When those are full, please find seats on the floor. Those of you who can climb stairs, go on up to the second floor and have a seat in one of the empty rooms. You’ll be served dinner just like everyone else. No one will go away hungry.”

  When Eleanor said the last phrase, she glanced over at Naomi to find her smiling. Prayerfully, their days of watering down soup to next to nothing were over.

  To Eleanor’s delight, she looked up to see Belle Birch and her son, Elijah, walk through the doorway. She directed them to a table near the front window. With every face she met, Eleanor half expected to look up and see Marcus standing there, smiling like he always did. But he wasn’t there.

  And neither was Mr. Stover, which was odd. He rarely missed a night.

  Even filling the building to capacity, Eleanor knew there wouldn’t be enough room. At least four dozen women and children would have to wait outside while the first shift ate. The group was accustomed to this routine, but not in the freezing snow.

  “We’ll serve these people quickly and then get you right in,” she assured.

  She shut the door, but no sooner had the latch clicked, than an elderly woman began beating on the window. “Let us in! It ain’t right those of us from round here got to wait outside while them that are foreign—”

  Eleanor opened the door and grabbed the scrappy little woman’s arm, fearing the woman would break Mr. Stover’s window and slice her arm to ribbons.

  “Madam!” Eleanor stood a good foot taller and used every inch of it to intimidate. “You will refrain from beating the window.”

  The woman yanked her arm back. “We ought to get to come in first, instead of them—”

  “Every widow in this city, along with her children, is welcome within these walls. No matter what country they’re from, what language they speak, or what color their skin. But you will wait your turn, or I will ask you to leave.”

  “You young ones,” the elderly woman snapped, “so high and mighty. Thinkin’ just ’cuz I’m poor and up in years that I’m good for nothin’. Well, I can tell you . . .”

  Then it dawned on Eleanor who the woman was. That day . . . so long ago. Standing outside the textile mill. Eleanor opened her mouth to respond when a voice came from behind.

  “Miss Berta?”

  The little woman fell silent, and Eleanor turned to see Caleb. She glanced beyond him to where Naomi stood watching with a puzzled look on her face.

  “Miss Berta.” Caleb stepped forward. “You can have my place, ma’am. I will wait.”

  Certain the older woman would throw the offer back in Caleb’s face, Eleanor was shocked when Berta’s wizened countenance softened.

  “Well . . .” Berta blew out a breath. “Finally, a young man who’s got some manners. Even if you do talk funny!”

  Eleanor gritted her teeth as Caleb showed the woman to her seat, then took his place outside with the others.

  “Thank you, Caleb,” she whispered.

  He just smiled and shrugged. “Someone did something nice for me not long ago, and I will never forget it.”

  Eleanor closed the door, hoping Berta would never forget it either.

  The meal of corn chowder, stewed cinnamon apples, and corn bread was served and consumed quickly, and the next group was ushered in.

  A while later, as they hurried to clean up, the snow coming down harder, the heavy footfall of boots sounded in the front room, and Eleanor paused in her drying to peer around the corner.

  “Hello the kitchen!” Mr. Stover sang out, his cheeks rosy from the cold, his eyes even brighter than usual.

  “Good evening, Mr. Stover.” Naomi gestured. “We saved you dinner, sir. If you are hungry.”

  “Oh, I’m always hungry. But first things first.” He slapped an envelope on the counter in front of Eleanor. “Here you go, Miss Braddock. A deal’s a deal.”

  Eleanor looked at the envelope, then at him, not following.

  He grinned. “Open it.”

  She did and, seeing the thickness of bills inside, her mouth slipped open.

  “It’s the three months of rent you paid me, ma’am. Just like we shook on.”

  “But . . . I don’t understand. The three months have long passed, and—”

  “I sold the building, Miss Braddock. For sure, this time. Just a while ago.”

  Eleanor looked at Naomi, who looked as surprised as she felt.

  “And I got exactly what I was askin’,” Mr. Stover continued. “All because of you, Miss Braddock.” He leaned in. “So I put a little extra in there for you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Stover. But . . .” A hundred questions swirled in her mind. Eleanor chose one. “Why do you say all because of me?”

  “Because you’ve made this here little buildin’ the talk of the town—that’s why. The buyer and his wife want to open up a café. And what better place than here, they said, ‘where Miss Braddock already got the idea going’.”

  Eleanor looked again at the money, then a second question came. “When does the couple want the building?”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that. We got a whole week before they want to start fixin’ up the place to move in.”

  Early the next morning, the New Year nearly upon them, Eleanor climbed into the carriage. “Thank you, Armstead.”

  “You welcome, Miss Braddock.” He closed the door and paused beside the front step of the mansion.

  Eleanor peered out. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, ma’am, I . . .” He shook his head. “I jus’ . . .”

  She waited, seeing the disquiet in his expression. “We are friends, Armstead. Whatever is on your mind, you can say it to me.”

  He glanced back toward the house. “I thought you might want to know, ma’am, that . . . people are talkin’.”

  Her heart fell. Somehow the word about Marcus must have gotten out. Then it occurred to her that Armstead might be referring to her father being in the asylum. Considering the aspects of her life she preferred to keep private, she decided it was in her best interest not to make a guess.

  She looked at him pointedly.

  “They talkin’ about . . . you marryin’ the bank president, ma’am.”

  Eleanor let out a breath. “I see . . .” The one aspect of her life she hadn’t considered gossip worthy. “And what are they saying?”

  “Just that you gonna marry him, ma’am.”

  His eyes narrowed, and though, to his credit, he didn’t voice the question “Are you?” she read it in his demeanor and in the silence following. But, for some reason, she didn’t want to answer.

  “Thank you, Armstead. I appreciate you telling me that.”

  Acknowledgment flashed in his eyes, and he dipped his head. “Just thought you be wantin’ to know, ma’am.” He gave the rim of his hat a brief tug before climbing to the driver’s seat.

  A snap of the reins, and the team of horses responded.

  The chill of winter swept through the window openings. But bundled in a coat, with scarf and gloves, Eleanor didn’t mind. Aunt Adelicia had wanted her to take the glass-enclosed carriage, but Eleanor preferred this one. It was less conspicuous. And more . . . her.

  She’d stayed up last night and counted—three times—the money Mr. Stover had so graciously returned to her. Three months’ rent, plus an extra forty dollars. It felt like a fortune. It felt like freedom.

  And would have been, if not for two things—the expense of her father’s care and the lack of a way to provide for herself. She didn’t begrudge paying the cost of the asylum. Not when she saw how content her father finally seemed. She only wished she could find a way to provide for him—and for herself—on her own.

  Only a dusting of last night’s snow remained on the ground, and as they passed the conservatory, she looked for
Regal near the tree where Marcus usually tied the thoroughbred. But no horse. Marcus must be in town. Just as well.

  She faced forward, the carriage jostling over the hard-packed dirt.

  Armstead guided the conveyance onto the main road that spanned the two miles to Nashville, and Eleanor’s thoughts unfurled like the ribbon of road before them.

  She would go by the home first and speak with Marcus about Mr. Stover selling the building. That news couldn’t wait. And . . . it would be good to get their first meeting over with. She dreaded the few moments of awkwardness when the words she’d practiced last night would inevitably escape her and she’d be left to—

  The carriage suddenly dipped to one side.

  Eleanor grabbed hold of the seat to steady herself when she saw a hand reach through the window and lift up the latch. The door flew open, and the next thing she knew, Marcus was seated on the bench opposite her, handsomely windblown and smiling his smile.

  45

  What on earth do you think you’re doing!” Eleanor peered out the window, then back at Marcus, the countryside passing in a blur.

  Grinning, he raked a hand through his hair. “I’ve always wanted to do that!”

  “Do what? Nearly get yourself killed?”

  He laughed. “And this from a woman who loves tunnels.”

  Feeling herself warming to him—despite what had happened and what she knew—she told herself not to surrender a smile just because his charm all but commanded it. Seeing him again gave her pleasure she had no right to feel, and fearing those feelings were written all over her face, she drew her sense of reserve about her like a protective cloak.

  “What are you doing here, Marcus?”

  He met her gaze straight on, his own unflinching. “Commandeering your carriage seemed to be all that was left to me, since I apparently cannot persuade you to speak with me otherwise.”

  With a dip of her head, she acknowledged the truth, then noticed the horses had slowed. The carriage came to a stop, and again, the conveyance dipped to one side.