“Miss Braddock! You all right, ma’am?” Seconds later, Armstead peered through the window. “Don’t know what happened back there, but—” He saw Marcus, and his eyes widened. “What you doin’ in there, sir?”
“I’m speaking to Miss Braddock.” All traces of humor were gone. “If she’ll grant permission for me to stay.”
Both men looked at her. Marcus, with cautious hope. Armstead, with confusion and a touch of concern.
Finally, Eleanor nodded. “Continue on to the widows’ and children’s home, please, Armstead.” Seeing his hesitation, she gave him a reassuring look.
Armstead returned to his post, gave the command, and the horses walked on.
Eleanor looked out the window and glimpsed Regal some distance back. “What about your horse?”
Marcus put his fingers to his lips and whistled.
A minute later, Eleanor heard the gallop of hooves closely matching those of the horses pulling the carriage. She smiled and shook her head. “I suppose you’re accustomed to people doing your bidding as well?”
Marcus regarded her. “For most of my life, yes.”
“How hard it must have been for you to come here.”
“Quite the contrary. It felt like . . .” He looked out the window for the longest time. “It felt like the first clean breath I’d taken in thirty some odd years.” He leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs. “I’m sorry, Eleanor . . . for not being honest with you. My coming to America was rooted in somewhat . . . troubling circumstances.”
She was tempted to poke fun at what a royal might consider troubling, but the bleakness in his eyes kept her from it.
“I told you my older brother died last year. But . . . that wasn’t the complete truth. Rutger”—he bowed his head, then slowly looked up again—“took his own life. We don’t know why. I guess we never will. . . .”
He sighed, and Eleanor heard a weariness in him she knew only too well.
“But the blow of Rutger’s death came on the heels of an uncle being executed in Mexico a short while earlier. Maximilian, father’s younger brother—” He paused. “I am assuming here, Eleanor, knowing you as I do, that you may have done some . . . light reading on my family history in recent days.”
Embarrassed to admit the truth, Eleanor nodded.
He smiled, though only briefly. “I would have done the same thing.” He glanced down at his hands clasped loosely before him. “Maximilian was in league—foolishly so, in my opinion—with Napoleon the third to seize Mexico.”
Eleanor held up a hand. “Mexico . . . as in . . . the entire country?”
Again, that smile. “I come from a rather ambitious family.”
“I would say so. Please . . . continue.”
“Needless to say, the efforts of my uncle and Napoleon were soundly thwarted. Napoleon withdrew his armies, and shortly thereafter, my uncle was captured and executed.”
“I’m so sorry, Marcus.”
“Thank you, Eleanor, but . . .” His eyes narrowed. “At the risk of seeming unconscionably cruel, especially in light of what you know about my relationship with my uncle, the emperor, and my father, I was never close to Maximilian. So his death—while tragic—was not something I personally grieved. Not like Rutger’s,” he said softly, lowering his gaze.
Eleanor watched him, finding herself looking upon him one minute as the friend she’d known, only to have the image thrust aside by that of an archduke of the House of Habsburg. For some reason, she could not marry the two.
But she could see, quite clearly, why this man before her would not have been close to such an uncle as he had described just now. Equally, she could understand how the same might be true of his relationship with his father and his uncle Franz Joseph, the Emperor of Austria.
“Following Maximilian’s death,” Marcus continued, “my aunt Carlota, his wife, suffered a swift but severe mental decline. Which, of course, is not allowed for members of the House of Habsburg.” His laughter was dark, and embarrassment and shame riddled his handsome countenance. “She is now hidden away, residing in an . . .”
“Asylum,” Eleanor whispered, surprising herself by saying it aloud.
He nodded. “Which, as we both know, only too well, is not a subject about which families speak, much less of which they are proud.”
“And yet . . . you befriended my father.”
Marcus smiled. “Actually, he befriended me.”
She shook her head. “Friendship takes two, Marcus.”
He looked at her, his gaze moving over her face. “And yours, Eleanor . . . has been one of the most important of my life.”
She wanted to believe that, because the same was true for her. But the bruised parts of her heart weren’t quite so willing to trust again yet. “What happened to the baroness?”
The care and compassion in his expression bled away. “The baroness is gone. She departed on a train the morning after she arrived.”
But not, Eleanor wagered, of the baroness’s own volition. The image of such a woman being forced into a decision not of her own choosing tempted her to smile. Until she realized that, in essence, she was that woman too.
“It’s a political marriage,” he said after a long silence, the four words summing up so much.
Seeing the outskirts of town from the window, Eleanor sensed an opening. “Mr. Stover’s building has sold, Marcus.”
His head came up. “Sold? As in—”
“As in we have a week before the new owners take possession. And you’ll enjoy this. The buyers are starting . . . a café.”
In a single glance, he shared the irony of the situation with her and made the moment all the richer somehow.
“Where will you host the dinners?” he asked.
She smiled. “In our new home.”
He shook his head. “It won’t work. We’re not ready.”
“We will make it work, despite not being ready. We have no choice. I will not cease caring for those women and children. We can cook over the hearth. Perhaps we can cook at Belmont and then transport the food, if necessary.”
“You never give in. I like that about you. It’s one of the many things that first drew me to—”
He stopped abruptly, then rapped sharply on the ceiling of the carriage indicating for Armstead to stop. But he never looked away from her. “You would not have liked the man I was. I certainly didn’t.” His brow furrowed. “For a while, after we first met, I actually began to like the man I was. Or . . . was becoming. But then, I realized . . .” A moment passed, his jaw like granite. “I realized I was only that man because of you.”
“No,” Eleanor whispered. “You are that man, Marcus. I know it. I can see it in you. Even if you can’t.”
The carriage stopped, and his smile came slowly. Not the dashing, offhanded gesture she’d seen from him often enough, the smile that could slay a woman’s heart. But the steady, true, loyal smile of a friend.
He opened the door to the carriage and stepped out. “For the better part of my life, I was not a man who kept my word.” His gaze grew earnest. “But I will keep my vow to you. I will finish the renovation before I leave.”
She nodded, the mere thought of not seeing him once the renovation was finished felt like a vise around her windpipe. “Yes, you will,” she whispered, then took a steadying breath. “Naomi and Caleb,” she managed, then shook her head. “They won’t tell anyone either.”
Understanding deepened his eyes. He turned to go, then looked back. “May I still visit your father, Eleanor? If you say no, I’ll honor your wish.”
Swallowing past the ache lodged at the base of her throat, Eleanor prayed her voice would hold. “Of course, Marcus. You’re his friend.”
“And he is mine.”
The carriage pulled away, and Eleanor dug her fingernails into the seat cushion—counting to ten, making sure he was gone—before she gave in to the heartbreak clawing its way to the surface.
46
What about the staff fo
r the home, Miss Braddock? Have you commenced with hiring?”
“Not just yet, Mrs. Holcomb. But I will very soon.” Eleanor appreciated the league board’s invitation to attend their meeting and to provide an update on the renovation. But the afternoon was wearing on, and she needed to get back to work.
Moments before the meeting began, Marcus had sent word through Caleb that he needed her at the home as soon as possible to discuss a problem that had arisen. Eleanor couldn’t imagine what it might be. But the last four weeks had taken its toll on them all.
They’d alternated between cooking the meals over the large fireplace in the gathering room of the home, and cooking them at Belmont and transporting them into town. Either way, the food was always cold by the time it was served. With the record chill and snowfall, there had been days when she hadn’t been able to make it into town, and she’d worried about the women and children having food. The inclement weather had also delayed the arrival of building materials. Which, in turn, meant they were behind schedule. Marcus had assured her he could make up the time.
The numbers of women and children attending the dinners continued to increase, and there were days when Eleanor wished for the simplicity and quaintness of Mr. Stover’s little kitchen again.
Even more, she missed the easy back-and-forth she and Marcus had once shared. She’d been avoiding him for the most part, uneasy around him, while also knowing she needed to move past that. And would, in time.
“Regarding the hiring of staff, Miss Braddock—” Mrs. Agnetta Hightower’s voice rang out with authority. “I believe that you should begin interviewing immediately. Take my counsel to heart on this matter. . . . Acquiring credentialed staff takes time. You will need a head cook, as well as experienced cooking staff. Maids for cleaning. A head housekeeper is essential to keep such a facility in proper order. And, of course, the head housekeeper will require her own staff who—”
“Please forgive me, Mrs. Hightower.” Eleanor raised her hand to soften the interruption. “But this is a widows’ and children’s home, not a personal estate.” She smiled to ease the correction, not surprised when a frown darkened Mrs. Hightower’s countenance. “There will be a director of the home. A position that includes room and board, and a very modest compensation. Each wing of the three floors will also have a woman assigned who will serve as a manageress for the rooms in her area. Someone to help with the day-to-day needs. But the bulk of the work will be done by the women and children living in the home. In that respect, it will function much like a family. A very large family.”
All the women laughed. All except Mrs. and Miss Hightower.
“Everyone will have a job and will be expected to do their part. Working will be a requirement for living in the home. The women must either work in one of the services the home will provide to the community—such as cleaning, sewing, or knitting. Or they must seek employment elsewhere.”
Mrs. Hightower huffed. “But what about the children?”
“We will have classes for the children, which will be taught by the women in the home who are capable of teaching.”
“And if there are no such women, Miss Braddock?” Miss Hightower asked, her strident tone identical to her mother’s.
“Then, Miss Hightower, I will see to it that they are taught . . . so that they may, in turn, teach.”
Eleanor happened to look in her aunt’s direction and saw the tiniest smile tip Aunt Adelicia’s mouth. But when her aunt’s gaze met hers, the smile was gone.
Likewise, neither of the Hightowers were smiling. But thinking about whatever problem awaited her at the home, Eleanor found the mother and daughter the lesser of her two concerns.
Mrs. Holcomb stood where she was seated. “Once you have the staff selected, Miss Braddock, please present the list of names to the board for final approval.”
“Of course, Mrs. Holcomb.”
After the meeting adjourned, Eleanor slipped on her coat and scarf.
“Miss Braddock . . .” Mrs. Bennett approached. “I won’t keep you long. I simply want to tell you how pleased my husband and I are with the changes that are being made in the old courthouse.”
“You mean in the new home,” Eleanor said with a teasing smile.
Mrs. Bennett beamed. “Yes, of course, the new home. I love the sound of that.” She glanced about them, then gently urged Eleanor into the hallway. “A quick word, if I may,” she whispered. “Before a public announcement is made, I wanted to tell you about”—her eyes positively sparkled—“the café I’ll be opening soon.”
Eleanor felt her expression go slack. “You bought the building?” she whispered.
Mrs. Bennett squeezed her arm. “Can you believe it! I’m so excited. And, Miss Braddock, I have you to thank. I would never have considered doing something like this if not for watching you, and seeing what you’ve accomplished. To that end”—her smile turned conspiratorial—“I believe I have an offer that will interest you greatly.”
Before that moment, Eleanor could not have described what it felt like to have new life breathed into a discarded dream. But reading the question in Mrs. Bennett’s eyes, knowing what the woman was about to propose, she could now. Because she felt the flutter in her chest and fresh hope in her heart.
“Mr. Bennett and I would very much like to secure your services, Miss Braddock, to train my niece, who will be managing and operating the café. It’ll only be for a short time. I know you’re terribly busy, but . . .”
Still listening, or trying to, Eleanor didn’t know which was worse—having a dream die a second time, or being asked to help someone else live your dream. The excitement and emotion knotting her throat only seconds earlier landed with a dull thud in the pit of her stomach.
“. . . Hazel is unmarried,” Mrs. Bennett continued, “and a little older. Quite an . . . unconventional woman, you might say. Both of her parents are deceased, bless her. And William—Mr. Bennett—wants to give his niece this opportunity so she can make her own way. ‘Have some meaning and security in her life,’ as she says.”
From the corner of her eye, Eleanor saw Aunt Adelicia leaving with Mrs. Holcomb, chatting and laughing. “That is a very kind and generous gift on the part of both you and your husband, Mrs. Bennett.”
“And again, Miss Braddock, you are the inspiration behind it.” She linked arms with Eleanor, and they walked to the front door. “I hope you don’t think it’s beneath you, what I’ve proposed. Mr. Bennett will compensate you, of course. I simply know how much you enjoy helping others. How dedicated you are to improving the lives of women in this community. I’ve written Hazel about you, and she can scarcely wait to make your acquaintance.”
“I’m honored to help, Mrs. Bennett. And please, tell Hazel I feel the very same.”
Eleanor opened the door, and a blast of late January cold nearly took her breath away. She snuggled deeper into her coat and saw Mrs. Bennett do the same.
Mrs. Bennett pulled her scarf up about her face. “When the time comes, I’ll be in touch about the café, Miss Braddock,” she said, her voice muffled. “And though I know it’s quite impossible, considering your station and your relations”—she looked in the direction of Aunt Adelicia’s carriage—“I believe you would have made a wonderful director for the home.”
Watching Mrs. Bennett walk away, Eleanor nodded, the thought lingering. I think I would have too.
Caleb gave a whistle, and Marcus—hammer in hand—looked around the corner.
“You see her coming?”
Caleb nodded. “And she is walking fast, sir.”
Marcus removed the last nail holding the final piece of plank wood in place, then set the board aside before joining Caleb by the window. “Remember, let me do the talking. If she happens to get angry, I don’t want her angry with you.”
The boy nodded again.
Marcus spotted her, and Caleb was right. Eleanor was either cold or angry—or both. She was a ways down the street yet but was covering ground.
Their time together in recent weeks had narrowed considerably. Despite her being at the construction site nearly every day, she somehow managed to avoid him. Which was probably for the best. Fairly soon, though, one of nature’s greatest events would be occurring, and he wanted to share it with her. So he needed to smooth things out between them, and today was the day.
Feeling Caleb’s close attention, Marcus looked over at him.
The boy’s expression had grown somber. “Should I be bowing to you now?”
Marcus laughed out loud, then gave the boy’s hair a good tousle. “I’ll buy you an extra fritter next time if you don’t.”
Caleb grinned.
“How long have you been wanting to ask me that?”
“Since the day the baroness came.”
At the mention of Maria, Marcus sobered. Not one word from her in the month since she’d left Nashville and sailed for Europe a week later. No letter. No telegram. No word from his father either. But he reminded himself to be patient.
He only hoped Baroness Maria Elizabeth Albrecht von Haas proved to be the woman he thought her to be—and that his father’s absolute allegiance to the crown was as unwavering as it had always been.
Sensing Caleb’s desire for a more thorough answer, Marcus shook his head. “No, Caleb. You don’t need to bow to me.”
“But you’re an archduke,” he whispered.
Marcus glanced out the window, checking Eleanor’s progress. She’d gotten caught on an adjacent street corner, waiting for a line of carriages to pass. “The first day we met, Caleb, you told me something. Something that’s stayed with me, that I’ve thought of many times. You said that a name is just a name. That it’s the man behind the name that makes the man who he really is.”
“My papa used to say that.”
“And he was right.” Marcus sighed. “I just wish I’d learned that earlier in life. But . . . I know it now, and I’m determined to be the man that some people think I already am. The man I want to be. Which isn’t . . . an archduke.”
A Beauty So Rare Page 48
