A Beauty So Rare

by Tamera Alexander

  “Lest you think, Aunt Adelicia, that I am now planning to rely on your kind generosity indefinitely, I assure you I am working to make a way for myself. And for the first director of the Nashville Widows’ and Children’s Home.”

  Her aunt looked beyond her to the door, then back at Eleanor, her features not altering in the least. “I suppose you’re referring to yourself?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  A deep, ponderous sigh. “And I suppose there is nothing I can do to talk you out of this . . . lark?”

  Eleanor shook her head, then paused. “Mrs. Bennett is the one who first brought up the idea.”

  Her aunt frowned. “Matilda Bennett has always been a bit of an . . . instigator.”

  Eleanor smiled, quickly deciding not to tell her aunt about Mrs. Bennett’s latest instigation, nor of the woman’s offer to hire her, however temporarily. “If that’s the case, then I would think you and she have much in common.”

  Not the least hint of humor was apparent in Aunt Adelicia’s demeanor. “Do any of the board members know about your plans?”

  Eleanor’s courage slipped. “No, ma’am. I was hoping I might gain your support . . . before I turn in the list of staff for final approval.”

  The leveled stare Aunt Adelicia gave her said the chances of that happening were remote.

  Saturday morning, Marcus was in his makeshift office—the future quarters of the director for the home—when he looked up to see Caleb walking in with a basket of doughnuts.

  Marcus had to think twice. “This is Saturday, not Friday.”

  “I know.” Caleb set the basket on a table. “Mr. Fitch said these were on the house.”

  “That was awfully nice of him.”

  “He also said that you work too much.”

  Marcus laughed and grabbed a doughnut, then returned to modifying the design sketches for the building next door. The beams were proving to be more of a challenge than he’d thought in theory, as were the—

  “His wife says you should get married.”

  Marcus lifted his gaze. “I beg your pardon?”

  Caleb shrugged. “Mrs. Fitch said that . . . at your age and with your success,” he said, as though quoting, “you should be married. But then Mr. Fitch said that not every successful man needs a wife.”

  Marcus smiled, able to hear the couple even now. “To which Mrs. Fitch replied?”

  Caleb grinned. “That successful men do not know what they need. Until a woman tells them.”

  Marcus laughed again, then looked back to his work. “What else have you heard lately?”

  “That Miss Braddock wants to be the director for the home.”

  Marcus’s head came up again. “Was war das?”

  Caleb nodded. “Fräulein Braddock will der Direktor für zu Hause sein.”

  Marcus put down his pencil. “She wants to be the director? Who did you hear that from?”

  “My Mutter and Miss Braddock. They were talking in the kitchen yesterday.” A slow grin pulled at the corners of the boy’s mouth. “Sometimes people who are grown do not see people who are younger.”

  Marcus’s mind raced. How was Eleanor planning on being the director of this home when she was marrying Lawrence Hockley? Surely, a man like Hockley wouldn’t allow his wife to work in such a position. Unless Eleanor and Hockley were no longer—

  “Oh! This came for you, sir.” Caleb laid an envelope on the table and picked up the basket of doughnuts. “I stopped by the post office like you asked me to.”

  Marcus took one look at the return address and tore open the letter, only half aware of Caleb leaving the room.

  His father’s handwriting was thicker than usual, as though the pen had been pressed hard to the page. The ink had bled through to the other side.

  His father, never one for pleasantries, cut swiftly to the heart of the matter.

  Dear Gerhard,

  I did not think it possible to be even more disappointed in a son, but you have proven me wrong. Your letter showed me how deeply divided you and I are at heart, and how corrupt your allegiance to family and honor that you would forfeit the God-given path of your birth and ancestry. I cannot begin to fathom why you would willingly choose such a life as you described. . . .

  Marcus read each word describing his father’s disappointment in him. All the words familiar, yet cutting just the same. He thought again of the letter he’d penned to him late on Christmas night, the letter he’d sent with the baroness. He’d chosen his words well, their intent undeniable.

  He’d told his father what he wanted to do with his life, though not about his desire to stay in America. That he’d held back.

  Wondering if his letter had served its purpose, he turned the page and continued reading.

  You were insistent in your letter that you would honor your marriage to Baroness Maria Elizabeth Albrecht von Haas. At least in this, you have conducted yourself like a Habsburg. However, it befalls me to inform you that, in your prolonged absence, the baroness has developed feelings for another. Her father has recently informed your uncle of the transfer of her affections from you to your cousin, Stephen. They are to be wed this summer.

  Marcus shook his head. Stephen was in line to the throne—right behind him. The baroness was, indeed, precisely the woman he’d thought she was. Even as he had sealed the letter, he’d imagined her slowly warming the wax until the seal gave, reading every word, then sealing it again.

  The baroness’s father conveyed that his daughter’s own keen sense of loyalty battled her emotions at every turn. But she has made her choice. And since the outcome of either marriage is the same for our family, your uncle has agreed to the match.

  Keen sense of loyalty. Marcus couldn’t believe his father was that gullible. But perhaps his father’s own biases got in the way of the truth.

  I cannot say I anticipate your return, Gerhard. Not with the path you have chosen. You have been given every opportunity and have squandered it. Though I accept I may never know the answer, I have often wondered why the son of my heart chose to break it, even as the son left to me seems bent on crushing the remains.

  Marcus folded the stationery and slipped the pages back into the envelope, aware that his letter had achieved its purpose. The baroness was marrying someone else, and his father knew the true desires of his heart. Yet he didn’t feel the sense of freedom he’d expected.

  He’d always known Rutger was his father’s favorite. For a parent to show that favoritism was one thing. A boy could explain it away, at least in part, until he’d grown old enough to accept the painful reality. But to pen the words on paper to be read again and again was another.

  Marcus walked outside to the back of the building, the air brisk and cool on his cheeks. He struck a match, held it to the letter, and watched it burn, convinced now, more than ever, that he’d chosen the right path for his life.

  Now to determine whether the woman he loved, loved him in return. Her recent behavior—and her near kiss—made him all but certain she did. Yet did she realize it? He thought of that day in the carriage with her. He’d told her then that he was from an ambitious family.

  Eleanor Braddock was about to discover just how ambitious a Habsburg could be.

  “Thank you again, Miss Braddock . . . Naomi.” Gretchen, holding precious little Hans, named after his father, hugged them both. As did Maggie, who insisted on carrying the tin containing two extra pieces of chocolate custard pie. “The dinner was so very gut tonight, ladies,” Gretchen continued. “A gut way to begin the week.”

  Smiling her thanks, Eleanor caught the young mother’s wistful glance back at the gathering area where the tables and benches were all but empty. And where the fire in the hearth—that Marcus had graciously built before leaving tonight—was slowly dying down.

  They’d had a large attendance for a Monday night, and several of the mothers and children had stayed to visit.

  Gretchen smoothed a hand over her son’s head. “My dear Hans always said”—she dee
pened her voice as though quoting him, emotion tendering her words—“ ‘You wait and see. We will live in a fine big house in America.’ I am guessing he was right.” She kissed her son’s cheek. “But I would rather live in a shack . . . and have my Hans still with me.”

  Naomi hugged her again, and Eleanor found herself praying, as she often did, that God would heal the holes left in these women’s lives as they grieved the men they loved. And, secretly—doing her best not to picture a pair of blue eyes like pieces of glass with the sun behind—she thanked God she would be spared that pain.

  Because Lawrence Hockley had been right about one thing. Her chances of ever marrying were infinitesimal. Especially with her thirtieth birthday just around the corner. Yet she was accepting that truth, again, in her life, even as she was anticipating what her own future held.

  Over the past several days, she’d managed to avoid speaking to Marcus. Even with both of them working in the same building, it hadn’t been hard. The home was enormous, with three floors and endless rooms. And for the greater part of the week, he’d been working in his building out back, which was still forbidden territory for her. But . . . of which she had a perfect view from her kitchen.

  Oh, that kitchen . . .

  If ever there was a heaven on earth, it was cooking in that kitchen. All the women who assisted with preparation and serving—and who had already been half in love with Marcus—were now fully infatuated due to the kitchen amenities alone.

  Later, in her room at the mansion, feeling more like a guest all the time, she picked up her well-used copy of Conversations on Common Things. At half past ten, she found herself tired, but not yet sleepy, so she read awhile, taking comfort in the familiar words of Dorothea Dix.

  She wished Miss Dix—an advocate for the downtrodden and mentally ill—could see the home they were building, that she could know what inspiration Eleanor had gained from watching her life from afar. Then a thought occurred. . . .

  Eleanor sat straighter in the chair. What if they were to host an open house and invite—

  A rustling noise beyond the door that led to her balcony drew her attention. Too loud to be the wind. Unless the wind was only blowing on the front side of the house. And only by that door.

  Eleanor turned down the lamp, inviting darkness from the corners of the room. She rose from the chair and—

  There it was again. She stilled. Then instinctively looked for something to use as a weapon. Her hand closed around a marble statue on the side table—surprisingly heavy in her grip—and she almost chuckled at her actions.

  This was Belmont. Adelicia Cheatham’s home. And the family was only—

  An entire floor away. Asleep. Her grip tightened on the cool marble.

  She wished now that she’d closed her curtains. But not having changed for bed yet, she hadn’t—

  Sucking in a breath, she pressed back against the wall.

  A shadow. Of a man. Just outside. And he was scaling the balcony railing! Never mind the marble statue. Dr. Cheatham had a Winchester and was an excellent shot.

  She was halfway to the bedroom door when she heard a brusque whisper.

  “Eleanor!” Then a soft rapping on the glass pane.

  She paused and looked back. No . . . It couldn’t be.

  She crept back, keeping to the wall, and peered around the edge of the door. It was.

  “Eleanor.”

  Wanting to give back as good as the man gave, she jumped in front of the glass door, brandishing the statue, and Marcus stumbled back, falling against the railing. She laughed so hard she thought she might wake the family.

  Still giggling, she opened the door, and the cold night air rushed in. “What are you doing out there?” she whispered, setting the statue aside.

  “What are you doing in there?” he countered, a frustrated edge to his voice.

  “You scared me, Marcus. I didn’t know it was you.”

  “Who else would it be?” Then he paused and looked at her as if wishing he hadn’t said that. “Are you dressed?”

  She cocked her head. “Would I have opened the door if I wasn’t?”

  “Excellent point. Put on your coat. I want to show you something.”

  “Marcus, it’s late.”

  “I know. I had to wait for the family to extinguish their lamps. So hurry, we don’t have long.”

  Hand on hip, she looked at him, all but forgetting about being embarrassed over their almost kiss. “We don’t have long until what?”

  “Eleanor. Would you please trust me. Put on your coat, and I’ll help you climb over the balcony.”

  Already having decided she was going when he asked her the first time, she did as he said.

  49

  Holding her hand, Marcus led Eleanor at a steady clip through the moonlit garden down to the conservatory, hoping they hadn’t missed the start of the show yet.

  “Why are we in such a hurry?” she said, breathless.

  “First, because it’s freezing.”

  She answered with a sharp thumbnail to his palm.

  “And second . . . you’ll see.”

  She laughed.

  He’d been surprised when he’d stopped by the conservatory earlier. He’d thought—hoped—“the event” wasn’t set to happen for another two or three nights. But the Night-blooming Cereus indeed had a mind of its own. Much like the woman beside him.

  He opened the door, the warm air from within warding off the chill, and he inhaled. Then he let his breath out, relieved.

  “What?” she said beside him, the collar of her coat pulled up about her neck.

  “I was checking to make sure the show hadn’t started yet.”

  She looked around. “The show?”

  He smiled and gestured for her to follow, remembering the nights he had done this with his family while growing up. But never with his father. His father had always been much too busy for such foolishness. He forced thoughts of his father aside, seeing the ashes from the letter in his mind.

  Moonlight shone through the glass canopy above them, but Marcus had also lit several lamps so they wouldn’t miss anything.

  He stopped just before they reached the end of the aisle. “Close your eyes.”

  “Marcus, you know I don’t—”

  “Now.”

  She squeezed her eyes tight and held out her hand, smiling.

  He led her around the corner. “All right . . . Open!”

  She blinked a few times, looked at the two chairs and the basket sitting between them, then at the Selenicereus grandiflorus, then back at him. Her expression clearly saying she was confused.

  She bit her lower lip. “We’re . . . going to sit and watch the cactus?”

  He laughed. “You never have liked that plant. Why not?”

  “I do like it. It’s strong. And formidable. I just don’t understand why my aunt, who loves beautiful things, has it in her collection.”

  “Fair enough. We’ll see what you think when she’s done.”

  “When who’s done?” She eyed him.

  “The Queen . . . of the Night,” he said, bowing in the direction of the cactus, while catching the blank look on Eleanor’s face. “You have to bow,” he whispered. “Or in your case, curtsy. It’s tradition.”

  She gave him a wary smile, for which he couldn’t blame her.

  “This takes me back to when I was a boy. My grandmother had a Selenicereus grandiflorus. Each year, for one night, and only one night, the cactus blooms. On those nights, Rutger and . . .” Saying his brother’s name brought a rush of memories. But most of them sweet this time. “Rutger and I, along with my mother and grandparents, would do as you and I are doing now, and wait to watch her bloom.”

  Eleanor’s features, already soft in the silvery light, grew more so. She looked at the cactus and back at him. Then she removed her coat, handed it to him, and with the sweetest smile, swept her skirt wide, elegant arm extended, and curtsied as though being presented to Empress Sisi herself.

  He
showed her to her seat and claimed his. Then served her a doughnut and poured cups of coffee for them both.

  “Compliments of Leonard Fitch,” he said.

  She raised the pastry as though making a toast. “The best in town!”

  He touched his doughnut to hers. “Long live Leonard Fitch.”

  She laughed softly, then leaned forward, her gaze riveted to one of nineteen tubular buds set to bloom. “Did you see that?” she whispered. “It moved.”

  “Just wait. It gets better.”

  As time passed, midnight slowly gave way to one o’clock then two, and gradually, with a patience known only to nature, the blooms began their brief but extraordinary lives. Then they released their full fragrance.

  “Oh . . .” Eleanor closed her eyes and breathed deeply, again and again. “It’s so beautiful. They’re so beautiful.”

  As they talked through the night—about their childhoods, and memories neither of them had thought about in years—Marcus wanted to tell her how glad he was they were on speaking terms again. But doing so would have only reminded her of that near kiss, and he knew she wanted to forget it. Even though he didn’t.

  “What is it,” he asked, “that you most appreciate about doing what you do?”

  “With the widows and children, you mean.”

  He nodded.

  She stared at the open blooms. “Watching them leave after dinner with stomachs and hearts full.” She closed her eyes, a slight frown forming. “And . . . witnessing their courage. Every day. Even as they carry a weight of grief and pain. I never knew any of their husbands, and yet . . . sometimes I feel as though I did. Or do. Because, despite having departed this world, they’re still here, in so many ways. I can’t imagine what it’s like to live with that grief.” She turned to him briefly. “And, in a way, I’m glad I won’t ever have to.”

  Not the answer he was expecting, Marcus didn’t have a ready response, and he pondered her meaning.

  Shortly before sunrise, he walked her back to the mansion, scaled the balcony, then pulled her up beside him. Apparently pulling a little too hard. She fell against him, and he caught her. For a second, she didn’t try to move away.