A Beauty So Rare

by Tamera Alexander

  Then, as if realizing how close they were—the curves of her body fitting his better than was likely wise for a man and woman not betrothed—she moved away. Already regretting it, he let her go.

  “Eleanor,” he whispered, needing an answer to the question plaguing him.

  “What?” Her voice gained a nervous edge he hadn’t heard all night.

  “Are you still marrying Lawrence Hockley?”

  She looked at him, then slowly shook her head. “No.”

  He reached out to touch her hand, and she let him. But this time—unlike earlier, when it was playful—she tensed a little. And rightfully so, on her part, he knew. She still thought he was engaged to the baroness, and leaving come summer. Tempted to show her all of his cards at once, he’d played enough poker—and won—to know better.

  “I think that’s fairly important news, Eleanor. And you and I are fairly good friends. When were you going to tell me?”

  She raised a shoulder, then let it fall, and his resolve to patiently win her heart fell a little further too.

  “I’m sorry if you were hurt in the process.”

  Another shake of her head. “I wasn’t. Mr. Hockley and I were . . .” She took a deep breath. “We weren’t a good match. Regardless of what my aunt thought.”

  That told him plenty. And confirmed what he’d guessed about her aunt’s involvement.

  The creak of a door breached the hush of morning, and Marcus tugged Eleanor toward the house, not wanting to be seen. They had done nothing wrong, but his presence on her balcony could certainly give the impression they had.

  Though he couldn’t see Cordina as she moved around on the front porch, he recognized the head cook’s soft humming, then heard what he thought were rugs being shaken.

  Marcus opened the door leading to Eleanor’s bedroom, and she slipped inside.

  “Thank you, Eleanor, for joining me tonight. And may I wish you . . . an early happy birthday.”

  Surprise lit her expression, followed by her appreciation. “Thank you, Marcus,” she whispered, “for sharing ‘the queen’s’ performance with me. I can’t think of a nicer birthday gift, or evening I’ve spent with anyone in a long, long time.”

  He smiled, knowing that was a pretty good start. He walked to the stable and saddled Regal, and by the time he returned to the boardinghouse well after sunrise, he knew he needed to win her heart slowly, along with her trust, so as not to scare her away.

  But how to do that with a woman who was no stranger to loss, or to saying slow, painful good-byes to people she loved?

  Over the next week, at the oddest times, Eleanor caught the fragrance of the flowers on the clothes she’d worn that night with Marcus. The scent wafted toward her in the mercantile when she reached for potatoes, rose to her face when she hugged her father in his room at the asylum, and greeted her yet again when she served the women and children at dinner.

  But true to Marcus’s word, by the time she’d returned to the conservatory the next morning, the blooms were wilted, their lives passing so quickly. Not to be seen for another year.

  But it was a night—and a memory—she would carry with her forever.

  Something about being with Marcus that night had been different. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but when he’d caught her and held her for that instant, she’d wanted to stay there in his arms forever, even as she’d wanted to turn and run.

  “Miss Braddock,” Naomi whispered beside her.

  Eleanor looked up from the serving line to see a young woman staring back, eyes full of loss and pain as clear as any she’d ever seen. “I beg your pardon, ma’am,” she said softly. “I was gone there for a minute.”

  “I know the way of that.” A lilt in her voice, the woman smiled. But it didn’t lessen the heaviness in her gaze. “Sometimes I don’t know why my body’s still kickin’ when my heart was ferried away so long ago.”

  Eleanor handed her a plate, not remembering her having visited before. “My name is Miss Braddock.”

  The young woman offered a curtsy. “Mary O’Connell, ma’am.”

  Eleanor stared, grateful the woman had already taken the plate. Mary . . . And that lilt in her voice. Eleanor followed her progress through the line and noted where she sat, not wanting her to get away before she had the chance to visit with her.

  After everyone was served, Eleanor found her at a table near the fireplace. No children. At least not in her company. “May I join you?”

  Mary looked up and nodded. “I’d be honored, Miss Braddock.”

  Eleanor set her plate down and began to eat, telling herself not to get her hopes up. Chances of this being the soldier’s Mary girl were next to impossible. But just as she had so many times before, she had to try.

  “So tell me your story, Mary. Are you new to Nashville?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Just came here lookin’ for my husband. Or . . . where he was laid to rest. We lived in South Carolina. I had no money, so it took me a while to save to come.”

  Eleanor put her fork down, knowing there was no use. “You lost him in the war?”

  “I did.” The shadows in the woman’s eyes lightened a shade. “If I didn’t know better, I’d be thinkin’ you were one of them mind readers.” She smiled sadly and looked around. “But I’m guessin’ the better part of the women in this room lost their men in the war.”

  Eleanor nodded. “Yes, they have.” Not wanting to press, she knew what questions to ask. She’d asked them countless times before. “Do you know where your husband died, Mary?”

  Without warning, the woman’s eyes filled. “I do. I was out there just today, visitin’ his grave. A place called Carnton. The woman there—Mrs. McGavock, such a nice lady—she tends the graves. Told me to come back as often as I want. Or to write.” A tear slipped down her cheek. “She said she would take my letters to my husband’s restin’ place and would read them over him. Is that not a kind soul, Miss Braddock?”

  Eleanor smiled. “Yes, she is. I’ve met Mrs. McGavock once before, when I was at Carnton.” Taking a deep breath, she pulled the handkerchief from her pocket. “By chance, Mary, does this mean anything to you?”

  She held out the handkerchief, and Mary took it. Seeing the tears slipping down the woman’s cheeks, Eleanor felt a weight lifting inside her—one she’d been carrying for so long it had all but become a part of her.

  “It’s beautiful, Miss Braddock.” Mary sniffed. “So pretty with the stitches. Did you make this for your man?”

  Eleanor shook her head. “No, I . . .” How quickly hope could flee. “I thought you might have. I was a volunteer during the war, in the surgical tents.” She told Mary the story, watching understanding slip into her eyes.

  Mary shook her head. “It wasn’t my Thomas you held as he was dyin’, Miss Braddock.” Fresh tears fell. “But I’ve prayed, many a time, ma’am, that he had someone like you with him there at the last.” She pressed the handkerchief back into Eleanor’s hand. “I hope you find his Mary girl, wherever she is.”

  Tears clouding her own eyes, Eleanor nodded. She then spotted Marcus eating with Caleb and some of the other boys at a table on the far side of the room. He must have come in after she’d stepped away from the serving line.

  He’d surprised her with the loveliest basket of goodies the other day. Doughnuts, of course, and some chocolates. And even some sugar sticks. But it was the book he’d loaned her two days ago—one by John Donne, in German, Marcus’s personal copy, no less—that she loved best of all. Such insight into a person could be gained from reading a book they’d read and underlined.

  Mary stood, and Eleanor followed suit.

  “I need to be goin’, Miss Braddock. But I thank you for dinner, and for what you’re doin’ here. It’s good to have souls who understand your grief. Don’t make it lighter, really. But it helps to know you’re not alone.”

  They embraced, and Eleanor slipped the handkerchief back into her pocket.

  Feeling someone’s attention, she found
Marcus staring at her, concern in his eyes. She smiled and waved to indicate she was fine, then headed back to the kitchen.

  Not that she was being given the chance. . . . But if she ever allowed herself to fall in love with that man—not just a little, but in the way she knew she would if given a spark of opportunity—her heart would be his. Fully, without reservation. The realization was sobering. Because she’d watched countless women whose husbands had taken half their hearts to the grave, and yet somehow those women had continued on, living with heartache.

  The problem was . . . she didn’t want to be one of them.

  A few days later, while chopping vegetables in the kitchen, Eleanor opened a side cabinet to retrieve a dish and paused, seeing a pretty—but unfamiliar—blue glass bowl tucked inside.

  She picked it up and found an envelope within—with her first name on the front. She glanced back toward the gathering room, then opened the envelope to find a drawing inside, and smiled.

  A Selenicereus grandiflorus in full bloom. She brushed a strand of hair from her face, certain she caught scent of the blooms from the Queen of the Night. Marcus had signed in the corner, “For the moments in life worth waiting for, Marcus.”

  And he’d drawn this for her . . .

  Reaching a milestone in the renovation during the past week—half of the project completed—was having quite a positive effect on the man. She’d heard him whistling the other day as she’d toured the home with Naomi, deciding how to assign the rooms on each floor. She’d never heard him whistle before.

  And although the sound had been a happy one, she hadn’t been happy to hear it. She’d thought about what he’d said regarding being a different man back in Austria. But she still couldn’t imagine him with a woman like the baroness. Perhaps the old Marcus might have desired a woman like the baroness.

  But the Marcus she knew? Never.

  She glanced out the window to where she’d seen him an hour or so ago, and saw the door to “his building” standing open. She debated with herself, insisted it was his secret to share when he was ready, but curiosity got the best of her.

  She laid her knife aside and slipped out the door.

  At a meeting with the league board days earlier, several of the women had inquired about the building he was constructing—about its purpose and function in relation to the home. Eleanor had kindly explained that both the land and the structure being built belonged to Marcus, and that they could direct their inquiries to him.

  She grinned as she imagined him being cornered by Mrs. Hightower and her daughter.

  Though the temperature was chilling, a brilliant March sun reigned overhead in a cloudless wash of blue. She wished she’d thought to grab her coat. No doubt, the interior of the building, whatever it held, would be—

  “Some people simply cannot be trusted.”

  Cringing, Eleanor paused and turned to see Marcus striding toward her.

  “I’m disappointed in you, Miss Braddock.”

  “I’m disappointed in me too. I should have come out here five minutes ago, when I first had the thought.”

  He laughed, then looked beyond her and nodded once.

  Eleanor glanced over her shoulder to see a member of his crew closing the door. She gave a dramatic sigh. “Only yards away from discovery and having all my questions answered.”

  He smirked. “My heart bleeds for you, madam.”

  She leveled a stare meant to intimidate, but his smile said it hadn’t worked. The stubble along his jawline told her he’d gone without shaving that morning. And the look suited him. “Thank you for the lovely bowl, and the picture you drew. They’re both beautiful. But . . . what’s the occasion?”

  His gaze warmed. “No occasion. I simply wanted you to know I was thinking about you.”

  She stared, a tad taken aback and thinking he would say more. When he didn’t, she rushed to fill the silence. “Oh . . . well . . . that’s very nice. Thank you, Marcus.”

  “My pleasure, Eleanor.” He tipped an imaginary hat.

  Curious about his behavior, she turned to go back inside, then remembered something. “I’ve been intending to ask you . . .”

  He hadn’t moved.

  “When will you plant the seedball? I’d love to be there and help, if I could.”

  He gave her an odd look. “I’m sorry, but . . . I planted the seeds about a month ago. After I knew, for sure, that I was staying to finish the project. If I didn’t, I was afraid they would die.”

  “Oh . . .” She forced a smile, trying not to let her disappointment show. “I see.”

  “I would have asked you to help, Eleanor. But . . . you and I weren’t seeing much of each other during that time.”

  She recognized his delicate way of saying she had avoided him for a while after learning about the baroness. The baroness . . .

  Marcus hadn’t said one word about her since that day in the carriage. Of course, she wouldn’t have told him about her broken engagement to Lawrence Hockley had he not asked. Yet, his was a completely different arrangement, and she didn’t feel as free to ask him as he had her.

  Exactly what would she say to him once he said, “Yes, I’m still marrying Baroness Maria . . . with forty-seven names.” She would feel awkward, and somehow sadder for having inquired.

  “Well,” she said, aware of him waiting for a response, “what matters is that the seeds are planted. When will the plants be ready for harvest?”

  “Another eight to ten weeks, or so. Close to the time my next graft for your aunt’s rose should bloom. Lord, help me,” he said beneath his breath, a boyish grin tipping his mouth. “I’ve presented well over a hundred unique blooms to that dear woman since I’ve been here, but not one has passed muster, as you Americans say.”

  “Be careful. She may not let you return to Austria without having that done.”

  His eyes sparkled. “That would be a pity, wouldn’t it?”

  Eleanor laughed, but only because it was expected.

  His smile dimmed. “The breed of potato plant the seedball came from isn’t known for producing them, so who knows what we’ll get. Or when. But one thing is for certain. . . . If we get anything, Eleanor, it will be because of you. I don’t think I would have ever noticed it.”

  “Oh, I’m certain you would have. I know you, and you’re very observant.”

  He smiled again, a look in his eyes she knew, and yet also didn’t.

  “You’d be surprised what things are right in front of you, madam, that you sometimes miss.”

  “The renovation is running two weeks ahead of schedule now,” Eleanor proudly announced, trying to gauge the expressions on the faces of the league board members—especially that of her aunt, who was seated near the end of a row, between Mrs. Holcomb and Mrs. Bennett—but to no avail.

  Over the past two weeks, she’d tried speaking to Aunt Adelicia about the vote taking place this morning, but her aunt had avoided the conversation.

  She continued, “Mr. Geoffrey and his crews have completed the renovation of the entire first floor and a good deal of the second. So over half the project is behind us with almost three months remaining. I’m thrilled to share that all of the woodwork crafted in the old courthouse by Mrs. Bennett’s late father-in-law”—she caught Mrs. Bennett’s radiant smile—“has been restored and is now a permanent part of the home.”

  Applause along with whispered affirmations rose from the ladies.

  “And if you haven’t yet stopped by to see the new kitchen, please do. I’d love to show it to you. Mr. Geoffrey designed it himself. And we have the latest in stoves and cookware. Compliments of Mr. Geoffrey, I must add. He most graciously went far above and beyond the plans we originally had for that area, covering that cost himself.”

  Again, the women applauded, and judging by their eager expressions, Eleanor was certain some were making mental notes to speak to Marcus about doing the same for their kitchens.

  She picked up the list of staff she’d submitted for final approv
al and saw Mrs. Holcomb rise from her chair. “And now I’ll turn the meeting back over to Madam President.”

  “Thank you, Miss Braddock. As always, that was a splendid report. Thorough and well presented.”

  Eleanor thanked her and took a seat to the side of the board members, not only because she wasn’t one, but also so she could study them better.

  Aunt Adelicia didn’t so much as look her way. But Mrs. Hightower and her daughter did, and their gazes were anything but supportive.

  “Now, ladies, we have before us the list of staff Miss Braddock interviewed and believes will best serve the needs of the . . .”

  Eleanor almost wished she’d insisted on leaving the room during the voting. But Mrs. Holcomb had objected to the idea, saying it was best Eleanor stayed, since she was, after all, a league member now—much to Eleanor’s lack of enthusiasm over having joined—and in case anyone had questions.

  Eleanor reached into her pocket, the silky, well-worn cotton of the handkerchief reminding her that there were many other things far more important than getting enough votes to be the director of the home.

  But getting that position represented security in the form of room and board, and a steady salary—albeit a small one—that, over time and with other jobs, would pay for her father’s care. It also represented being part of a family she’d grown to cherish in recent months.

  So this vote was very important. At least to her.

  Mrs. Holcomb went line by line through the staff recommendations, reading aloud each position and name of the chosen applicant—along with the notes Eleanor had penned summarizing each person’s qualifications—then calling for brief discussion before taking a vote and continuing to the next. Until finally, she reached the director’s position.

  “The next name is, of course, one that is familiar to us all.”

  Eleanor kept her gaze lowered as Mrs. Holcomb paid her very kind and generous compliments.

  “Before calling for a vote, I’d like to invite discussion. Bearing in mind, of course, that Miss Braddock is in the room with us.” Her tone was the definition of decorum. “So if there is a concern, ladies, please let us express it with—”