A Beauty So Rare

by Tamera Alexander

  “Mr. Geoffrey,” her aunt continued, “I’m so glad I caught you. The newest blooms you showed me yesterday . . . I’ve been living with the colors since then, and—” She sighed. “I fear none of them are yet what I’d envisioned.”

  Eleanor felt Marcus’s arm tense.

  “But I thought you said you were pleased, Mrs. Cheatham.”

  Her aunt held up a hand. “I said I was pleased with your repeated efforts, Mr. Geoffrey. And I am! I also stated I would have to see the roses in the right light to be absolutely certain. And . . .” Her sweet smile belied the gleam in her eyes. “Now that you’re going to be staying, and that you’re going to be . . . family”—she gave Eleanor’s shoulder a gentle squeeze—“I’d like to see us continue working together for that one perfect rose. Like that of first dawn, if you remember. But not—”

  “—too light,” Marcus supplied. “And with the slightest hint of purple. But not overly orange. And not too overt. Yes, madam.” He smiled. “I remember quite well.”

  Looking more than pleased, her aunt took her leave, and Marcus exhaled.

  “I’ll be grafting roses for that woman for the next decade, won’t I?”

  “And long after . . . your highness,” Eleanor said, laughing softly.

  She allowed him to lead her around his building and to the door she’d wanted to enter for months now.

  “Finally?” she said, looking up at him.

  “I hope you consider this worth the wait.”

  “Without even seeing it, I can already tell you that it is.”

  He unlocked the door, then waited, watching her. With a feigned sigh of impatience, she closed her eyes. The click of a latch, and he opened the door, then guided her inside.

  She heard the soft whoosh of water, like rainfall only . . . more so, and a cool breeze accompanied the fresh scent. “I feel as if we’ve walked into another world,” she whispered, her other senses heightened without benefit of sight.

  His hand tightened over hers in the crook of his arm. “Only a few more steps. Almost there.”

  The soft click of her heeled boots betrayed a stone flooring or path of some kind, and a momentary touch of warmth kissed her face—sunshine slanting through the windows, or roof lanterns, perhaps?

  “All right.” Marcus stopped beside here. “You can look.”

  Anticipation buzzing through her, she opened her eyes and, in a rush, felt her giddiness succumb to disbelief—and complete enchantment.

  “Oh, Marcus . . .”

  All around her, every place she looked—partially hidden behind trees and shrubs, peeking from behind flower beds—delight drew the eye and fascination waited to be discovered.

  Adorning two of the walls, from floor to high ceiling, painted murals brought to life the characters from the stories she and the other women had read to the children in the evenings following dinner. She recognized Red Riding Hood, the young girl who fought the big bad wolf. And the awkward, ugly little duckling and the graceful swan he eventually became. That story had a special place in her own heart.

  “The murals are works of art,” she whispered.

  “And are all compliments of Claire Monroe.”

  Eleanor had known the woman was an artist, but this . . .

  Yet it was the other two walls that tugged at her attention, and emotions. “Is that what Austria is like?” she asked, looking at the snow-capped Alps reaching to the ceiling, some of them—spurred by the imagination—soaring beyond the roofline.

  “It is,” he said, voice soft. “I’ll take you there someday, Eleanor. And we’ll sleep beneath the stars just like my grandfather and I used to do.”

  “I’m taking that as a promise, Marcus Geoffrey.”

  Only then did she see them—huge wooden support beams arching overhead like tree limbs, making her feel as though she were staring up into a canopy in the forest rather than at a ceiling. “How did you do that?”

  Marcus squeezed her hand. “Years of dreaming and planning, followed by months of failed attempts, then finally . . . a measure of success.”

  “A measure?” She softly scoffed. “Marcus, this is . . . beyond belief.”

  He squeezed her hand, satisfaction in the gesture. “Follow me. There’s something else.”

  He led her around to various pebble-covered islands where children’s A-framed swings and seesaws stood waiting to be discovered. And in the very center of the room . . .

  “A merry-go-round,” Eleanor whispered, remembering how much she’d enjoyed the ride as a little girl. Taking turns pushing the platform round and round, then jumping on and holding tight as the world flew past in delightfully dizzying circles. “This is paradise . . . through the eyes of a child.”

  Marcus looked around, the satisfaction on his face briefly dimming. “My father believed playing was of no use to a child.” Distant hurt edged his voice. “But my grandfather thought differently. As did my mother.” His customary smile found its place once again. “I want the children to have a place to play all year long. No matter if it rains or snows. And I modified the roof lanterns.” He pointed up. “They close with louvers now. Just crank them open and shut. Much easier than the big doors I’d first designed. You were right.” He smiled. “They were too cumbersome.”

  Eleanor turned in a circle, wanting to take it all in—when she spotted the waterfall in a back corner of the room.

  She started laughing, and couldn’t stop. “Every child needs a waterfall, too, I guess.”

  “Well, of course. You can’t have the Alps without a waterfall.”

  The sound of a door opening somewhere behind them drew her attention, and Eleanor turned. She felt her heart give as she looked back at Marcus, then down the path again at her father toddling through a door with the help of Nurse Smith.

  “That’s the main reason I was late this morning.” Marcus tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and led her down the path toward them. “I explained this setting to Dr. Crawford, told him how much it would mean to you to have your father in attendance, and he gave his wholehearted blessing.”

  Eleanor pressed her cheek into his shoulder. “Thank you, Marcus. How did he manage the trip into town?”

  Marcus laughed. “He loved it.”

  Just then, her father looked up. A smile broke across his face. “Ellie! Marcus said you would be joining us.”

  “Hello, Theodore. How are you?” Wanting to hug him tight, Eleanor instead settled for a quick shake of his hand, which felt so frail and weak.

  Thoughts of the future and what it might hold threatened to crowd out her happiness, but she quickly reined in her thoughts and her fears. The good-byes here are only temporary. Someday there will be only together forevers.

  “I’m quite well, thank you!” her father said, holding on to Nurse Smith. “Though . . .” A frown crept over his face as he looked around. “I don’t know where I am.”

  “You’re with us, Theodore.” Marcus put an arm around her father’s shoulders. “And your swing is right over here, just like I promised.”

  Her father patted Marcus’s chest. “You always keep your promises, my young friend.”

  Marcus led him around a corner to a secluded spot where, sure enough, a swing—just like the ones at the asylum—faithfully waited. Eleanor marveled at how relaxed her father was in Marcus’s company, and how good Marcus was with him.

  “I love to swing,” her father said, easing down with the help of the nurse.

  “Thank you,” Eleanor whispered to her.

  Nurse Smith merely smiled.

  The shuffle of footsteps and snatches of excited conversation drifted in through the open windows. The children . . .

  Eleanor joined Marcus by the main entry, and together they welcomed the mothers and children into the wonderland Marcus had created.

  In watching his expression as he watched the children, she glimpsed the tangible definition of what it meant to find fulfillment by bringing someone else happiness, by changing a life. Not by h
aving your name—or building—recognized and admired.

  One of the last to enter, the reporter from the newspaper greeted Eleanor by name. “Miss Braddock, how nice to see you again, ma’am. I appreciate your making this opportunity available to me.”

  “It’s my pleasure, sir.” Eleanor glanced at Marcus, who motioned behind him.

  “There are private quarters in the back.” Marcus directed the comment to the reporter. “You can interview Miss Braddock there. I’ll show you the way.”

  “Actually, Mr. Geoffrey”—the reporter glanced between them—“I’m here to interview you, sir. About your invention of . . . roof lanterns.” The man’s gaze wandered the room. “And a whole lot more, from the looks of things.”

  Eleanor loved watching realization work its way into Marcus’s expression.

  “Is that so?” Marcus said, grinning. “And I wonder who told you about those?”

  The reporter started to respond, but Eleanor beat him to it. “Perhaps I mentioned it to him earlier, but”—she did her best to keep a straight face—“I just can’t remember for sure.”

  Later that day, after speaking with every visitor at least five times—or so it felt—Eleanor accompanied Miss Dorothea Dix to the train station, then returned to the home to find dinner prepared. She ate with Marcus and several of the women from the league board and women in leadership positions in the home before slipping back into the kitchen.

  She retrieved the dish she’d placed in the icebox earlier that morning and slid it into one of the still-warm ovens, hoping her latest attempt would be the charm.

  She returned to find Marcus speaking with Sutton Monroe in hushed tones in the mostly empty gathering hall. Their conversation dropped off when she joined them.

  “Well,” she said, looking between them. “This isn’t awkward, is it?”

  Marcus smiled.

  Sutton Monroe only bowed slightly. “Thank you, Miss Braddock, for a most enjoyable dinner. You’ve done a remarkable work here.”

  “I’ve had a great deal of help, Mr. Monroe. Including that from your most talented wife. Please give her my thanks again for her murals. I’m sorry she couldn’t join us tonight. I hope she’s feeling better soon.”

  A hint of red touched Mr. Monroe’s face. “I’m confident she’ll be fine, Miss Braddock. In . . . roughly five months,” he whispered with a knowing wink.

  Eleanor covered her mouth with her hand, thrilled for the couple, and still smiling when Mr. Monroe took his leave.

  Marcus gestured to a bench. “Sit with me?”

  “My pleasure. My feet are killing me.”

  Eleanor discovered they were alone in the gathering hall, everyone else having retired.

  Marcus took her hand in his and brought it to his lips. “I’ve missed you.”

  “I’ve missed you too. Thank you for seeing my father back safely this afternoon.”

  “My pleasure. I . . .” He briefly bowed his head. “I wish I could have known the man he was, the man you’ve known all your life. But I’ve still grown to love him, Eleanor. And we will always . . . always take care of him together. Never doubt that.”

  She scooted closer to him, loving how his arms came around her, pulling her to him. “What did Mr. Monroe tell you?”

  Marcus’s laughter reverberated in his chest. “So much for a tender moment.”

  She stared, unwilling to be put off.

  “I met with him more as a friend than an attorney. And he said what I thought he’d say. That whatever I decide to do, my developing the new potato on the Belmont estate will have no negative implications on your aunt.”

  Eleanor laid her hand on his chest. “You’ve made your decision, haven’t you?”

  He kissed her forehead. “I have.”

  “And?”

  “And . . . later this summer you and I will travel to Boston, where we’ll give Luther Burbank what I hope will be—after we harvest this new crop—the beginnings of a new breed of potato. Which, in turn, he can introduce to the world.”

  Having discussed the reasoning behind his decision, Eleanor understood, and loved him for it all the more. Still . . . “I wish the situation were different.”

  He shook his head. “I’m truly fine with it. And believe that”—he shrugged—“for some reason I can’t fully explain, but that I trust—”

  His gaze held a certainty she understood.

  “—I know it’s what I’m supposed to do. Talking things through with Sutton helped me see that. I understand the local farmers’ hesitation to introduce the new plants into their fields. I’m a foreigner. I have no reputation with them.”

  “Yes, but for one of them to accuse you of wanting to introduce the same blight that swept through Ireland years ago . . .” She exhaled. “That’s ludicrous.”

  His arms tightened around her, and even though she couldn’t see his face, she could feel his smile.

  “My uncle could use you when negotiating with Russia.”

  Tempted to laugh, she couldn’t, not when thinking of his strained relationship with his uncle and father. “You said that the House of Habsburg would be embarrassed if they got wind of your accomplishment. While that may be true, Marcus”—she looked up at him—“I hope you know that your mother and your grandfather would be thrilled.”

  He cradled her tight, and they sat like that for several moments, then he sniffed. “What’s that smell?”

  Oh no. Eleanor jumped up and ran to the kitchen. Heartsick, she grabbed a towel and pulled the apple strudel from the oven and plunked the burned attempt down on the counter.

  Marcus encircled her waist from behind. “You made me another strudel.”

  “Correction. I tried to make you another strudel. And charred it.”

  He reached around her for one of several forks left to dry on the counter. “It’s not burned. It looks just right.”

  She attempted to protest, but he forked a bite, blew on it, and popped it into his mouth. He gave a satisfied groan. “Mmmm . . . delicious. Just like my Mutter’s.”

  “Your mother burned her strudel?”

  He turned her in his arms. “My Mutter never burned strudel. She always baked it to perfection.”

  He forked another bite, blew it, and held it to her lips. Readying herself for the taste of overbaked pastry, Eleanor accepted. And quickly realized . . .

  “You’re right,” she whispered, chewing, then she swallowed. “It’s—”

  “Delicious,” he supplied.

  “Yes!” She glanced back at the dish. “It must be the way the apples are caramelized on the bottom from the longer baking time. Or maybe it’s the—”

  He framed her face in his hands and kissed her, slow and long, the sweetness of apples and cinnamon only adding to the pleasure.

  “Is there anything you can’t do, Eleanor?” he whispered, drawing back.

  She ran a hand over his stubbled jawline. “There are too many things to list. What about you?”

  “Since you’ve come into my life, I feel as if I can do anything. As long as you’re beside me.”

  “And just think . . .” She smiled sweetly and ran a hand through his hair, hoping her next comment would earn the response she desired. “You’ve come such a long way . . . for an under gardener.”

  She wasn’t disappointed.

  Discussion Questions

  Eleanor Braddock is a practical, no-nonsense kind of woman. Could you identify with her character? With how she viewed herself both physically and in relation to others?

  Adelicia Acklen was a “real” person, meaning that her character in the novel is based on a woman who really lived. Adelicia was an extraordinary, “born before her time” woman. What did you think about her character? About her relationship with Eleanor? Can you sympathize with Adelicia’s opinions and her perspective on women’s issues and marriage? Why or why not?

  Eleanor’s father struggles with health issues. What would you liken his disease to today, and have you ever witnessed this health
struggle firsthand in someone you love? Which scenes between Eleanor and her father touched you most, and why?

  Tamera uses a lot of garden imagery in this story. Are you a gardener? Did you identify with the imagery on both a literal and spiritual level?

  Eleanor doesn’t see herself as an attractive woman. In a conversation with Marcus, she responds, “Not everything has to be beautiful to be worthy of admiration.” Discuss why you think she reacted this way and whether or not you’ve ever shared her feelings, especially in the light of the world’s definition of beauty.

  Do you like to cook and/or bake? At one point, Eleanor describes how cooking and baking allows her to “be still” on the inside. Can you relate?

  We often seek to be filled and to have our own needs met, when it’s something else entirely that we need. Discuss how Eleanor experienced this in her character journey. What was it she needed?

  We often wonder why God allows such hurt in this life, especially when it involves children. Eleanor has some fairly accusing thoughts about God. Have you ever had similar thoughts? What does the Bible say about God’s thoughts and ways (read Isaiah 55:9) and how does that relate to this story?

  Marcus desires to make a name for himself, to leave his mark on the world. What happens to him in his character journey? How does his perspective change?

  Before reading this story, had you ever heard of Luther Burbank, Dorothea Dix, or Gregor Mendel? Do you enjoy reading novels that include real people from history?

  In this story, two characters from the TIMBER RIDGE REFLECTIONS series (From a Distance, Beyond This Moment, Within My Heart) share a cameo appearance. Did you catch who they were?

  What was your favorite scene in A Beauty So Rare, and what was your favorite passage? (Write Tamera at Tamera@TameraAlexander.com and tell her, she’d love to know!)

  Visit www.TameraAlexander.com for the full Reader Discussion Guide that contains more reading group questions and Eleanor’s recipes from the novel.