Beauty So Rare, A (A Belmont Mansion Novel Book #2) (11 page)

He’d been only eleven years old when the famine struck Europe twenty-two years ago. Still, he remembered. Starvation and loss had touched every corner of the continent. He shook his head. Though
Ireland was most greatly affected, with one million people dead in that country alone, the disease ravaged potato crops throughout Europe.

He checked the last plant. The leaves were hearty. Not a speck of dark on any of them. A good sign—one he’d seen often enough while waiting for the plant to mature . . . only to finally unearth the same ill-shaped, dry-rotting little tubers almost three months later.

But just as he knew he could construct the opera house he’d designed, if given the chance, he knew there was a way—there had to be—to create stronger, more disease-resistant food. Potatoes, specifically. And he was certain he’d be the first to find it.

Although he was equally as certain Luther Burbank would offer a differing opinion. Marcus hoped again that he’d made the right decision in agreeing to share findings with Burbank. After all, they were working toward the same goal.

In the end, as was often the case in science, only one man’s name would be remembered for the discovery, and Marcus wanted it to be his own. He wanted to be known for something other than what had been handed him.

He brushed the dirt from his hands and checked his pocket watch, surprised to discover it was later than he’d thought. Pushing himself to his feet, he started toward Regal.

He had a meeting with Mrs. Cheatham, and if luck was on his side, he would have another run-in with Miss Braddock.

 7 

M
inutes later, Marcus dismounted by the front steps of the mansion and, seeing Zeke running straight for him, gathered the reins of the stallion.

“You out here early this mornin’, Mr. Geoffrey, sir.”

“Yes, I am, Zeke.”

The boy reached out as if to take the reins, a gleam in his eyes. And Marcus easily guessed why.

He eyed the boy, then the recently purchased stallion. “Are you certain you can handle him?”

Zeke gave the stallion a look of admiration and puffed out his chest. “Sure I can, sir. I been takin’ care of the Lady’s horse for a while now.”

Following the direction in which Zeke pointed, Marcus spotted a magnificent bay stallion in the corral. He’d seen the horse before, but never being ridden.
That
was Mrs. Cheatham’s mount? He found himself surprised by the woman. Yet again.

Marcus handed over the reins. “I entrust Regal to your care, young man.”

With cautious respect, Zeke reached up and stroked the stallion’s neck. “He’s a beauty, sir. Where’d you get him?”

“From Belle Meade Plantation. Not far from here.”

“Oh yes, sir. I been over to Belle Meade with Mr. Monroe. That’s where the Lady gets all her horses. They got ’em some mighty fine ones, don’t they?”

“The best I’ve seen.” He started up the front steps. “I shouldn’t be long.” At least he hoped not.

Marcus could count on one hand the number of times he’d been invited—or summoned was more like it today—to the mansion. And
that was fine by him. The conservatory was where he felt most at home, with nature.

He rapped on the door, and the housekeeper—her name escaped him—gave him entrance. He briefly explained the nature of his visit. “Mr. Gray said Mrs. Cheatham wanted to see me this morning.”

She ushered him through the entrance hall, with its statuary and paintings fit for a palace. But it was the expert craftsmanship in the woodwork and marble work of the mansion that drew Marcus’s eye.

She paused outside the central parlor. “Please wait in here, Mr. Geoffrey. I’ll inform Mrs. Cheatham of your arrival.”

When meeting with Mrs. Cheatham before, they’d usually met in a small room off to the right of the entrance hall. The library, they called it. Though, compared to the libraries he was accustomed to back home, the small space reminded him more of a quaint reading room.

A painting on the parlor wall drew his attention, and he took a closer look at the stunning colors and masterful detail. Just as he’d thought—it was Jan van Kessel’s work, a Flemish artist whose paintings hung in the palace back home.

From memory of van Kessel’s other pieces, he dated the painting to the mid-sixteen hundreds, give or take. Adelicia Cheatham’s owning one was impressive.

The next painting that caught his eye earned a near smile—a younger Mrs. Cheatham standing shoulder to shoulder with a bay stallion that looked very much like the one outside. But having seen both the woman and the thoroughbred, Marcus knew that a stool or crate of some sort must have been involved in capturing the image on canvas.

Adelicia Cheatham, petite as she was, would have had to stand on tiptoe for the top of her head to come even close to reaching the thoroughbred’s withers. Not so for another woman he’d met only yesterday . . .

He stepped forward and peered into the grand salon, then down both long hallways, admiring the architectural design and wondering, again, in which wing Miss Braddock’s room resided. He further wondered whether or not she rode. No dainty pony or delicate mare would suit her—in stature or in temperament. He would gamble—if he still allowed himself that vice—that she was a competitive rider.

He looked back at the portrait of Mrs. Cheatham on the wall, and this time, he thought he caught a glimmer of resemblance between her and her niece. Not in physical appearance so much as the set of the chin, and the direct, uncompromising look in the eyes. He had
no idea whether the two women were blood relations, but they most definitely shared the trait of obstinacy. Miss Braddock seemed to have difficulty sustaining a smile, whereas her aunt could command one at will, whether heartfelt or not.

“Bucephalus,” a familiar voice announced behind him.

Marcus turned. “Pardon me?”

Mrs. Cheatham smiled. “My stallion’s name—Bucephalus.”

“Ah, I see.” He bowed at the waist. “Good morning, Mrs. Cheatham.”

“
Guten Morgen
, Herr Geoffrey,” she said pointedly.

“
Guten Morgen
, Frau Cheatham.”

“Oh, I adore European accents.”

“And I find the accent of the American South especially charming, madam.”

She shook her head. “American accents are nothing by comparison. But you are gracious to say as much. I appreciate your coming this morning, as I requested. As Mr. Gray informed you, I’m sure, I had wished to speak to you about the special rose you are grafting for me.” She sneaked in a dazzling smile. “But as it turns out, there is an idea I desire to present to you, Mr. Geoffrey. And in that regard, your timing this morning is impeccable. But we mustn’t dally. A group of ladies is scheduled to arrive for a meeting shortly. So if you’ll join me in the library”—she motioned—“I give you my word, this won’t take long.”

Marcus followed, his curiosity not so much roused as his guard was raised. It occurred to him that she might ask him to take over the construction of the new billiard hall. But the thought of coming in midstream on a project wasn’t enticing. Especially with the setbacks they’d experienced.

She’d admitted to him early on that if he’d arrived before she’d taken bids for the project, he likely would have been chosen for the job. While flattered, to an extent, Marcus was fairly certain he did not want to be in Mrs. Cheatham’s direct employ. Designing a flower for her was one thing. Constructing a building to her liking would be another. And her reasoning for having the art gallery torn down nearly a year ago—because it interfered with her view—only confirmed his opinion.

He stepped into the library and was surprised to find Mr. Monroe, Mrs. Cheatham’s personal attorney, already there.

Monroe offered his hand. “Mr. Geoffrey, good to see you again.”

“You as well, Mr. Monroe.” Marcus glanced between him and Mrs. Cheatham, even more curious now about this
idea
she desired to present. Especially if she needed legal counsel present.

Monroe smiled as though reading his thoughts. “Not to worry, Mr. Geoffrey. You’re not about to be served with a summons. My being here is strictly coincidental.”

“Oh yes, indeed.” Mrs. Cheatham claimed her chair behind the desk and indicated for them to sit as well. “Mr. Monroe is helping me stave off the Federal government’s excessive taxation of my property.” She scoffed softly. “The war is long past, but Washington, D.C., continues to treat some of us as though we’re
Southern sympathizers
. I’m afraid the same is true of local government. They’re ready to tax or take at every turn.” She shook her head. “The North still doesn’t trust us.”

Monroe gave a brief laugh. “And do you trust them, Mrs. Cheatham?”

“By no means,” she quickly countered, then smiled. “But that’s different. I’m in the right.”

Even Marcus had to smile at that.

Monroe turned to him. “I’m glad our visits happened to coincide this morning, Mr. Geoffrey. I’ve wanted to thank you for allowing my wife to bring her students to paint some of your recent . . .
creations
, I guess we’d call them. Mrs. Monroe came home raving about the new varieties and colors of roses that now fill the conservatory.”

Marcus gave a nod, remembering how he’d purposefully steered Mrs. Monroe and the children away from his grafting room and outdoor garden, not wanting one of the children to accidentally pluck something they shouldn’t. “
Creations
is a strong word for what I do. It’s more a process of repetition and discovery. I merely take what the Almighty has created and . . . alter it a little.”

“Well, well . . .” Mrs. Cheatham smiled. “I didn’t realize European men could be so humble, Mr. Geoffrey.”

Marcus laughed, despite himself. “Only those who have worked with nature enough to know how truly magnificent and boundless it is in design, and how little we actually understand about it.”

Mrs. Cheatham dipped her head in acknowledgment. “Well stated, Mr. Geoffrey. Again, I appreciate your responding so quickly to my request for a visit. Mr. Monroe being here makes it all the easier too. But first, I hope you still find the facilities here at Belmont to your liking. The conservatory, the watering system, the plot of land I’ve loaned to you at no expense.”

Marcus eyed her for a brief second, sensing she was up to something. “Yes, madam. Belmont’s facilities are beyond question the finest I could ask for. As is the weather in this part of your lovely country.”

She beamed. “While I can’t take credit for the weather, I’m so pleased
our arrangement continues to remain satisfactory for you. Because it certainly remains so for me.”

Marcus knew when he was being set up, even by one as skillful in persuasion as Adelicia Acklen Cheatham.

A quick glance beside him found Mr. Monroe looking his way, and the faintest grin on the man’s face told him that Sutton Monroe not only knew what was going on, but he knew what Marcus was thinking too—which made the situation all the more interesting.

So Marcus settled in for the show. His only question . . .

What could such a woman—whose personal attorney was present and already so well informed—possibly want from him?

The lower the address numbers went, the rougher the neighborhood and its residents became, and the tighter Eleanor clutched her reticule. She didn’t have an abundance of money. But what little she had, she had on her person. Which, in hindsight, hadn’t been the wisest choice.

She’d slipped from the mansion straightaway after breakfast, not wanting to risk being cornered by the gathering of her aunt’s friends. Aunt Adelicia had been civil enough about her not attending the meeting today, though her pensive frown had spoken volumes.

Pedestrians and wagons crowded the streets, along with a surprising number of children, many of them young—and so thin, their eyes large with hunger. Several times, as people passed, they bumped her without so much as a backward glance, much less a “
Pardon me,
” and even in her simple shirtwaist and skirt, Eleanor felt overdressed.

She heard German and Italian being spoken, and caught several Irish accents coloring the mix. Only one street over, rows of warehouses dwarfed the smaller business establishments, and weathered shingles above the doors made the addresses difficult to read. Many of the buildings weren’t numbered at all, which only made the search more challenging.

One-seventeen, one-thirteen . . .

The longer she went without locating the building, the more she feared Aunt Adelicia’s prediction about the building owner would prove true. And she loathed the thought of appearing the fool to Adelicia Cheatham.

After an early breakfast, she’d managed to slip away, thankful her aunt understood, or at least accepted, her missing the women’s meeting.
She hadn’t asked what errand sent Eleanor out so early in the morning but, with lingering disapproval, insisted she take a carriage. Eleanor preferred to walk and needed the exertion. She hadn’t slept well, and it was only two miles from Belmont into town, but under the circumstances, she’d agreed.