Beauty So Rare, A (A Belmont Mansion Novel Book #2) (12 page)

She had, however, instructed Armstead to let her off a few streets away, near the little bakery she’d seen yesterday—Fitch’s Bakery. Not only so she could walk, but because she didn’t want Armstead knowing where she was going—especially if the building proved to be a rattletrap. Or worse, nonexistent.

Hearing a familiar sound amidst the hubbub of the city, she paused. The music took her back to a place she didn’t want to go. But the melancholy strains of the fiddle refused to be deterred, and before she knew it she was inside the canvas walls of the field hospital again, listening to the soldiers outside the tent as they gathered round the campfires and played, singing sad refrains of home and of loved ones dearly missed.

She breathed in, certain she could smell the acrid smoke.

“ ‘Black is the color of my true love’s hair,’ ” the man sang in a twangy voice, the roots of his heritage shaping both the notes and their soulfulness. “ ‘Her cheeks are like the rosy fair . . . The prettiest eyes and daintiest hands . . . I love the ground where on she stands . . .’ ”

Unable to resist, Eleanor moved closer, peering over the crowd of people gathered to see a ragtag band of musicians. The man singing was an amputee, his empty shirt sleeve tucked into the waist of his trousers. She couldn’t help but wonder if she’d been with him when they’d taken his arm. There had been so many . . . too many.

When the song finally ended, the fiddler drew out the final note, its strain bittersweet. Not a person moved. Even the air dared not stir. The singer bowed his head, and for a moment, only the clink of coins in a cup could be heard. Then as quickly as the melancholy strains had laid them all bare, the fiddle came alive again, as did the singer and the other musicians with him.

With the fiddle leading the way, a banjo and zither joined in, then a mouth bow. Eleanor had to laugh when the man who’d been singing started dancing, kicking his legs up and moving faster and with greater dexterity than she would have imagined. His missing arm didn’t hinder his balance a bit.

“ ‘If it hadn’t been for cotton-eyed Joe,’ ” the man sang, the words coming so fast she could scarcely understand them. “‘I’d been married
long time ago. Where did you come from? Where did you go? Where did you come from, cotton-eyed Joe?’ ”

The crowd started clapping. Whoops and hollers went up. Even Eleanor found herself tapping her foot in time to the music and swaying. It was impossible to stay still. Judging by the expressions around her, others felt the same. It was the furthest thing from Mozart or Beethoven, but something about the spirit of this music—the chords, and the tempo—touched her down deep.

This music . . . made people happy.

When the song ended, applause filled the sudden silence. Eleanor worked her way through the crowd and deposited some coins into the cup, nodding to the singer when he thanked her.

Returning to her search, she continued on—heart and steps lighter—peering at the numbers as she went.

Ninety-three,
ninety-one . . .

She paused to check the cross street—Dogwood. She had to be close. The building couldn’t be much—

“Help you find somethin’, sweetheart’?”

Eleanor looked in the direction of the voice and saw a man staring at her. Two others alongside him looked on, their sneers anything but friendly.

“No.” She squared her shoulders. “That won’t be necessary.”

“You sure?” He moved toward her, his mouth curving in an unseemly slant. “’Cause you look lost to me. And ah . . .” He stepped closer. His gaze raked over her body—pausing briefly on her reticule—before meeting her eyes again. “I’m a man who knows his way around a woman, if you get my meanin’.”

Getting his meaning as well as a
pungent
idea of the number of weeks since his last bath, Eleanor took a backward step—and met with the brick wall behind her. She glanced past the men, and became keenly aware of how empty the street was. And of how alone they were.

The man staring down at her was massively built, taller than she, and thick through the chest. But it was the desperate look about him that put her most on edge.

Eleanor moved to skirt past him, but he grabbed her upper arm. She jerked back, and he held tight.

“Maybe you didn’t understand me,” he said, this time looking pointedly at her reticule. “I’m curious to know what you got in there. And”—his eyes narrowed—“what you got in that pocket of yours.”

Eleanor stilled, the worn fabric between her fingertips swiftly
registering. She withdrew the stained handkerchief from her pocket. With it came memories, and an unexpected spark of courage. “I assisted in a surgical tent in the war. A soldier gave this to me during the Battle of Nashville . . . as I watched him die.”

The brazenness in the man’s eyes faltered for a second, and that was all she needed.

Wrenching her arm from his grip, she reached for bravado she didn’t feel, and leached every trace of kindness from her voice. “So while I understand you quite well, sir . . . perhaps you did not understand me. When I say I do not require your assistance, that is
precisely
what I meant.”

Not waiting for his response, she pushed past him and strode on, resisting the urge to look back to see if he was following. She strode to the next block, heart thumping, grateful to see other people ahead, and only then did she glance behind her.

No sign of the men.

She hurried on, reading the addresses but more discreetly this time.

There. Just ahead. That had to be it. Eighty-seven Magnolia Street. The address had sounded so charming in the newspaper advertisement. But as Eleanor approached her destination, she wondered if
87 Selenicereus
Grandiflorus
might not have been a better choice.

She was tempted to smile at the memory the comparison stirred, but as she stood in front of the building, all frivolity fled. Mindful of the wagons in the street, she paused to get a better look.

At least the building existed. That much was good.

But it was a far cry from what she’d imagined. It was not the “excellent opportunity for a thriving business or enterprising restaurateur” the advertisement had boasted.

Still, the wood-plank structure wasn’t leaning to one side, as were its neighbors, and its large glass windows, though caked in dirt, were intact. Same for the windows on the second floor. The ones she could see, anyway.

She tried the front door but, as she’d expected, found it locked. She sighed and peered through the layers of grime and dirt, and felt a tickle of possibility. Or what might have been a possibility, if things had worked out differently.

The front room would have made a wonderful dining area. She could imagine tables draped in simple red-and-white-checked cloths, and sturdy straight-back chairs. Nothing fancy. That wasn’t the point. The point was the food, and cooking, and feeding people, and finding a
way to a better life. A life with more meaning and purpose, that would also provide for her and her father.

“Sorry, ma’am, but the building’s already rented. That’s why there’s no sign in the window.”

Eleanor straightened and turned.

A stout little man staggered back a step. “
Lawd
have mercy, you’re a tall woman!”

Maybe it was due to what had happened a moment earlier or perhaps it was watching her dream fade to nothing through a grimy plate-glass window, but Eleanor found her humor in short supply.

“Yes, sir. I am tall. While you”—she looked him up and down, which didn’t take long—“are decidedly not.”

He frowned as though shocked at her rebuttal, then let out a barking laugh. “And you’re quick too! I like me some sass in a woman. Though, no offense to you, ma’am, I like my women shorter.” He waggled his thick gray eyebrows. “Where I can cozy up to ’em better.”

Eleanor stared, the pieces falling painfully into place. “Mr. Stover, I presume?”

He frowned again. “Yes, ma’am. But how did . . .” His eyes widened. His gaze slid from hers down to her feet then slowly back up again, not a trace of inappropriateness in the act. “Miss
Braddock
?”

“Yes, sir. Eleanor Braddock. It’s a . . . pleasure to meet you, Mr. Stover.”

“Well, I’ll be—” He clamped his mouth shut, then laughed again. “I gotta give it to you, ma’am. You surprised the daylights outta me. And call me Stub, if you want. Everybody else does. Guess you’re here to see your building. Come on in. She’s a beaut!”

Eleanor started to correct him about it being
her
building. But seeing that he’d already unlocked the door . . . would it hurt to look around before she explained her situation?

If the man had recognized her last name or knew of her relation to Adelicia Cheatham, he’d never made mention of it. And she wasn’t about to make the connection for him.

He gave the door a push and, to her surprise, motioned for her to enter first. Perhaps there was a little gentleman in him, after all. She couldn’t help but smile at the pun.

Walking off his frustration, Marcus made his way across town, still coming to grips with what Adelicia Cheatham had asked him to
do. And that he’d agreed to do it! It was approaching midmorning, and wagons and carriages clogged the streets, vying for passage at a hasty clip.

He had to admit, the woman was, by far, one of the best negotiators he’d ever had the pleasure—and slight displeasure, at the moment—of meeting.

And her secret—he’d learned too late—was
patience
.

No telling how long she’d been planning this, waiting for the opportune time to spring the idea on him. Although, he reluctantly acknowledged, for months now he’d been getting the better end of their arrangement.

But today all that had changed with her request.

Designing and installing a garden wasn’t the main issue. Although designing gardens for rich women wasn’t high on his list of priorities, he could easily accomplish the task. And the extra work would present a challenge if his firm was awarded the contract to build the opera house, but his company could handle both projects.

No, the real issue was
where
Mrs. Cheatham wanted the garden designed and installed. He almost laughed thinking of how it would look on his résumé. Or better yet, in
Nashville’s Daily
Banner
.

He could see the headline now—A
USTRIAN
A
RCHITECT
D
ESIGNS
G
ARDENS
FOR
THE
I
NSANE
.

He crossed the street, heading in the direction of Foster’s Textile Mill, where his crew would already be at work. Determined to put the meeting with Mrs. Cheatham out of his mind, he moved his focus to the day’s work. The renovation of the textile mill and warehouse was nearly complete. All they needed to do was install the new front entrance and put up the—

His thoughts broke rein, and he shook his head.
The
Tennessee
Asylum
for the Insane.
Every time he thought of the place Adelicia Cheatham wanted him to construct a garden, he relived the scene in her office. . . .

“I want you to create a beauty spot, Mr. Geoffrey,” she’d explained. “That’s what my father used to call gardens, God rest him. Every place needs one, and the asylum needs one desperately. Oh, and a small plot for a vegetable garden too. I visited the institution not long ago, and the place is all brick and stone and mortar. Hardly a setting conducive for healing body and soul.”

“The . . . asylum?” he’d questioned. “For the
insane
?”

She gave him that cool look. “Do you know of another asylum in the city, Mr. Geoffrey?”

“No, madam, I do not. But—”

“And not everyone there is insane, Mr. Geoffrey. Some of them merely need rest. And . . . quiet.” She studied him, a calculating look in her eyes. “Do you not believe in the soothing nature of beauty?”

He looked at her then, knowing he was a goner.

He wasn’t certain if Adelicia had a personal connection to the asylum, other than that her husband, Dr. William Cheatham, had once been the asylum’s director. But from whatever source her motivation stemmed, he was aggravated with himself for being caught off guard.

The aroma of freshly baked bread caught his attention, followed by the faint but steady pounding at the back of his head. With breakfast far behind him, he needed something to ward off this
schrecklich
headache before it took hold. And he knew just the prescription. He headed in the direction of the yeasty scent.

Intentionally redirecting his thoughts, he studied the structural lines of the buildings he passed and found himself contrasting the differences in architecture and how they flowed together—or didn’t.

Clapboard structures neighbored brick, which stood shoulder to shoulder with buildings of cinder block and those of roughhewn pine. The remnants of war still hung over the city like a threadbare cloak. He saw it in the boarded-up buildings dotting the side streets and in the deserted warehouses hulking dark and empty near the river.