Beauty So Rare, A (A Belmont Mansion Novel Book #2) (28 page)

 23 

S
tanding hand in hand on both sides of Caleb, children huddled together like baby birds pushed too soon from the nest. Three girls, two boys, their hair matted and unwashed, none of them over the age of seven. The girls’ dresses, wrinkled and stained, rose to midcalf and revealed shoes that could barely be called such, they had so little wear left in them. The boys’ clothes looked as though they hadn’t seen a washing in weeks, their trousers worn through at the knees.

But what Eleanor noticed most about them was the hollowed-out, wounded look in their eyes. The shadow of fear fed by hunger and disappointment, and nurtured by the dread that life promised little more.

Eleanor finally found her voice. “Welcome, children. I’m so glad you’re here.”

Caleb smiled, but the children immediately looked to Naomi, who spoke to them in German, her voice soft. They nodded, except for the youngest—a little girl who couldn’t have been more than four. She all but disappeared behind Caleb, her startlingly blue eyes watchful.

“Mr. Stover”—Naomi dipped her head in deference—“I explained to them that you are the owner of this building, sir. And that this is a safe place for them to be.”

Mr. Stover greeted them and, if Eleanor read his expression correctly, was sharing much the same initial reaction as she had.

“And, Miss Braddock,” Naomi continued, “I told them you are a kind and generous lady who has prepared a special dinner . . . just for them.”

Grateful for Naomi’s sensitive nature, Eleanor smiled, wanting the children to feel welcome. It hadn’t occurred to her that whoever Caleb brought for dinner might not understand English. “
Willkommen, Kinder
,” she offered.

The older children returned the polite gesture. But not little Blue Eyes. The girl frowned, obviously unconvinced.

Caleb looked down the line. “This is Levi and Hutch. And Ruthie and Anja.”

The two boys dipped their heads as the older girls stared.

“And this”—Caleb tousled the hair of the little blond beside him—“is Maggie.” He grinned. “But we call her Magpie because she does not talk much.”

Mr. Stover chuckled, and Caleb glanced at Eleanor as if wanting to make certain she caught his play on words.

Eleanor gave him a wink, then repeated the children’s names, smiling at each of them as she did. “Now, shall we eat?”

Caleb ushered the little ones into the kitchen, Mr. Stover following, and Eleanor retrieved plates from the cupboard. With Naomi’s assistance, she portioned out the food, hoping she had enough and wishing she’d made more.

Naomi leaned close. “I am sorry, Miss Braddock,” she whispered. “I did not realize he had invited so many. These are some of the children who live in our building. We have shared the food you have given us with them. And their
Mutter
s. My son has a kind heart, but sometimes he—”

“No, Naomi. This is fine.
More
than fine.” Eleanor coaxed the last of the potatoes from the casserole. “I only wish I’d made extra.”

“Whatever these precious children receive from your hand, Miss Braddock . . . be assured, it is more than fills their bellies on other nights.”

Eleanor turned to see the children, Caleb included, seated on the floor, forks in hand, filled plates and cups of water before them, all of them staring alternately at the food, then up at her. Waiting.

She joined Mr. Stover and Naomi at the table. Their chairs scraped overloud in the silence. When Mr. Stover bowed his head, everyone else followed suit.

He offered a heartfelt prayer Eleanor knew she’d likely not remember, while at the same time knowing she would never forget the moment, or the tender ache crowding the corners of her heart.

Here she was worried about a restaurant she would never have, and about having dinner with a man who—despite her flippant thoughts about him earlier—would likely prove to be a very kind gentleman, and all the while, these children, through no fault of their own, went to bed hungry most nights, only to awaken to the same.

She thought again of the women she’d seen clustered outside the textile mill, of how desperate some of them had appeared. And how close she was to being in their same situation. If not for her aunt . . .

How easy it was to slip back into the comfort of one’s own life, even into one’s own worries and fears, and to unintentionally forget. Tears rose to her eyes. Her throat tightened.
Oh, Lord, forgive
me. . . . Help me to be more grateful.

“Amen,” Mr. Stover said, and a hushed echo rose from the children.

Amen
. A word that needed no translation.

Eleanor picked up her fork, then paused and looked back to see the children shoveling food into their mouths as quickly as they could, their little jaws working to keep up with their appetites. She glanced across the table at Mr. Stover and Naomi and offered the tiniest smile—before picking up her plate.

They laughed and did the same.

By the time Eleanor scraped the last bite of peach cobbler from the dish—save for the few bites she’d set aside for Marcus—she wondered if this was why God had said no to her restaurant.

Maybe He had something else in mind.

She thought again of a man who carried a rose with him into battle and then carried regret with him into death.

She didn’t want that—to have regrets at the end, to look back on things she wished she’d had the courage to do but didn’t even try. She didn’t want to merely survive this life. She wanted to
live
it.

He was being blackballed. There was no other explanation for it. Marcus crumpled the latest response to a bid and threw it in the post-office waste receptacle. He didn’t have to look far to know who was behind the action either. He’d been getting steady work—up until the time he’d confronted Mayor Adler.

On his way out the door, he remembered the letter to Burbank—and a brief one to the baroness—in his coat pocket and returned to the counter.

“Something else for you, Mr. Geoffrey?” the mail clerk asked.

Marcus slid the envelopes toward him. “I need to post these, please. Today, if possible.”

“Yes, sir. Wednesday’s mail coach leaves in an hour. I’ll make sure these are on it.”

Marcus handed the clerk a coin. Maybe he should go by the mayor’s office and speak to Adler, though he doubted that would help. He had the funds to make payroll for his men. For the time being, anyway. But if business dried up, he would lose his crew. They’d go where there was work. And with no money coming in, he’d have to access his cash reserves, which he was set against doing.

Those funds were earmarked for a special project.
If
it came along in time for him to complete before he returned to Austria. From where he stood, those prospects looked slim.

He had considered moving to another city. Every city needed architects. But it was too late now. Besides, he needed Nashville. More specifically, he needed Belmont and his plants. And with winter coming, the conservatory. But that wasn’t all he needed here.

He couldn’t imagine leaving
her
behind, never seeing her again. Even if he had no right to think of her in that manner. Which he didn’t. Either way, leaving before he absolutely had to wasn’t an option.

He’d simply have to continue submitting bids and meeting with city leaders until one of them had the courage to stand up to Augustus E. Adler.

He’d grown so desperate, he’d even checked with the Nashville Women’s League about their tea hall—although if Fitch ever found out, he’d deny it with a vengeance. The job had already been awarded to another company, which he’d decided was for the best when he met the woman from the league responsible for overseeing the project. Miss Hillary Stockton Hightower.

To say there wasn’t enough money in the world to tempt him to take the job was an understatement. Everything about her was off-putting: from the delicate way in which she laughed—breathy and practiced—to her carefully arranged blond curls of which she was most proud, judging by the way she tossed her head, to the way she gazed up at him, looking askance and smiling as if on cue.

He hadn’t been in the meeting five minutes when she began to speak ill of the architect the organization had contracted. Heaven help that man. . . . The architect hadn’t yet begun the project, and Miss Hightower was already displeased.

Marcus couldn’t say
auf Wiedersehen
quickly enough.

After a quick lunch in town, Marcus supervised his crew through the afternoon. By day’s end, he gauged their progress and estimated another three weeks and they’d be done with this job.

With nothing lined up after it.

Standing at the door of the warehouse and looking down Union Street, he reached into his pocket for a sugar stick, one of several he’d bought after that day at the asylum. But they were all gone. He’d been back to the asylum only once, and hadn’t seen the old gentleman.

What he really wanted right now was some of that peach cobbler Eleanor had made on Saturday. Or the chocolate chess pie on Sunday. Or the shortbread on Monday. Or that savory custard with ham and cheese she’d brought him in the conservatory last night. If he couldn’t find another job, he might just build the woman a restaurant and set her loose in it.

He smiled at the absurdity of the thought. But considering what he’d eaten in some of the restaurants of Nashville, she’d make a small fortune in no time.

He’d enjoyed walks with her on the Belmont estate nearly every evening since her aunt had left almost two weeks ago. The last two nights Eleanor hadn’t met him until it was almost dark. Errands in town, she’d said, appearing exuberant despite the late hour.

Those quiet walks were quickly becoming his favorite part of the day, and he looked forward to seeing her again tonight. He had plans to surprise her with something he hoped she would enjoy.

“Boss, you all right?”

Marcus looked up to see his foreman. “Yes, Callahan. I’m fine.”

The rest of the men were gone. He and Callahan were always the last to leave.

“Concerned about the next job, sir?”

Marcus exhaled. “I wasn’t until today. I didn’t want to say anything while the men were around but . . . you’re aware of the bids I submitted for the photograph gallery and the Library Association.”

Callahan nodded.

Marcus shook his head. “I got the gallery’s rejection yesterday and the Library Association’s today.”

Callahan frowned. “There’s no way anyone could have underbid us on those. Or proposed a better design.”

“I thought so too, but . . . apparently someone did.”

While he’d chosen not to relay the details of his last meeting with the mayor to Callahan, he’d made certain his foreman knew that Adler had been terse. And not at all pleased with him.

A moment passed before Callahan spoke again. “Do you think somebody could be behind this, Mr. Geoffrey?”

His tone drew Marcus’s attention. “Have you heard something?”

Callahan shrugged, but it was a gesture Marcus recognized. The man had information.

Robert Callahan knew pretty much everyone in Nashville. If anything was being discussed or planned in regard to construction, Callahan knew it. Or would by the time breakfast was over.