Beauty So Rare, A (A Belmont Mansion Novel Book #2) (34 page)

There was something comforting about bread needing to be still, needing peace and tranquility in order to become everything it was meant to be. She felt that way sometimes too. Perhaps that’s why she enjoyed cooking. It gave her time to “be still” on the inside.

A sign in a window she passed caught her attention, and upon seeing what it advertised, she slowed her pace.
Calico, Simple Prints
, and Solid Fabrics on Sale.
The handwriting on the slate board clean and tidy. Right above it painted in plain white stencil letters was the shop’s name.
Simply
Dresses
. And beneath that:
Made-to-Order Dresses Simply Made
Well.

She peered through the window. It was a tiny shop. Not much to it, really. But she thought of Naomi’s two dresses, as well as those of other widows in the close-knit group, and her hand was on the latch before she consciously summoned the act.

A bell jangled overhead when she opened the door.

What the shop lacked in size and elegance, it made up for in neatness and a surprisingly larger selection of inventory than she’d expected. Spools of thread, pin cushions, and seamstress tape, each in their own place, sat atop a small desk in one corner, a dais for alterations beside it.

Almost before the final note from the bell above the door dissolved, a woman appeared through a curtained doorway, smile in place and work in hand.

“Welcome, ma’am. How may I help you?”

Eleanor glanced at her surroundings. “You have a very nice shop here.”

“Thank you.” The warmth in the woman’s expression deepened. “It’s not fancy. . . .” She gave a somewhat shy smile. “But neither are the dresses I make. I sew mostly day dresses, ma’am. Also shirtwaists and skirts. I sew them fast but sew them well. I have samples of my work right here. Along with the prices.”

Appreciating the woman’s candor, Eleanor viewed the dresses hanging on hooks to the side. Simple fabrics, no fancy tapering or scalloped necklines. But the material was thick and well woven, the stitching tight and true, and the buttonholes, even and well spaced. Far nicer than either of Naomi’s dresses. And the prices were very reasonable.

Eleanor silently calculated, thinking not only of Naomi but of the other widows. And the children. Her personal funds were already stretched, but at this price, she could manage to help a few. Especially with winter on its way.

“By chance, do you make children’s clothes?”

The woman nodded. “I certainly do.”

“Well . . .” Eleanor nodded. “You do
fine
work.”

“Thank you, Mrs. . . .”

“Oh . . .” Eleanor forced a laugh. “Actually, it’s
Miss
. I’m not married.”

“I beg your pardon, ma’am.” The woman’s face flushed. “I simply assumed when you asked about children that—”

“Oh . . .” Eleanor waved the comment away as though it were nothing. “I wasn’t referring to my own children, but children in general. No harm done, I assure you.”

Eleanor maintained her smile. But deep inside, that distant heartbeat of the mother she might have been rose to a steady thrum. She thought of her upcoming dinner next Monday evening with Mr. Hockley, when he returned from New York, and of the decision she had to make. Her head told her one thing, her heart another.

Seeing the woman shift beside her, Eleanor tucked her thoughts behind an embarrassed expression. “Forgive my manners . . . I’m Miss Eleanor Braddock. And you are?”

The woman gave a brief curtsy, regret lingering in her gaze. “Mrs. Malloy, ma’am. Rebecca Malloy. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Braddock.”

“The pleasure is mine, Mrs. Malloy.” Eleanor eyed the dresses again,
this
decision easily made. “You said you sew fast and sew well. I can clearly see how
well
.” Eleanor leaned in as though conspiring. “Now I’d like to see how fast. Shall we?”

Armstead pulled the carriage to a stop outside the mercantile just as Eleanor exited, her father’s book in hand. Armstead climbed down to open the carriage door.

“Miss Braddock! Miss Braddock!”

Eleanor turned in the direction of the voice and saw Mr. Stover, short legs churning, waving to her as he crossed the street.

Armstead straightened to his full height beside her, but Eleanor swiftly reassured him. “The gentleman is a friend, but thank you, Armstead.”

Armstead dipped his head and moved a few steps away, but he remained watchful.

Mr. Stover stopped before her and worked to catch his breath. “I’m glad I saw you, ma’am. I’ve got news!”

“From the looks of it, I’m guessing it’s exciting news, Mr. Stover.”

“Oh, it is, ma’am. It is!” He suddenly looked at the carriage as though just then seeing it and whistled low. “Well, if this ain’t fancy enough for Queen Victoria herself.”

Eleanor winced, realizing Mr. Stover was still unaware of her connection to her aunt. Feeling as though she owed him an explanation—and guilt prodding her to give him one—she hurried to explain.

“Mr. Stover, this isn’t my carriage. It belongs to—”

“Mrs. Adelicia Acklen Cheatham. Your aunt. Yes, ma’am, I know. Everybody in town knows whose buggy this is.” He rose on tiptoe and peered through the window, his wheeze of laughter high-pitched. “It’s a real beauty, ain’t it?”

Eleanor hesitated. “So . . . you’ve known all along that my aunt is Mrs. Cheatham?”

He grinned. “Not all along, ma’am. But early on. One of the shopkeepers saw you comin’ into my place one day and thought I’d done sold the building to Mrs. Cheatham herself.” He laughed. “As if she got need for a place like that, I told him.”

Eleanor returned his smile, but her conscience wouldn’t rest. “I’m sorry, Mr. Stover, for keeping that from you. It’s simply that I wanted to—”

“Oh, I think I know, Miss Braddock. You wanted to do this on your own. Stand on your own two feet.” He nodded. “You bein’ one of them women who went to school and all . . .” He winked. “It added up for me.” His expression did another quick turn. “Now, my news! I just met with a man this morning, and I think we got us a renter.”

Eleanor heard the words but couldn’t believe it. “A renter? For the building?”

“Yes, ma’am!” He beamed. “So you’ll be gettin’ some of your money back. All of it, if I can swing it, seein’ what you’ve been doin’ for everybody else. I met with him at the building about two hours ago. He asked lots of questions too. Was real interested in knowin’ how it was bein’ used. So I told him all about you and what you were doin’. You better bet I sang your praises, ma’am. And every note was true.”

Eleanor tried to appear pleased, knowing this was best for Mr. Stover. But . . . the building.
Her
building.
Rented?
Where would she cook in order to feed all these people? Where would they meet?

Uncertainty crept into Mr. Stover’s expression. “You don’t seem too happy about it, Miss Braddock. I figured this was what you wanted.”

“It was.” She managed a nod, then saw the earnestness in his face and realized she was viewing this from a very selfish perspective. “And it is.” She gave him what she hoped was a persuasive smile. “You’ve needed to rent this building for a long time now, so this
is
good news. But you said . . . we
think
we have a renter. So it’s not certain yet.”

“No, ma’am. But like I said, he seemed real interested. Said I’d know his answer for sure in the morning.”

The second-floor hallway of the asylum was unusually quiet, and Eleanor’s footsteps echoed down the corridor. Nurses and orderlies passed, greeting her with silent nods and briefly lived smiles. She returned them, wondering what kind of lives these people lived outside these walls and grateful for whatever it was that compelled them to work in an institution like this, caring for people like her father.

Pausing outside his room, she balanced the savory custard in one hand and reached for the latch with the other, all while praying this visit would be worlds different from their last.

She knocked softly and pushed open the door.

Her gaze went first to the chair. But when she found it vacant, she looked at the bed—and saw him curled on his side beneath the covers, his back to her. Concern hastened her steps to him. Was he sick? If so, they should have sent for her.

“Papa?” She set the custard and her reticule aside and rounded the bed, bracing herself. For what, she didn’t know. But when she saw the gentle rise and fall of his chest, and heard not a hint of labored breathing or rattle in his lungs—the telltale signs of pneumonia—she began to relax.

His eyes were closed. His hands clutched the blanket beneath his chin. Her mind played a trick on her, and for an instant, she saw Teddy again, as a young boy, curled in that same fetal position, fast asleep. Tears rose to her eyes as she brushed the hair from her father’s forehead. The strands felt coarse beneath her fingertips.

“Papa . . . can you hear me?”

Only the sweet unencumbered sound of sleep filled the silence.

The curtains to his room had been pulled halfway closed and dulled the brilliant sunlight of the crisp fall afternoon. She settled herself in his chair, the one they’d brought from home, and leaned back into it, the suppleness of the well-worn leather and the indentation of her father’s frame embracing her like an old friend.

Her eyes drifted shut, and she indulged them, the weight of cares and busyness of recent weeks—and months and years—tugging at her like a tide on the shore, and she finally gave in to it.

She awakened to a shuffling sound and looked over to find her father sitting up in bed, a fork in his hand and the casserole containing the savory custard tucked in his lap.

“It’s delicious,” he whispered, smiling at her.

Eleanor blinked to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. But there he was, still eating, still smiling.

She rose and stretched, noting the sun’s brilliance had only slightly lessened. She hadn’t been asleep long. “How are you, Papa?”

“I’m better now.” He held up the casserole. “Ham and cheese. My favorite.”

He held out the fork to her, but she shook her head.

“I like watching
you
eat.”

Still hesitant to trust the gift of this moment, she moved to sit on the edge of the bed.

“I watched you for a while.” He pointed toward the chair. “It was nice, Eleanor. Waking up and seeing you sleeping there. It’s been a long time since we’ve seen you.”

The moment quivered, as did her heart. “We?” she asked softly.

He looked at her. “Why . . . your mother and I, of course. She should be back anytime now.” He shook his head. “She worries about you volunteering with those wounded soldiers. Being so close to the battle lines. It’s not safe for a woman, she says. And I agree.”

“Don’t you worry about me, Papa. I’m being careful.”

“That’s what I tell her, but you know your mother.” He shoveled in bite after bite.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I do.”

Remembering the book she’d bought for him, she retrieved it from the side table. “I brought you something. One of our favorites.” She handed it to him. “It’s your very own copy. The cover looks different because the book has been reprinted recently.”

“
Conversations on Common
Things
 . . . by Dorothea Dix,” he read
aloud, opening the cover. “Why does this sound so familiar? Have I—” He stilled, then frowned, staring at the page. He shook his head. “No . . . no, no, no,
no, no
 . . .”

Over and over he said it. Eleanor leaned closer, trying to see what he was looking at, what was upsetting him so, when his expression caved.

His mouth moved, but at first no words came. Then finally, “Eighteen . . . sixty-seven,” he rasped. “But the war and . . .” He paled. “Your mother . . .”

He looked at her as though searching for an explanation in her features, and in the instant Eleanor realized what was happening, he let out a heartrending cry.

She reached for him, but he curled up on his side again, hands tucked beneath his chin, desperate sobs pouring from him.

Nurse Smith suddenly appeared beside the bed. Eleanor hadn’t even heard her come in.

“What happened?” the young woman asked.

“I gave him a book, and he read the title page, and . . .” Eleanor looked at her. “I think it was the date inside.”

Her father wept. “Oh, my sweet Anna. My sweet, sweet Anna.”

Nurse Smith came alongside her father and put her face close to his. “Theodore, listen to my voice. It’s going to be all right.
You’re
going to be all right.”

But her father’s cries all but drowned out the reassurances.

An orderly entered the room, syringe in hand.

“Only half the dose for now,” Nurse Smith instructed, still huddled close to her father, arm around his shoulders. She turned to Eleanor as the orderly administered the injection. “This has been happening more frequently. Sometimes multiple times a day. He forgets that”—she whispered the next words—“your mother and brother are gone.” Nurse Smith gave a troubled sigh, looking back at him. “And when he remembers, he loses them all over again.”