Beauty So Rare, A (A Belmont Mansion Novel Book #2) (35 page)

Eleanor’s eyes filled. Her father’s memory lapses weren’t new. They had become more frequent the past two years. But to relive that awful pain of loss
so
often? It was hard enough to endure once. But again and again?

Nurse Smith slipped something from her pocket and when Eleanor saw what it was, she wished she’d thought to bring some with her.

“Here you go, Theodore. Your favorite. Can you take it in your hand, please?”

Between sobs, her father reached for the sugar stick. But he didn’t put it in his mouth. He only held it, eyes clenched tight.

Minutes passed, and he began to relax. His breathing evened. His weeping gradually tapered to whimpers, and when he finally opened his eyes again, he looked first at the nurse, then at Eleanor.

“Eleanor,” he whispered, relief and gratitude in his eyes. “You’re still here with me . . . aren’t you . . .”

Speaking past the lump in her throat, Eleanor nodded. “Yes, Papa. I’ll always be here. I’ll never leave you.”

He reached for her hand and brought it to his chest. “Thank you,” he whispered over and over, his words growing fainter the closer sleep came. “I don’t think I could live . . . if I lost you too.”

Feeling Nurse Smith’s attention, Eleanor glanced over and found the woman’s cheeks wet with tears.

“I love you, Eleanor,” her father whispered, his eyes drifting shut.

Eleanor pressed a kiss to his forehead. Then another, and another. “I love you too, Papa. So very much.”

 28 

T
he next morning, Eleanor awakened later than planned and had scarcely closed the bedroom door behind her before she heard voices in the family dining room. She froze midstride in the hallway—

But not before a squeaky floorboard gave her away.

“Eleanor? Is that you?”

Recognizing the voice, she clenched her eyes tight.

Not only had she overslept—it was approaching half past ten—but apparently the family had returned home after she’d retired last night. She softly exhaled, yesterday’s news about the building and potential renter weighing heavy, and the visit with her father still tugging at her heart.

Wishing for a strong cup of coffee, two of Mr. Fitch’s doughnuts—no,
three
—and another lifetime to prepare for this conversation with her aunt, she took a deep breath and rounded the corner.

“Good morning!” She half expected to see the entire family, but only Aunt Adelicia was present. Yet she was certain she’d heard other voices.

Her aunt presided at the foot of the table, a china cup and saucer her only companion. Her smile tight and eyes keen, her aunt’s countenance was the definition of composure. And two words entered Eleanor’s mind:
She knows.

But how? A rush of scenarios flitted through her mind but the rule of probability swiftly dismissed each one, and Eleanor finally attributed her suspicion to her own guilty conscience.

She glanced through the entryway on the opposite wall into the library. “I thought I heard voices.”

“Good morning, Eleanor. And yes, you did. The children came to see me during their
late
morning break from studies. You just missed them.”

Not
missing the subtlety of her aunt’s insinuation, Eleanor felt the nudge to explain her reason for oversleeping but couldn’t without
revealing everything. Which she needed to do, but it had to be in the right order.

She’d been so tired upon returning home last night, she’d simply crawled into bed and didn’t even remember pulling up the covers. Ninety-six women and children had shown up for the meal last evening.
Ninety-six
. She’d scarcely prepared enough food. She’d trimmed back on the portion size and had foregone eating a meal herself just so they would have enough.

If anyone had ever told her that cooking for widows and fatherless—sometimes parentless—children would have been the answer to her prayers for a restaurant, she would have thought them daft, or at least weak in the head. It demanded most of her time—preparing menus, shopping for ingredients, and then the cooking and cleaning. But providing the meals, and offering encouragement and hope to these widows and their children was more fulfilling and rewarding than she’d ever dreamed.

Her stomach growled. Ravenous, she looked over at the buffet but found it empty. No wonder, considering the hour. She craved a steaming mug of black coffee to bring her back to life. And give her courage. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment, Aunt, I’ll go downstairs and ask Cordina if—”

“Nonsense.” Aunt Adelicia picked up the silver serving bell on the table. “You will be served breakfast here.”

The jangle of the bell struck a dissonant chord in the silence, and Eleanor claimed a seat next to her aunt.

A moment later, Cordina appeared with a fresh pot of coffee. She refilled Aunt Adelicia’s cup, then poured another for Eleanor. “I bring your breakfast right up, Miss Braddock.”

“Thank you, Cordina.” Eleanor had grown accustomed to visiting the kitchen and requesting her meal there. She looked at the shiny silver bell atop the table and, for some reason, envisioned the haughty-looking roses she’d seen in the conservatory on her first day.

As Cordina retreated to the kitchen, the clock on the hearth chimed the half hour. Eleanor sipped her coffee, the comforting aroma fortifying her almost as much as the brew itself.

She sneaked a look beside her. “I hope your travels were pleasant, Aunt. Your letters certainly painted lovely pictures.”

“Yes, the excursion was most enjoyable. At least at the outset. The children were enjoying exploring the northeastern states, but we decided to return home when my neuralgia took hold.”

“Oh . . . I didn’t realize. I’m so sorry.” Eleanor knew, secondhand, how painful those headaches could be. Her own mother had suffered from them.

“Dr. Cheatham went into town to retrieve powders from Dr. Denard. He should be back anytime. Those offer a measure of relief.”

Eleanor nodded. Everything she thought of to say sounded stilted and pretentious. Which it was, compared to what she needed to tell her aunt.

A moment passed, and Aunt Adelicia’s gaze came to rest upon hers—unmoving, unblinking—and Eleanor was now certain she knew.

“Aunt Adelicia, I need to tell you something. And I’m relatively sure you’re not going to—”

“Here you are, Miss Braddock.” Cordina reappeared. “Got you some eggs all scrambled up, two pieces of bacon fried crisp, and a slice of bread with honey and butter, just like you like it.”

The food looked—and smelled—more delicious than usual. “Thank you, Cordina.”

“You’re welcome, ma’am. Mrs. Cheatham, you need anything else?”

“Not at present. Thank you, Cordina. But perhaps some tea later in my room, once Dr. Cheatham returns.”

Smiling, Cordina nodded and left the room.

Having gotten to know the woman in recent weeks, Eleanor knew better than to think Cordina wasn’t aware of the tension in the room.

Finding herself alone again with her aunt, Eleanor looked longingly at her breakfast, hungrier than ever. But explanations needed to come first. She took a sip of coffee and plunged ahead.

“As I was saying, Aunt Adelicia, I’ve become involved in something that I didn’t actually envision . . . in the sense of what it has become. And I did it”—stating this next part aloud was the most daunting—“even while knowing that you would likely not approve of my actions.”

Seeing a single dark eyebrow arch, as if her aunt were thinking,
So why then would you dare do such a thing
?
she hastened to add, “It’s not that I disregard your opinion . . . or that I’m ungrateful for all you’ve done for me,
and
my father.” She briefly bowed her head. “But I feel so strongly about this. About the rightness of it. Almost as if . . .” She sighed. “This may sound silly, but it’s almost as if this was what I was—”

“No more, Eleanor, please! I
know
what you’ve been doing, and it hurts to even hear you speak the words. Especially after I . . .” Aunt Adelicia grimaced, then touched her temple, the muscles in her jaw tightening. “Especially after I made it perfectly clear where I stood on
the matter. After we welcomed you into our home, have helped with your father, I . . .”

Eleanor had never seen her aunt cry. And even now, she wasn’t certain whether what she was seeing was the start of tears or a rage.

Her aunt exhaled. Her hands shook. “That you would choose to blatantly go behind my back and against my wishes, and would open up such an . . .
establishment
is beyond the pale, Eleanor. And for this behavior to come from a family member is—”

The front door opened and closed. Aunt Adelicia fell silent, and only in the resulting deafening silence did Eleanor realize how loud her aunt’s voice had become. And how far-reaching her own decision had been.

Soft footfalls sounded on the plush carpet, and Dr. Cheatham appeared in the doorway of the dining room, newspaper in hand.

He stopped short, his cheeks flushed. “Ladies,” he said tentatively, eying his wife. “I take it the subject has been broached.”

Eleanor felt the hot prick of tears and bowed her head, knowing the question wasn’t directed at her.

Aunt Adelicia took a deep breath, then gave it slow release. “Yes, I was expressing my disappointment to my niece about her decision—against my expressed wishes—to open a . . . restaurant.”

Eleanor’s head came up.
A restaurant?
She looked between them. “But I’m not—”

“Would you allow me to do the honors, Miss Braddock?” Dr. Cheatham approached, unfolding the newspaper as he did. He laid it before Aunt Adelicia, her expression wary, his bemused. “It would seem, my dear, that your source of gossip was mistaken, greatly so. However”—a glint of mischief lit his eyes—“there is one point in which they were correct. . . . Your dear niece and, henceforth,
you
, are most definitely the talk of the town!”

Marcus stared at the newspaper heading and laughed, wondering if Eleanor had seen it yet. He ought to ride out to Belmont later and show it to her. After his appointment at the asylum.

He finished his coffee, waved at Fitch for two more doughnuts, which Fitch served up with a joke on the side, and then made his way to the livery.

He folded the newspaper and stuck it in his saddlebag along with the pastries. Eleanor had only been in Nashville for two months, and
already she’d turned the city on its ear. What would her aunt think about all this . . . ?

Eleanor had told him her aunt was due home any day, so they shouldn’t have to wait long to find out. He laughed again, wishing he could be a fly on the wall in the Belmont mansion. If this didn’t win Adelicia Cheatham over to Eleanor’s way of thinking, nothing would.

The article was detailed. The reporter had done his snooping. He’d written the piece with an obvious slant toward scandal—W
EALTHY
N
IECE
OF
A
DELICIA
C
HEATHAM
E
XPOSED
AS
C
OOK
. But it was the reaction the article drew from patrons in the bakery just now that Marcus found most telling.

He’d overheard a couple of women, similar to Adelicia Cheatham in age and social strata, not two tables away, whispering in disapproving tones, serious brows knit. But the majority of the bakery’s patrons—colonial rustics, as his father called them—heartily approved of what Eleanor was doing and weren’t shy to admit it.

So while the reporter had intended to expose a rich niece and her aunt to ridicule and controversy—and there would certainly be backlash, Marcus knew, at least from some—what the journalist had unknowingly done was pave the way for Eleanor Braddock’s dream—or at least a version of it—to come true.

He only hoped he was in Nashville long enough to see it.

That thought was sobering. Come next summer, he would return to Austria. How could something he tried so hard not to think about occupy so large a portion of his thoughts? He felt the clock constantly ticking inside him. At work, in the conservatory at Belmont, but mostly, when he was with Eleanor.

He was so proud of her. Yes, she was wealthy—she was Adelicia’s niece, after all—so she had the money to be generous. Still, he couldn’t think of any other person in her position who would humble themselves to do such a thing.

On a far different note, he’d finally responded to the baroness’s latest letter with a one-page reply. He’d received a tome in exchange. It consisted of mostly negligible information, but one remark in her letter had stayed with him.
“The court rumbles with rumors of war with Russia
 . . .”