Beauty So Rare, A (A Belmont Mansion Novel Book #2) (45 page)

Marcus was reluctant to admit it, even to himself, but maybe his initial belief about the Almighty’s interest in the details of people’s lives had been more accurate than Eleanor’s.

Or perhaps . . . it was just
his
life the Almighty found unworthy of closer attention.

“But I no longer hold that view of you, Marcus.” Her voice came tenderly, drawing him back. “You are a kind, talented, and very generous man. As evidenced, among other ways, by the tables and benches your men delivered yesterday. The women and children love them. No more sitting on the floor for meals.

“Oh! Which reminds me . . .” She reached into her reticule. “I meant to give this to you earlier.” She placed the small cloth-wrapped bundle in his hand.

“What is it?”

“Open it and find out.”

He did, and when he realized what he was holding, the same tingling sensation he’d experienced in the warehouse days earlier worked its way up the back of his neck. “This is a—”

“
Kaiser
roll. Naomi shared the recipe with me. We made them for dinner last night. She said they’re very popular in Austria, and are named in honor of your
emperor
.
” She said the word with an uppity tone, then her eyes narrowed. “Kaiser . . .”

Marcus’s grip tightened around the bread. “Franz Joseph,” he said quietly.

“Yes, that’s it. You’re familiar with the rolls, then.”

“Oh yes.” He nodded. “Quite familiar.” If he didn’t know better—he looked at her again, just to be sure—he would have thought she was baiting him. But . . . no.

She gestured. “Go ahead and taste. See what you think.”

Accustomed to her watching him eat the creations she brought, he took a bite, and closed his eyes as his mouth watered at the familiar taste of home, of a distant but cherished childhood, and of memories from another lifetime. Memories when his mother and grandfather were still alive. And something occurred to him . . .

His thoughts flew back over the years. Since the death of his mother, then his grandfather, he couldn’t remember ever being
truly
happy—experiencing that rare contentment you feel with someone you know cares about you without question, and who you cared about just the same—until now.

He looked across the room. Eleanor was gathering the proposal, working to get the pages stacked evenly, and he couldn’t help asking . . . “When is the last time you heard from your father?”

Her hands stilled. Her head came up.

He didn’t want to make her uncomfortable. But he knew, only too well, the burdensome weight a secret added to a person’s heart.

“I-I’ve actually heard from him recently.”

He didn’t want to force her into telling him about her father before she was ready, nor did he wish to push her into a lie. He only wanted to help bear the burden, if she’d let him. “And how is he?”

Gaze lowering, she shook her head. “Not well. It will likely be a long time before he’s able to join me.” She inhaled, then released her breath in a rush, as if forcing out the words. “But he’s with people who are taking good care of him. So . . .” She nodded, then cleared her throat. “You don’t mind if I take these, do you? To review over the weekend?”

“Not at all. Let me know if you have any more questions. And, Eleanor . . . when the time comes, I look forward to you introducing me to your father.”

She held his gaze for the longest time. Then finally, she nodded. “He would enjoy knowing you, Marcus.”

He followed her out, and they were nearly to the door when she stopped in the aisle. Right beside the
Selenicereus grandiflorus
.

“I see you’ve not had any luck
beautifying
that one.”

“It doesn’t need beautifying. I think it’s the most beautiful thing in here.”

She shook her head as she leaned closer. “It’s growing”—she frowned—“new
things
.”

He laughed, seeing what she was referring to. “Most plants do. Over time.” Not wanting her to look much closer at those new things, at least not yet, he picked up a recent success he’d had in grafting. “Have you ever seen this color in a rose before?”

She turned and looked at it . . . then at him. “It’s pink.”

“It’s
coral.
”

“Which is really pink.”

“No. Which is really a combination of pink and
orange
. I had to graft the plants five times before it took. And the blooms proved to be fuller too.”

Appearing quite unimpressed by his explanation, she pinned him with a look. “If you want to impress me, Marcus Geoffrey . . . then graft a potato that isn’t rotten when you pull it from the ground. Now
that’s
something that would impress me!”

She turned on her heel, and—a little dumbstruck—Marcus watched her sashay her pretty little posterior toward the door. He caught up with her before she opened it.

“A potato?” he said, more pleased than she could have ever imagined.

“Yes, a potato. Even with the return agreement I have with Mr. Mulholland at the mercantile, I still pay too much for too little!”

“The
return
agreement?”

She looked away, as though embarrassed, then explained to him about a
deal
she’d arranged with Mr. Mulholland. As Marcus listened to her spirited diatribe, he felt himself falling a little more in love with her, even as he hoped God was listening to her request too.

Because if God
and
Eleanor got involved, that practically guaranteed success with the potatoes.

They stepped outside only to discover the temperature had dropped considerably during the day. Marcus guessed it to be in the midfifties, maybe colder.

According to the almanac, the first frost wasn’t due for another two weeks, but he’d already moved the two troughs of potato plants from the field into the conservatory. As soon as the plants flowered and then the leaves started wilting—two to three weeks at the most—they’d be
ready for harvesting. It took every bit of his patience at this stage not to dig up at least one just to check its progress.

But he’d gone through this cycle enough times to know that trying to hurry nature along was like trying to tell the sun when to rise.

He offered his arm. “Allow me to accompany you to the mansion?”

She slipped her arm through his, then just as quickly removed it. “Marcus . . . I need to ask you a question.”

“All right.”

“This is uncomfortable for me, so I hope you’ll understand.”

“My imagination is running rampant.” He smiled.

She didn’t. “It’s about your company’s solvency. I . . .” She hesitated. “I need assurance on your part that once you start the project—whether we renovate or build—you
will
be able to complete it.”

More than a little surprised by her query, he paused. “Without question I’ll be able to complete it. And on time. You have my word.”

She looked up at him, then briefly away. “If it were up to me alone, your word would be ample. But . . . since this project involves other people’s investments, I need to request a financial history of your company. For the past five years.”

“You . . . want me to provide a portfolio?”

She nodded.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t do it. In fact, he’d provided his financial information when he’d submitted a bid for the opera house months ago. He was simply surprised she’d asked for it. Then again, he had a feeling this was coming from someone other than her.

“Certainly, I can do that. It’ll take me a couple of days to update it, but—”

“A couple of days is fine.” Relief flooded her expression. “As long as I have it by Tuesday.”

“Consider it done. But I can only provide it for the past year or so. Since I’ve been in this country.”

“Oh . . .” Her expression clouded. “I suppose you could include the years you were working in Austria, then.”

Again, though Marcus was certain she wasn’t, it felt as though she was fishing for information. “Unfortunately, I didn’t own my own company back in Austria. So I’m afraid my company’s history here will have to suffice.”

He could see her reasoning things out.

“So . . . if you didn’t work as an architect back in Austria, what did you do?”

On impulse, he laughed, but not from humor. He attributed it more to the directness of her question and to his utter inability to answer it. “Would you believe me if I told you I was an under gardener?”

She looked at him in all seriousness, then a twinkle lit her eyes and she laughed too.

He continued quickly. “So don’t give another thought to the portfolio. I’ll get that to you by the first of the week. Along with my bank’s guarantee of deposit for my company’s cash reserves. Will that suffice?”

She smiled up at him. “Thank you, Marcus. That will be sufficient, I’m sure.”

“Good, then. Now . . . about those potatoes.”

Her expression perked up.

“If you’d like to join me one afternoon in the next couple of weeks, I’d love to talk to you more about that.”

“Are you serious? You would consider trying that?”

He offered her his arm. “I most definitely would, madam. Now, may I escort you back to the mansion?”

“No.” Her smile flattened. “But you may escort me to the carriage house. Armstead is waiting to take me into town. I need to start cooking!”

They walked arm in arm through the gardens in the direction of the carriage house, and he sensed the opportunity to ask what he’d tried to ask a while earlier. Even though he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.

“Eleanor, you said something to me the other night, about . . . an offer of marriage.” He felt her tense and looked over at her.

She kept her gaze forward, and though her arm was linked through his and he could feel the warmth of her body, a gulf seemed to open between them.

He paused on the path. She did as well, her head bowed. And he sensed her answer even before he asked the question.

“So,” he whispered, “you”—he had trouble even thinking the words, much less saying them aloud—“
accepted
 . . . Mr. Hockley’s offer?”

A cool breeze stirred wisps of hair at her temples.

“Yes,” she said, so softly he almost didn’t hear. Then she took a deep breath and lifted her gaze. “Yes,” she said again, louder this time, with determination in her voice and a smile that started to fade almost before it had bloomed. “I was planning on telling you, Marcus. But . . .” Her laughter came out breathy, nervous sounding. “It’s all happened rather quickly. I only gave him my answer Monday night.”

The weight of her response slowly settled over him, and Marcus gently released her arm.
Monday night . . .
He could scarcely make himself nod much less form a reply. That was after he’d kissed her in the library. And here he’d been thinking that . . . well, it didn’t much matter what he’d been thinking. He’d been a fool. Yet he’d been so certain that—

In a wave, a wash of memories—of
voices—
rushed over him.
“I thought
our evening together meant something, Gerhard . . .” “I waited to hear
from you, Gerhard, but you never . . .”

Over and over the voices came, and the irony wasn’t lost on him.

Looking into Eleanor’s eyes, he felt as though a mirror were being held up before him, and he didn’t like what he saw—any more than she would, if she knew the truth about him.

Knowing he needed to say something, he reached for bravado that had seen him through more awkward situations than this one. But no matter his command, the familiar boldness wouldn’t come. And all he could do was lift her hand to his lips.

“May I offer my sincerest congratulations, Eleanor. Lawrence Hockley is, indeed, a
most
fortunate man.”

 36 

S
eated directly opposite Lawrence Hockley in Belmont’s formal dining room, Eleanor looked across the table at her future, then down at her nearly full plate, finding neither appealing at the moment.

Following church that morning, Aunt Adelicia had invited Mr. Hockley to join them for lunch. Though Eleanor hated to admit it, every time she was with the man a knot formed in the pit of her stomach. She wished she could blame it on the afore-wedding dithers of a not-so-young bride to be. But she knew better and could scarcely wait for him to take his leave.

She hadn’t seen Marcus at church, and she’d looked for him. She was glad, in a way, that he’d asked about Mr. Hockley. It was easier with him knowing. Or at least, she had thought it would be.

Laughter from the children eating in the next room filtered through the closed doorway, making the already sedate mood at this table seem even more so.

“So how was your trip abroad this season, Mr. Hockley?” Aunt Adelicia glanced in Cordina’s direction, a subtle signal to begin plating dessert.

“Oh, much like the last ones. Hectic. Mostly business. I’ve seen all that London has to offer, what little there is, and have endured the grand tour thrice now. Personally, I don’t understand the affinity that some in our circle have for that continent.”

If Aunt Adelicia had been chewing something, Eleanor was certain she would have choked on it.

“But what about Italy, Mr. Hockley? Austria? France?” Her aunt’s eyes lit. “Surely the museums and cathedrals, the timeless works of art, appeal to a man of your culture and standing?”

Working to balance the very last pea on his fork, Mr. Hockley took his time to respond. “I have toured museums and cathedrals enough to last a lifetime. And as for timeless works of art . . .” He cast her a look. “You have seen my home, Mrs. Cheatham.
And
my office. I have little interest in such things. Except in rare cases, when one may purchase them with a measurable guarantee of return on his investment. But even then, there are surer ways to secure one’s financial future.”

Eleanor’s gaze swung from her aunt back to Mr. Hockley, who seemed completely oblivious to the silence in the room and the tight-lipped smile of his hostess. Even Dr. Cheatham, seated at the head of the table, seemed slightly taken aback by the man’s frankness.

The knot in Eleanor’s stomach cinched tighter.

Pound cake with fresh cream was served and eaten in relative silence. Eleanor took two bites of hers before the
knot
told her that wasn’t the wisest choice on her part. She set her fork aside.

“Come spring, Dr. and Mrs. Cheatham”—at Lawrence’s voice, all heads came up—“Miss Braddock and I will herald our pending nuptials, then be married in June. I have given some thought as to the date of the wedding, and also to the destination of our honeymoon, but haven’t yet made my decision. I will relay that information in ample time for plans to be set and announced accordingly. May I confirm that the wedding will take place here, as you have so generously offered, Mrs. Cheatham?”

Grateful she was sitting down, Eleanor blinked to make certain she wasn’t in some horrible dream. He’d stated his decree as though she wasn’t sitting in the chair directly across from him. Not only had he not spoken with her beforehand about any of the arrangements, he hadn’t so much as looked her way as he’d made the announcement.

She stared, watching him cut his cake into even little squares and then eat it in much the same way—in quick, efficient little bites. A flash of pain that she was certain showed in her expression suddenly registered, and she consciously unclenched her jaw, still working to hold in the emotion.

Feeling someone’s attention, she turned to see her aunt watching her.

“Yes,” Aunt Adelicia said quietly, an emotion passing across her face. A silent admonition, perhaps? Or maybe a warning? “That’s correct, Mr. Hockley. The wedding will be at Belmont.”

Eleanor bowed her head, feeling almost as if she were dying on
the inside. In her mind, she pictured her father. She was doing this for him. And not only for him, but for the widows and children. But until the day she died . . .

She had a feeling she would die a little, day after day after day.

Later that night in the kitchen, Eleanor looked at the pitiful excuse for a strudel and didn’t know whether to laugh, or throw the dish across the room.

Baking usually helped her to breathe on the inside, to think more logically, see things more clearly. It was therapeutic. And she needed that tonight, of all nights. Because tomorrow she had to present her decision regarding the widows’ and children’s home to the Women’s League. And though she
thought
she knew, she still questioned which option would be best.

She knew what her aunt wanted. What Marcus wanted. Without question, she knew Mrs. Bennett’s desire. She knew what most of the women on the board preferred too. But what she didn’t know was . . .

What was the better choice? She frowned at the soupy mess in the dish. She apparently didn’t know how to make apple strudel either. Her second failed attempt. In one evening!

It was already past midnight, with Sunday put to bed and Monday stirring. She needed to admit defeat, clean up, and set the kitchen to rights for Cordina and the other cooks.

“Nothing is ever as good as your
Mutter’s strudel.”

She let out a sigh, hearing Marcus’s voice even now. “That may be true, Herr Geoffrey,” she whispered aloud. “But I’m going to make a strudel as good as your
Mutter
’s if it kills me.”

“
Lawd
, ma’am, I tell ya. . . . You start talkin’ to yourself and it’s the beginnin’ of the end!”

Startled, Eleanor turned to see Cordina standing in the doorway. “Oh, Cordina, I’m so sorry.” Eleanor quickly situated herself in front of the strudels. She might not be a head cook or fancy chef, but she still had her pride. “I hope I didn’t wake you . . .”

“Lawd, no, Miss Braddock. Me and Eli, we got us a cabin out back. Just the two of us.” She smiled. “Eli, he got a hankerin’ for some iced lemonade, so that’s what I come for. How’s that fancy dessert you makin’ comin’ along?”

The woman tried to peer over Eleanor’s shoulder, but Eleanor again
moved to block her view, which drew a chuckle from Cordina. And then from Eleanor too.

“I’m guessin’ it ain’t turnin’ out too well, ma’am.”

Eleanor slumped her shoulders. “Both attempts were disasters.” She stepped to one side.

“Mmm-hmm”
was all Cordina said as she looked between the dishes. “Mind if I get a taste?”

Eleanor hesitated, then shook her head. “But you’ll need a spoon. I cut the apples too thin in this one.” She gestured. “Then too thick in the other. I tore holes in the dough as I was trying to stretch it. I mended them, then they promptly split open again as I tried to roll it up.”

Cordina tasted the first one. “A bit grainy, them apples, aren’t they?”

“A bit?” Eleanor rolled her eyes.

Chuckling again, Cordina tasted the second. “Soupy, but better.” Then she paused. “The dough on this one, it got . . . a little hard.
Chewy
.”

“That’s because I added more flour so the dough wouldn’t split in the stretching. It didn’t work.”

Cordina patted her shoulder. “Makin’ them fancy pastries takes time, and lots of doin’. You get it right, Miss Braddock. Give it time.”

Give it
time. . . .
Exactly what Nurse Smith had said about her father. But the way he’d looked at her . . . scared, angry. She didn’t think she’d ever forget that moment. “I appreciate that, Cordina. Thank you for letting me use your kitchen.”

“Anytime, Miss Braddock. Who you makin’ this for anyway, ma’am? Surely you ain’t tryin’ to bake somethin’ like this for all them women and children?”

“Oh, gracious no. I’m . . . making it for a friend. And I promise, I’ll clean everything up before I go to bed.”

“You want some help? I be happy to do it.”

“No, thank you. I’ll be fine. You take Eli his lemonade and get some rest.”

“All right, then. Good night, ma’am.”

Eleanor scraped both strudels into the scrap bucket, feeling sorry for whatever animal would have to eat it, then proceeded to clean and wipe down tabletops.

Nearly an hour later, bone weary and with nothing to show for her effort, she crawled into bed. She started out on her left side but couldn’t get comfortable, so turned onto her right.

She didn’t even know Lawrence Hockley’s favorite dessert. Nor did she really even care to. She turned onto her back and stared up at the
ceiling, her lack of feeling for the man gnawing at her.
Lord, I don’t think I
can do this.

Tears slid from the corners of her eyes, and she reminded herself, yet again, of how fortunate she was. Especially when she compared her situation to that of the widows she helped.

She blotted tears from her temples and turned onto her side again, images circulating through her mind—of unsightly strudels, lovely coral roses, and of a building unlike any she’d ever seen. And her prayer was a simple one.
Lord, show me what’
s best.

She cradled the pillow against her cheek, and finally, finally sleep claimed her.

As her eyes drifted shut, she felt a featherlight kiss on her forehead, then heard a distant, familiar, yet no longer feeble voice. “I love you, Eleanor.” Part of her knew she was dreaming, while another part clung to the hope that she wasn’t.

And she whispered back, “I love you too, Papa.”

Books in hand, Marcus looked first in the garden at the asylum but didn’t see anyone. Not surprising. It was a chilly morning. He walked around to the front entrance and knocked, knowing from experience the door would be locked.

A moment later an orderly appeared and opened it. “Mr. Geoffrey, good to see you again, sir.” He motioned Marcus inside. “Are you here to see Dr. Crawford?”

“No. Actually I’m . . . here to visit a friend. Mr. Theodore Braddock.”

A shadowed crossed the man’s face. Marcus started to explain how he and Theodore had become acquainted, but the orderly turned away.

“I’ll accompany you to his room.”