Beauty So Rare, A (A Belmont Mansion Novel Book #2) (52 page)

“Are you ready for what’s coming next?” she asked.

He groaned. “Do you know how out of character this is for me?”

“Do you know how much the children are going to love it?”

He sighed, his expression inscrutable. “In the event I forget to tell you this later, Eleanor . . .” He looked around the room, then back at her. “It’s truly amazing what you’ve done here. The good you’re doing. I’m grateful to be a part of it.”

“Thank you, Marcus. But I can’t take credit for this. I simply started out wanting to open a—”

He reached over and gave her hand a brief squeeze. “I
know
what you started out wanting. But when that door closed, you said yes to those that followed. When most people wouldn’t have.”

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I’m grateful for the opportunity.” She scanned the room. “Looking at how everything has come together, there’s no way I could have orchestrated this on my own. I had asked God to open a door. I just never, in a thousand lifetimes, would have imagined it to be this one. And I couldn’t be doing this without your help, Marcus. So thank
you
for all you’re doing as well.” She grinned. “Especially for what’s coming next.”

His expression turning sheepish, and he shook his head.

“Would you like dessert now or after?”

“After. I’ll enjoy it more once this is over.”

Still smiling, she excused herself to help serve dessert.

As she ladled warm chocolate sauce over the bread pudding—a favorite of the children’s—she caught Naomi wiping away a tear.

Eleanor leaned close. “Are you all right?” she whispered.

Teary, her friend nodded and handed her another bowl of bread pudding. “I am fine, Miss Braddock,” she whispered. “I am missing my sweet Viktor. That is all. It is coming up on a year that he . . .” She bit her lower lip. “He was taken from us almost a year ago.”

Seeing the pain lining Naomi’s expression, “I’m so sorry” was all Eleanor could manage to say. But that felt like too little. Naomi, a very private person—as many of these women were, she’d learned—had never mentioned her husband’s name before, or how he’d died.

Aware of those waiting, Eleanor ladled the sauce and presented the bowl to the next child in line. But she glanced back at Naomi, telling her with a look that she was loved. And that they could talk more later.

Eleanor didn’t recognize the next woman in line, nor the little boy with her. But she was certain the Negro woman—tall and slender, stately looking, with flawless skin and discerning eyes—hadn’t been to Mr. Stover’s building for a meal before. She would have remembered her.
And
her small son.

“Welcome to you both, ma’am. I’m Eleanor Braddock, facilitator of the home we’re building here.”

The woman dipped her head in greeting. “I’m Belle Birch, Miss Braddock.
Mrs
.
Belle Birch. And this is my son, Elijah.”

Hearing her speak, Eleanor felt an immediate and unexpected kinship with the woman. Her voice was deep, wonderfully so, and oak-tree strong. And her son, five or six years old at the most—a beautiful boy with skin a few shades lighter than his mother’s—smiled up at her, his striking green eyes watchful and alert, and all but confirming the truth of his lineage. A disturbing truth. One that didn’t change Eleanor’s feeling about the child or his mother, but that she knew might affect others’ feelings toward them.

The boy grinned when she handed him a bowl of bread pudding.

“This is your first time with us, I believe, Mrs. Birch.” Did she imagine the flicker of uncertainty in the woman’s expression?

Mrs. Birch nodded. “It is, Miss Braddock.”

Eleanor held her gaze as she served her the pudding. “I’m
so
glad you’re here, Mrs. Birch. I hope you and your precious son will come again. Often.”

Belle Birch smiled, an almost tangible understanding passing between them, and Eleanor felt the warmth of it in her chest.

As the last few people were being served, excited squeals of children filled the room, and everyone’s attention was drawn to the door where
Sankt Nikolaus
himself stood—white-haired and bearded, clothed in
the regal white robe of a bishop with a scarlet cloak draped behind him. In his left hand was a pastoral staff, and Eleanor had to blink twice to make sure it was Marcus.

The transformation was remarkable. Rebecca Malloy had outdone herself with the costume she’d sewn. It was perfect. Even more, Marcus was perfect. The air about him, the regal quality, was remarkable. The man knew how to play a part.

More squeals and laughter as
Sankt
Nikolaus
moved among the children, visiting with them, asking some to say a verse, others to sing a song.

Eleanor caught Marcus looking her way and laughed, shaking her head. Since the majority of children were German and the idea of Kris Kringle had originated in Germany, they’d decided to present
Sankt Nikolaus
at the celebration today
.
But in deference to American tradition—and at the request of some of the mothers—Marcus planned to read a poem well known to American children. Albeit a day late, in one respect.

All the children—Eleanor had counted well over a hundred—gathered around him, and he motioned for them to be seated.

“How wonderful it is to see everyone today,” he said, his voice lower than normal and slightly disguised. “
Wie schön zu sehen, alle heute
,” he repeated for the German children.

As Marcus spoke, Eleanor looked out over the crowd and then at the room around them—that would fit at least ten of Mr. Stover’s front room—and felt a rush of pleasure. She also felt a pang of remorse when considering that, come summer, her involvement would be over.

“Everything comes with a cost, Eleanor. Don
’t let anyone ever tell you differently.”
Aunt Adelicia’s words returned with unwelcome clarity, as did the remembrance of last night’s dinner with Lawrence at his home. But this being Christmas, Eleanor firmly put both memories to the side—along with her remorse.

Nothing
was going to ruin this day.

The children laughed at something Marcus said. Then, having their full attention, he proceeded to tell them about the birth of the Christ child. Without the notes Eleanor had written. Then, following an equally smooth transition, he began reading the poem one of the mothers had provided.

“‘’Twas the night before Christmas,’” he read in a voice that hushed every other in the room, “‘and all through the house, not a creature was stirring’”—he leaned forward, pausing for effect—“‘not even a mouse,’” he finished in a stage whisper, and the children giggled.

He repeated the phrase in German, drawing the same reaction.

By the time he reached the end of the poem, some of the children were saying it from memory along with him. “‘But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, “Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”’ ” Again, Marcus repeated the phrase in German, then took a kingly bow before swiftly taking his leave.

Next came the presents, distributed by Marta and some of the older children. Eleanor sat with Naomi and a cluster of women off to the side, watching. New gloves, hats, and socks for every woman and child.

Naomi looked over. “From your Mr. Hockley?” she mouthed.

Eleanor nodded. “And the Bank of Nashville.” She’d asked Lawrence for a donation to cover the gifts, and he’d written a bank note without hesitation. Shades of a future she had determined not to think about today.

“Miss Braddock!” One of the women, Sally, touched her arm and nodded toward the front door, where Elena and Marta were embracing.

Eleanor thought of Gretchen, and for a moment, her breath caught—until she saw Marta’s smile.

“Good news!” Marta called out, racing toward them. “Gretchen had a boy. And both are doing well!”

Word spread quickly among the gathering, as it always did. At Eleanor’s encouragement, and with plenty of food, Elena and Marta took Maggie home to see her new brother.

Nearly two hours later, the room that had been abuzz with life and laughter was once again quiet and calm, and—with everyone’s help—relatively straightened. Now only Eleanor, Naomi, Caleb, and Marcus—his
Sankt Nikolaus
costume safely stowed upstairs—remained.

Eleanor stacked the last of the dishes on a table, her apron bearing remnants of everything they’d served that day. “Let’s leave these until tomorrow. Mr. Stover said he’d bring his wagon for them.”

Naomi wiped down the last of the worktables. “That is good to me.”

Across the room, Marcus and Caleb moved the tables and benches to the side, talking and laughing as they did.

“Well, Naomi . . .” Eleanor gave a weary sigh, noticing the light outside fading as afternoon slowly gave way to eve. Armstead would be arriving for her soon. “I’ve said this countless times, but I could not have done this without you.”

When Naomi didn’t respond, Eleanor looked over to see her eyes pooling with unshed tears.

“It is me, Miss Braddock”—Naomi took in a shuddering breath—“who is thanking you. You have given me . . . and Caleb . . . life again.” She shook her head. “The first months without Viktor, they were so hard. Some mornings,” she whispered, “I would open my eyes, reach for my husband in the empty place beside me, and . . .” Her tears spilled over. “I did not think I would make it through that day. Not only from grief, but also . . . from having so little to eat. And seeing Caleb go hungry . . .” Naomi glanced across the room to where the boy worked with Marcus. “Then I met you.” Naomi’s smile trembled. “That day is . . .”

Eleanor’s throat ached as she listened.

“That is when our world changed.”

In an uncommon show of affection, Naomi wrapped her arms around Eleanor, who returned the embrace.

“His heart just . . . stopped,” Naomi whispered. “We did not get to say good-bye.”

Words failing her, Eleanor simply held her friend until Naomi’s breathing finally evened. Naomi stepped back just as Marcus and Caleb joined them, concern lining their faces.

As if already knowing what was wrong, Caleb came alongside his mother and slipped his arm through hers. Naomi kissed the top of his head—something that in a year or two, Eleanor guessed, gauging from the boy’s height, she’d no longer be able to do.

“Are you ladies ready?” Marcus asked quietly.

Eleanor nodded. “I believe so.” She glanced around. “Except for your . . .” She caught herself before she said it and looked at Caleb, who offered a conspiratorial grin, as though reading her mind.

“I know,” the boy said softly, his dark eyes sparkling. “And I knew it was him. But I don’t think any of the other children did. Even the older ones.”

Relieved she hadn’t spoiled anything for him, Eleanor nodded. “Your talents, Mr. Geoffrey, never cease to amaze. You certainly know how to embrace a role. If ever you tire of designing buildings, you might seek the stage.”

Marcus offered a grand bow, but Eleanor just shook her head.

“You can leave the costume here,” she said. “I’ll get it tomorrow.”

“
Oh
no . . .” Marcus held up a hand. “That’s the last thing I need my crews to come in and see. I’d never hear the end of it.”

Naomi and Caleb laughed.

Marcus winked. “It’s upstairs. I’ll be right back.”

Eleanor watched him go, then heard the sound of the front door
opening. Hoping it wasn’t anyone arriving late for the meal, she went to meet them—

And came to an abrupt halt, seeing a woman, and two others behind her, standing just inside the door. The woman looked as if she was debating whether to enter or not. While the other two were undoubtedly waiting on her decision.

To say the woman was beautiful didn’t even come close. Eleanor wondered if she’d ever seen a woman so perfect. Her hair the color of summer wheat, her gown a rich burgundy silk with no telling how many layers of lace. And the manner in which she carried herself . . . Everything about her spoke perfection.

“May . . . I help you?” Eleanor asked.

The woman cast her gaze about the floor as though suspecting something foul might lie in her path. Then she cast a similar eye at Eleanor, her disapproving gaze dropping to the soiled apron.

“
Ja
, you may. I am told I will find Archduke Gerhard of the House of Habsburg here.”

The woman spoke so
quickly
, her German accent so thick, Eleanor caught only a fraction of the name. “I’m sorry, but there’s no Gerhard here.”

The woman’s countenance—already displeased—turned three shades more so as she stepped forward. “You
will
inform Archduke Gerhard Marcus Gottfried von Habsburg that Baroness Maria Elizabeth Albrecht von Haas is here to see him.”

Still struggling to understand the woman’s accent, Eleanor had definitely heard one name she recognized.
Marcus.
But the others . . . “You’d like me to tell Marcus that . . .
who
wants to see him?”

The woman scoffed, looking her up and down, then said something in German beneath her breath. “Simply tell him his
fiancée
has arrived!”

 43 

M
arcus’s . . .
fiancée
?

Eleanor looked at the woman glaring at her, certain she’d understood
that
word correctly. Yet her mind kept trying—and failing—to match what the woman had said with what Eleanor knew to be true. Which, she quickly realized with a jolt, likely meant it wasn’t.

“You are . . . Marcus’s
fiancée
?”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “What is your station”—disfavor punctuated each syllable—“that
you
would address an archduke of Austria in so informal a manner?”

This time, Eleanor understood every word—and heard footsteps coming down the stairs behind her. She turned just as Marcus came around the corner carrying the costume.

His gaze fell first to her, then moved beyond. “Baroness . . .” The word left him in a rush, like a confession begging to be absolved. The utter shock in his expression gave way to recognition, then dread.

“Your Highness!” The baroness swept past Eleanor, turning her head slightly as though not wishing to be sullied by the sight of her. Then with a flourish that would have impressed even Aunt Adelicia, the woman made a sweeping curtsy before Marcus, bowing her head low, the train of her gown falling in perfect folds behind her. The other two women did the same from where they waited by the door.

Glued to where she stood, Eleanor watched the scene, knowing she wouldn’t have believed it had she not seen it for herself.
Marcus
 . . . an archduke? She almost wanted to laugh, and might have . . .

If not for the small voice inside her that brought to mind all the questions she’d had about him from the beginning, and that kept whispering even now.
You knew something was different about
him.
She turned to see Naomi and Caleb standing behind her, chins tucked, gazes averted.

But it was looking into Marcus’s eyes that finally removed every last trace of doubt.

“Gerhard . . .” The baroness pressed close to him. “Are you not pleased to see me?” she whispered in German.

In the small receiving room of the boardinghouse, Marcus put some distance between them, the pages of his father’s letter in hand, his mind still filled with Eleanor . . . and the way she’d looked at him an hour earlier when Armstead had closed the door to the carriage and pulled away.

“Your visit was unexpected, Baroness. Why did you not write to tell me you were coming?”

“I wanted it to be a surprise.” Ever persistent, Maria lessened the space separating them and wove her arms around his neck. “I remember you once liked my surprises.” She traced a finger along his jawline. “I have missed you, Gerhard. Have you not also missed me?”

She brushed her lips against his in a way that had once stirred his blood but that now left him cold and indifferent. As if sensing his lack of response, she grew impatient and stepped back—his desire from the outset.

“How did you know where to find me, Maria?”

She gave a haughty laugh. “In your last letter you wrote of building a . . . home for widows and children.” She said it with distaste. “I had only to inquire of a porter at the train station and he knew the location.”

“You didn’t tell him who you were, or who I—”

“No. Your father instructed me to travel
quietly
.” She scoffed. “Although I do not understand why.” Her expression turned petulant. “Why have you not written me? Why do you leave me waiting for you, when you are here”—her gaze swept the room, her frown denouncing her surroundings—“in this . . .
place
.”

“I have work to finish in this city, Maria, before I—”

“
Work . . . ?
” She scoffed. “You came here to escape. But only for a time. Your work is in Austria. Where your life is. Where
I
am.”

As if hearing the strident tone of her own voice, she softened, affecting a look he knew only too well.

“We will be such a pair, Gerhard, you and I, once we are wed.”

Marcus looked again at the letter his father sent via the baroness.
“Peace is tenuous, but negotiations continue.
There is hope.”
He let the
words sink in. They were as much an answer to his prayer for his home country as they were for himself.

Not peace unconditionally. But at least it wasn’t war. And it opened the door for him.

“Baroness,” he said as he turned to face her, “I will return as I promised my uncle and father . . . and you. But”—he steeled himself with the memories, and love, of his mother and grandfather, and of the dream they’d instilled in him so long ago—“I will not seek a life in the palace. We will live outside of that scope. We will seek a countryside dwelling where I can continue my grafting, where I can design and—”

Her laughter cut him short. “Grafting? Designing? Oh, Gerhard . . .” She touched his face as though attempting to hush the silly murmurings of a child. “Those are words of a common man. Something you were never born to be.”

He brushed her hand aside. “What I was not born to be, Maria, is king. I have never sought the throne, nor do I seek it now. And if it were to come to me, I would renounce it.”

She looked as if he’d struck her. “You do not mean it. You cannot.”

“As surely as my uncle’s contract with your father guarantees my return to Vienna, I pledge to you now that we will never seek a public life in the House of Habsburg.”

The narrowing of her eyes told him his words had hit their mark.

She smiled at him again but without the least warmth. “I hope that, while here, Gerhard, you have kept your . . .
playful
indiscretions to yourself. More so than you—or your brother—did in Vienna.”

Marcus flinched.

She fluttered a hand. “Don’t think I didn’t notice the way the woman looked at you earlier.” She laughed. “They do grow them tall here in America, don’t they? And rather . . . commonplace, wouldn’t you say?”

“I’d say you’re overstepping your boundaries, Baroness. And I would advise you to hold your tongue.”

She pressed a hand to her bodice, her expression one of dismay. “Is that the common man speaking? Or the archduke? Pray, my lord, I cannot tell.”

Marcus leveled a stare, to which she gave a pitying laugh.

“Do not think you are the first to seek the
prosaic
for amusement
,
Gerhard. Every man in your position has done it. Even I grow bored of dining on the king’s fare, and, on occasion”—she met his gaze unabashedly—“seek a pastry in the marketplace.”

In the space of a heartbeat, every nuance of Marcus’s old life rushed
back at him, the force of it hitting him squarely in the chest, all but stealing his breath. He saw so clearly, through the eyes of the woman before him, who he had once been.

Yet he could also see the image of the man he wanted to be, and—picturing eyes so warm a brown, so true in conviction—that he believed he still could be. Given the chance.

If only there were a way for that to happen while also allowing Austria—and his uncle, father, and the House of Habsburg—to save face. While he did not aspire to the Austrian throne, he also could not knowingly do anything to weaken it.

Not now, at so critical a juncture. They were, after all, his family.

He focused again on the baroness, unable to imagine living out his life with a woman like her. Glancing back in his direction, she smiled coyly, apparently mistaking his attention.

“Gerhard,” she purred, slipping her arm through his, “I do not like it when we quarrel. Unless, of course”—she ran a hand over his chest—“it means you will come to see me in the night to soothe the sting between us.” She laughed in a manner she likely thought becoming. “Your father has great plans for you. As does your uncle. I have heard them speaking. You will be the most celebrated archduke the House of Habsburg has ever known. And perhaps, one day soon, if fate smiles on us both . . . emperor.”

Did the woman not realize what she’d just said? That she considered his uncle and father dying premature deaths as fate smiling on them?

Knowing she no more cared about him than he did her, Marcus could see what she was doing. It was what she had always done. She was buying herself a crown. And he was merely her ticket.

Listening to her simper and scheme, he thought of the phrase “killing two birds with one stone” and wondered if a single letter could accomplish the same goal. He smiled at her, the gesture taking greater effort than he’d thought. “I will pen a letter to my father tonight. You will take it with you on the morning train when you depart.”

She pouted. “But I’m not departing on the morrow. I’ve decided I want to see more of this quaint little country. And its . . . common, everyday rustics.”

Marcus stepped close, and for an instant her composure wavered. “You are mistaken, Baroness. You and your maids must rest well, for tomorrow I will escort you to the train myself and you
will
return to Austria posthaste.”

She scoffed. “But that is not—”

“For there is no time to waste. You must personally deliver to my father and uncle my wishes in detail for our future. This way, there will be no misunderstanding, and my future with the House of Habsburg—
and
yours—will be guaranteed.”