Beauty So Rare, A (A Belmont Mansion Novel Book #2) (57 page)

The image of Marcus’s face rose in her mind—his laughter, the way his eyes glinted when his wit turned wonderfully sharp—and she wondered if in ten, twenty years from now, she would still remember him with such clarity.

Tears rose in her eyes, as did the answer from deep inside.

But he was marrying someone else. As was she.

She buried her hands in her pockets. She’d tried to convince herself that marrying Lawrence was the safer choice. And it was, in many ways. But it also frightened her to think of what she might become in a marriage without humor or feeling. Without love. Without
desire
.

And she knew what she had to do.

It wasn’t the same as braving the Confederate and Union armies to save twenty-eight hundred bales of cotton during the midst of a war. But it was the right thing to do. She knew it. No matter how difficult. No matter the cost to her personally.

Backlit by the sun, the title
Bank President
etched in the glass of the mahogany door gleamed like a beacon of hope. Hand on the latch, Eleanor hesitated, staring through the capital letters to the inner office beyond.

The certainty of the decision she’d made yesterday had only grown stronger with the sun’s rising. And even more so after her visit to the asylum earlier that morning. Her father—Theodore, as she was growing accustomed to calling him—was growing kinder and gentler in spirit, even as his body grew more frail.

She didn’t know what her own future held, but her father’s coming months were secure. A meeting with Dr. Crawford had gently but firmly encouraged her not to look too far beyond that, to take one day at a time. And from somewhere within, as Armstead had guided the carriage down the long, narrow drive, she’d heard a still, small whisper echoing that same counsel for her own life. And drawing courage from the memory, she opened the door.

The secretary behind the desk looked up. “May I help you, ma’am?”

“Yes, please.” Eleanor gripped her reticule. “I’m here to see Mr. Hockley.”

The woman glanced down at the ledger lying open on her desk, then up again. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No, ma’am, I do not.” Sensing the woman about to brush her aside, she continued. “But if you would please inform him that Miss Braddock is here, I believe he will be amenable to a brief visit.”

The woman scrutinized her. “And what may I tell him is the nature of your visit this morning, Miss Braddock?”

Eleanor thought for a moment, then smiled. “You may tell him . . . I’m here to close an account.”

 48 

Y
ou did
what
?” Aunt Adelicia’s voice heightened an octave. The color drained from her face as she shot up from the settee in the winter parlor. “And you did this without speaking to me first?”

“I didn’t do it to spite you, Aunt. I promise.” Eleanor had dreaded this conversation all day. Finally, after dinner, she’d managed to find her aunt alone. She’d expected her to be upset, but this . . .

“I simply decided that—”

“You have not the least understanding of what you have done, Eleanor.” Anger harshened her aunt’s tone. “I gave your father my
word
, my solemn vow, that I would see you married well. With a fortune to secure your future and that of your children. That is what he wanted for you.” Aunt Adelicia pressed her fingertips to her temples. “Exactly how did you break the engagement with Mr. Hockley? Perhaps it is yet still mendable.”

“I assure you, Aunt,” Eleanor said quietly from where she sat, “it is not.”

Lawrence had reacted in precisely the manner in which Eleanor had expected—from his studious stare, to the thin, flat line of his lips, to what he’d said in response. “You
do
realize, Miss Braddock, how impractical a decision this is on your part. The chances of your making such an advantageous match with anyone equal to my social standing and comparative wealth is infinitesimal. Especially considering your age and—”

“I’m well aware of that, Mr. Hockley.”

He’d continued to stare. “I find this exceptionally unusual behavior. And quite frankly, Miss Braddock, it reeks of feminine sensibilities, something I would never have attributed to you. I assumed you to be far more pragmatic.”

Just thinking of it again tempted Eleanor to smile. That was the
point in the conversation when the knot in the pit of her stomach that had bound her almost since the first day she’d set foot on the Belmont Estate again, had slowly, but most certainly, begun to unfurl.

And it felt . . . wonderful.

Freeing
didn’t even come close to describing it. It was a feeling she wanted to cling to—and she knew the recipe for doing just that. Although she’d suspected her aunt was going to like that news even less than she had this.

“Have you forgotten,” Aunt Adelicia said, bringing the present into focus again, “one vital consideration in your union with Mr. Hockley, the marriage you so hastily cast aside?” Her tone turned less accusing, more concerned. “What of the provision of your father’s care?”

“I haven’t forgotten, Aunt. Mr. Stover recently sold his building. And even though he was under no obligation to do so, he returned my three months’ rent. I put that toward Papa’s care.”

Her aunt’s expression held surprise. “That was most kind of Mr. Stover. But those funds can’t have covered a great length of time.”

“I still have some time left on my initial payment, and the additional amount covers enough to give me opportunity to . . . seek employment.”

Dark brows slowly rose over questioning blue eyes.

“Lest you think, Aunt Adelicia, that I am now planning to rely on your kind generosity indefinitely, I assure you I am working to make a way for myself. And for the first director of the Nashville Widows’ and Children’s Home.”

Her aunt looked beyond her to the door, then back at Eleanor, her features not altering in the least. “I suppose you’re referring to yourself?”

“Yes, I am.”

A deep, ponderous sigh. “And I suppose there is nothing I can do to talk you out of this . . .
lark
?”

Eleanor shook her head, then paused. “Mrs. Bennett is the one who first brought up the idea.”

Her aunt frowned. “Matilda Bennett has always been a bit of an . . . instigator.”

Eleanor smiled, quickly deciding not to tell her aunt about Mrs. Bennett’s latest
instigation,
nor of the woman’s offer to hire her, however temporarily. “If that’s the case, then I would think you and she have much in common.”

Not the least hint of humor was apparent in Aunt Adelicia’s demeanor. “Do any of the board members know about your plans?”

Eleanor’s courage slipped. “No, ma’am. I was hoping I might gain your support . . . before I turn in the list of staff for final approval.”

The leveled stare Aunt Adelicia gave her said the chances of that happening were remote.

Saturday morning, Marcus was in his makeshift office—the future quarters of the director for the home—when he looked up to see Caleb walking in with a basket of doughnuts.

Marcus had to think twice. “This is Saturday, not Friday.”

“I know.” Caleb set the basket on a table. “Mr. Fitch said these were on the house.”

“That was awfully nice of him.”

“He also said that you work too much.”

Marcus laughed and grabbed a doughnut, then returned to modifying the design sketches for the building next door. The beams were proving to be more of a challenge than he’d thought in theory, as were the—

“His wife says you should get married.”

Marcus lifted his gaze. “I beg your pardon?”

Caleb shrugged. “Mrs. Fitch said that . . . at your age and with your success,” he said, as though quoting, “you should be married. But then Mr. Fitch said that not every successful man needs a wife.”

Marcus smiled, able to hear the couple even now. “To which Mrs. Fitch replied?”

Caleb grinned. “That successful men do not know what they need. Until a woman tells them.”

Marcus laughed again, then looked back to his work. “What else have you heard lately?”

“That Miss Braddock wants to be the director for the home.”

Marcus’s head came up again. “
Was war
das?
”

Caleb nodded. “
Fräulein Braddock will der Direktor für zu
Hause sein.
”

Marcus put down his pencil. “She wants to be the director? Who did you hear that from?”

“My
Mutter
and Miss Braddock. They were talking in the kitchen yesterday.” A slow grin pulled at the corners of the boy’s mouth. “Sometimes people who are grown do not see people who are younger.”

Marcus’s mind raced. How was Eleanor planning on being the director of this home when she was marrying Lawrence Hockley? Surely, a
man like Hockley wouldn’t allow his wife to work in such a position. Unless Eleanor and Hockley were no longer—

“Oh! This came for you, sir.” Caleb laid an envelope on the table and picked up the basket of doughnuts. “I stopped by the post office like you asked me to.”

Marcus took one look at the return address and tore open the letter, only half aware of Caleb leaving the room.

His father’s handwriting was thicker than usual, as though the pen had been pressed hard to the page. The ink had bled through to the other side.

His father, never one for pleasantries, cut swiftly to the heart of the matter.

Dear Gerhard,

I did not think it possible to be even more disappointed in a son, but you have proven me wrong. Your letter showed me how deeply divided you and I are at heart, and how corrupt your allegiance to family and honor that you would forfeit the God-given path of your birth and ancestry. I cannot begin to fathom why you would willingly choose such a life as you described. . . .

Marcus read each word describing his father’s disappointment in him. All the words familiar, yet cutting just the same. He thought again of the letter he’d penned to him late on Christmas night, the letter he’d sent with the baroness. He’d chosen his words well, their intent undeniable.

He’d told his father what he wanted to do with his life, though not about his desire to stay in America. That he’d held back.

Wondering if his letter had served its purpose, he turned the page and continued reading.

You were insistent in your letter that you would honor your marriage to Baroness Maria Elizabeth Albrecht von Haas. At least in this, you have conducted yourself like a Habsburg. However, it befalls me to inform you that, in your prolonged absence, the baroness has developed feelings for another. Her father has recently informed your uncle of the transfer of her affections from you to your cousin, Stephen. They are to be wed this summer.

Marcus shook his head. Stephen was in line to the throne—right behind him. The baroness was, indeed,
precisely
the woman he’d thought
she was. Even as he had sealed the letter, he’d imagined her slowly warming the wax until the seal gave, reading every word, then sealing it again.

The baroness’s father conveyed that his daughter’s own keen sense of loyalty battled her emotions at every turn. But she has made her choice. And since the outcome of either marriage is the same for our family, your uncle has agreed to the match.

Keen sense of loyalty.
Marcus couldn’t believe his father was that gullible. But perhaps his father’s own biases got in the way of the truth.

I cannot say I anticipate your return, Gerhard. Not with the path you have chosen. You have been given every opportunity and have squandered it. Though I accept I may never know the answer, I have often wondered why the son of my heart chose to break it, even as the son left to me seems bent on crushing the remains.

Marcus folded the stationery and slipped the pages back into the envelope, aware that his letter had achieved its purpose. The baroness was marrying someone else, and his father knew the true desires of his heart. Yet he didn’t feel the sense of freedom he’d expected.

He’d always known Rutger was his father’s favorite. For a parent to show that favoritism was one thing. A boy could explain it away, at least in part, until he’d grown old enough to accept the painful reality. But to
pen
the words on paper to be read again and again was another.

Marcus walked outside to the back of the building, the air brisk and cool on his cheeks. He struck a match, held it to the letter, and watched it burn, convinced now, more than ever, that he’d chosen the right path for his life.

Now to determine whether the woman he loved, loved him in return. Her recent behavior—and her
near
kiss—made him all but certain she did. Yet did
she
realize it? He thought of that day in the carriage with her. He’d told her then that he was from an ambitious family.

Eleanor Braddock was about to discover just how ambitious a Habsburg could be.