Beauty So Rare, A (A Belmont Mansion Novel Book #2) (59 page)

Eleanor smiled. “Yes, she is. I’ve met Mrs. McGavock once before, when I was at Carnton.” Taking a deep breath, she pulled the handkerchief from her pocket. “By chance, Mary, does this mean anything to you?”

She held out the handkerchief, and Mary took it. Seeing the tears slipping down the woman’s cheeks, Eleanor felt a weight lifting inside her—one she’d been carrying for so long it had all but become a part of her.

“It’s beautiful, Miss Braddock.” Mary sniffed. “So pretty with the stitches. Did you make this for your man?”

Eleanor shook her head. “No, I . . .” How quickly hope could flee. “I thought you might have. I was a volunteer during the war, in the surgical tents.” She told Mary the story, watching understanding slip into her eyes.

Mary shook her head. “It wasn’t my Thomas you held as he was dyin’, Miss Braddock.” Fresh tears fell. “But I’ve prayed, many a time, ma’am, that he had someone like you with him there at the last.” She pressed the handkerchief back into Eleanor’s hand. “I hope you find his Mary girl, wherever she is.”

Tears clouding her own eyes, Eleanor nodded. She then spotted Marcus eating with Caleb and some of the other boys at a table on the far side of the room. He must have come in after she’d stepped away from the serving line.

He’d surprised her with the loveliest basket of goodies the other day. Doughnuts, of course, and some chocolates. And even some sugar sticks. But it was the book he’d loaned her two days ago—one by John Donne, in German, Marcus’s personal copy, no less—that she loved best of all. Such insight into a person could be gained from reading a book they’d read and underlined.

Mary stood, and Eleanor followed suit.

“I need to be goin’, Miss Braddock. But I thank you for dinner, and for what you’re doin’ here. It’s good to have souls who understand your grief. Don’t make it lighter, really. But it helps to know you’re not alone.”

They embraced, and Eleanor slipped the handkerchief back into her pocket.

Feeling someone’s attention, she found Marcus staring at her, concern in his eyes. She smiled and waved to indicate she was fine, then headed back to the kitchen.

Not that she was being given the chance. . . . But if she ever allowed herself to fall in love with that man—not just a little, but in the way she knew she would if given a spark of opportunity—her heart would be his. Fully, without reservation. The realization was sobering. Because she’d watched countless women whose husbands had taken half their hearts to the grave, and yet somehow those women had continued on, living with heartache.

The problem was . . . she didn’t want to be one of them.

A few days later, while chopping vegetables in the kitchen, Eleanor opened a side cabinet to retrieve a dish and paused, seeing a pretty—but unfamiliar—blue glass bowl tucked inside.

She picked it up and found an envelope within—with her first name on the front. She glanced back toward the gathering room, then opened the envelope to find a drawing inside, and smiled.

A
Selenicereus grandiflorus
in full bloom. She brushed a strand of hair from her face, certain she caught scent of the blooms from the Queen of the Night. Marcus had signed in the corner,
“For the moments in life worth
waiting for, Marcus.”

And he’d drawn this for her . . .

Reaching a milestone in the renovation during the past week—half of the project completed—was having quite a positive effect on the man. She’d heard him
whistling
the other day as she’d toured the home with Naomi, deciding how to assign the rooms on each floor. She’d never heard him whistle before.

And although the sound had been a happy one, she hadn’t been happy to hear it. She’d thought about what he’d said regarding being a different man back in Austria. But she still couldn’t imagine him with a woman like the baroness. Perhaps the old Marcus might have desired a woman like the baroness.

But the Marcus she knew? Never.

She glanced out the window to where she’d seen him an hour or so ago, and saw the door to “his building” standing open. She debated with herself, insisted it was his secret to share when he was ready, but curiosity got the best of her.

She laid her knife aside and slipped out the door.

At a meeting with the league board days earlier, several of the women had inquired about the building he was constructing—about its purpose and function in relation to the home. Eleanor had kindly explained that both the land and the structure being built belonged to Marcus, and that they could direct their inquiries to him.

She grinned as she imagined him being cornered by Mrs. Hightower and her daughter.

Though the temperature was chilling, a brilliant March sun reigned overhead in a cloudless wash of blue. She wished she’d thought to grab her coat. No doubt, the interior of the building, whatever it held, would be—

“Some people simply cannot be trusted.”

Cringing, Eleanor paused and turned to see Marcus striding toward her.

“I’m disappointed in you, Miss Braddock.”

“I’m disappointed in me too. I should have come out here five minutes ago, when I first had the thought.”

He laughed, then looked beyond her and nodded once.

Eleanor glanced over her shoulder to see a member of his crew closing the door. She gave a dramatic sigh. “Only yards away from discovery and having
all
my questions answered.”

He smirked. “My heart bleeds for you, madam.”

She leveled a stare meant to intimidate, but his smile said it hadn’t worked. The stubble along his jawline told her he’d gone without shaving that morning. And the look suited him. “Thank you for the lovely bowl,
and
the picture you drew. They’re both beautiful. But . . . what’s the occasion?”

His gaze warmed. “No occasion. I simply wanted you to know I was thinking about you.”

She stared, a tad taken aback and thinking he would say more. When he didn’t, she rushed to fill the silence. “Oh . . . well . . . that’s very nice. Thank you, Marcus.”

“My pleasure, Eleanor.” He tipped an imaginary hat.

Curious about his behavior, she turned to go back inside, then remembered something. “I’ve been intending to ask you . . .”

He hadn’t moved.

“When will you plant the seedball? I’d love to be there and help, if I could.”

He gave her an odd look. “I’m sorry, but . . . I planted the seeds
about a month ago. After I knew, for sure, that I was staying to finish the project. If I didn’t, I was afraid they would die.”

“Oh . . .” She forced a smile, trying not to let her disappointment show. “I see.”

“I would have asked you to help, Eleanor. But . . . you and I weren’t seeing much of each other during that time.”

She recognized his delicate way of saying she had avoided him for a while after learning about the baroness. The baroness . . .

Marcus hadn’t said one word about her since that day in the carriage. Of course, she wouldn’t have told him about her broken engagement to Lawrence Hockley had he not asked. Yet, his was a completely different arrangement, and she didn’t feel as free to ask him as he had her.

Exactly what would she say to him once he said,
“Yes, I’m still
marrying
Baroness Maria . . . with forty-
seven names.”
She would feel awkward, and somehow sadder for having inquired.

“Well,” she said, aware of him waiting for a response, “what matters is that the seeds are planted. When will the plants be ready for harvest?”

“Another eight to ten weeks, or so. Close to the time my next graft for your aunt’s rose should bloom. Lord, help me,” he said beneath his breath, a boyish grin tipping his mouth. “I’ve presented well over a hundred unique blooms to that dear woman since I’ve been here, but not one has passed muster, as you Americans say.”

“Be careful. She may not let you return to Austria without having that done.”

His eyes sparkled. “That would be a pity, wouldn’t it?”

Eleanor laughed, but only because it was expected.

His smile dimmed. “The breed of potato plant the seedball came from isn’t known for producing them, so who knows what we’ll get. Or when. But one thing is for certain. . . . If we get anything, Eleanor, it will be because of you. I don’t think I would have ever noticed it.”

“Oh, I’m certain you would have. I know you, and you’re very observant.”

He smiled again, a look in his eyes she knew, and yet also didn’t.

“You’d be surprised what things are right in front of you, madam, that you sometimes miss.”

“The renovation is running two weeks
ahead
of schedule now,” Eleanor proudly announced, trying to gauge the expressions on the
faces of the league board members—especially that of her aunt, who was seated near the end of a row, between Mrs. Holcomb and Mrs. Bennett—but to no avail.

Over the past two weeks, she’d tried speaking to Aunt Adelicia about the vote taking place this morning, but her aunt had avoided the conversation.

She continued, “Mr. Geoffrey and his crews have completed the renovation of the entire first floor
and
a good deal of the second. So over half the project is behind us with almost three months remaining. I’m thrilled to share that all of the woodwork crafted in the old courthouse by Mrs. Bennett’s late father-in-law”—she caught Mrs. Bennett’s radiant smile—“has been restored and is now a permanent part of the home.”

Applause along with whispered affirmations rose from the ladies.

“And if you haven’t yet stopped by to see the new kitchen, please do. I’d love to show it to you. Mr. Geoffrey designed it himself. And we have the latest in stoves and cookware. Compliments of Mr. Geoffrey, I must add. He most graciously went far above and beyond the plans we originally had for that area, covering that cost himself.”

Again, the women applauded, and judging by their eager expressions, Eleanor was certain some were making mental notes to speak to Marcus about doing the same for their kitchens.

She picked up the list of staff she’d submitted for final approval and saw Mrs. Holcomb rise from her chair. “And now I’ll turn the meeting back over to Madam President.”

“Thank you, Miss Braddock. As always, that was a splendid report. Thorough and well presented.”

Eleanor thanked her and took a seat to the side of the board members, not only because she wasn’t one, but also so she could study them better.

Aunt Adelicia didn’t so much as look her way. But Mrs. Hightower and her daughter did, and their gazes were anything but supportive.

“Now, ladies, we have before us the list of staff Miss Braddock interviewed and believes will best serve the needs of the . . .”

Eleanor almost wished she’d insisted on leaving the room during the voting. But Mrs. Holcomb had objected to the idea, saying it was best Eleanor stayed, since she was, after all, a league member now—much to Eleanor’s lack of enthusiasm over having joined—and in case anyone had questions.

Eleanor reached into her pocket, the silky, well-worn cotton of the
handkerchief reminding her that there were many other things far more important than getting enough votes to be the director of the home.

But getting that position represented security in the form of room and board, and a steady salary—albeit a small one—that, over time and with other jobs, would pay for her father’s care. It also represented being part of a family she’d grown to cherish in recent months.

So this vote was
very
important. At least to her.

Mrs. Holcomb went line by line through the staff recommendations, reading aloud each position and name of the chosen applicant—along with the notes Eleanor had penned summarizing each person’s qualifications—then calling for brief discussion before taking a vote and continuing to the next. Until finally, she reached the director’s position.

“The next name is, of course, one that is familiar to us all.”

Eleanor kept her gaze lowered as Mrs. Holcomb paid her very kind and generous compliments.

“Before calling for a vote, I’d like to invite discussion. Bearing in mind, of course, that Miss Braddock is in the room with us.” Her tone was the definition of decorum. “So if there is a concern, ladies, please let us express it with—”