Beauty So Rare, A (A Belmont Mansion Novel Book #2) (33 page)

Most cordially,
Lawrence D. Hockley

P.S. Lest you infer that I have taken leave of my strongly voiced opinion that we dispense with customary traditions associated with matrimony, please know that my opinion remains unchanged. I merely noted during our last dinner that when you searched your reticule for a pen to make note of a book I recommended, you did not have one in your possession. Now you do.

Eleanor had to smile. Pragmatic though he may be, Lawrence Hockley was apparently not without thoughtfulness. She picked up the pen and turned it in her hand. Then laughed aloud when she saw
Bank of Nashville
engraved on the side. He’d sent her a pen from the bank?

Even as she laughed, something deep inside rose to Lawrence’s defense. It
was
a very nice fountain pen, after all. And it demonstrated that the man was observant, at least to some extent. She sighed.

What would it be like to be married to Lawrence Hockley? Predictable. Dependable. Safe. And think of the good she could do in the community. Mr. Hockley was a wealthy man, and from all accounts, he was generous and kindhearted. As she had learned firsthand, taking care of people’s needs took money. And she would have money if she married him. Yet things wouldn’t be the same.

To think that she could continue cooking for and serving the widows and children of Nashville would be naive. But perhaps if she spoke with Lawrence about it, if she presented the opportunity in the right light, and had time to explain it to him, much like she would do with her aunt, he might be more open to it than she expected. He was, after all, a logical man.

But what would
their
life together be like? As husband and wife? What would—she shifted a little on the settee—sharing an intimate relationship with him be like? If they married, they would likely have children, Lord willing, and that yearning to be a mother that she’d struggled—without success—to fully surrender, would finally be fulfilled. Yet it was the actual . . . coming to be with child—Lawrence Hockley’s child—that made her cringe a little.

Her thoughts seemed reluctant to follow that intimate thread, and after a full moment with her imagination not so much as budging, she decided that was enough envisioning for one night. As her mother once told her in an extremely brief conversation when Eleanor was a young girl, “Not to worry, my dear. All of that will take care of itself when the time comes.”

Feeling unsettled, Eleanor took a long sip of spiced tea, then looked
up, her gaze drawn out the front window to the gardens, then to the conservatory beyond.

This time, she had no trouble at all considering the intimacy between a husband and wife—but with an entirely different man. One she couldn’t have. But even more importantly, who wasn’t seeking to have her.

All her life, she’d listened to the voice of logic, and could hear it even now. Only recently had the stirrings of her heart been awakened, and they were insistent, persuasive, and counter to those of her nature. So which did she listen to?

If she married Lawrence Hockley, she would never want for anything again. Except for the one thing, the one person, she wanted more than anything else.

Needing a diversion, she remembered and reached for Aunt Adelicia’s letter and opened the envelope. Her aunt’s descriptions of the family’s outings and of humorous things the children had said cheered her. But her aunt’s repeated question from previous letters—
Have you visited the Nashville Women’s League,
as I requested?
—did not.

Eleanor knew she needed to visit soon. But she dreaded it.

Sighing, she turned to the last page—and nearly came off the settee.

She read the words again. Then, frantic, hurriedly flipped back through the stationery, searching for the date on the first page. She’d paid no attention to it when she’d started. But seeing the date the letter was written, she frowned, compared it to the current date, counted, and—

Her exhale came through clenched teeth. Aunt Adelicia had changed her plans yet again and was due home any day!

 27 

E
leanor stood outside the imposing two-story brick building, not wanting to go inside, yet knowing she had no choice. The brass plaque to the right of the door caught her eye:

Nashville Women’s League, established 1820,

welcomes women from Nashville’s finest families who are dedicated to the social betterment of this city and its growing community.

And, after reading it, she resisted the urge to turn and run.
Social betterment
 . . .
What did that even mean? Eleanor sighed, hand on the latch, eager to get the ordeal over with. She felt as if she were entering the Nashville Women’s Academy again, where she would be compared to her aunt at every turn.

The entrance hall of the Nashville Women’s League was every bit as ostentatious as she’d imagined. Only with far more lace. It was everywhere. Lace draping antique tables and dripping from arms of chairs. Lace even fringed the bright pink floral curtains that contrasted with the deeper mauve floral of the carpet. Absolutely dizzying . . . But at least she knew where to send her pink ensemble for its final resting place when the time came.

“So are you saying you don’t think this is a good option for me, Mother?”

“What I am
saying
,” a strident voice responded from a side room, “is that the
first
option suits you best. However, if that is no longer available, then you must be willing to accept the second. And you must decide quickly, lest someone beat you to it!”

The conversation coming from the open door on Eleanor’s left continued in hushed tones, and she resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She’d just stepped through the door and already there was talk of fashion. Not wishing to eavesdrop further, however unintended, she cleared her throat. “Hello?”

The conversation fell silent.

She’d stepped forward, almost to the door, when movement on her right brought her around.

“Good morning!” A young woman called, turning to close a door behind her. “My apologies I wasn’t here to”—her gaze lifted considerably in order to meet Eleanor’s, the gesture a comment in itself—“properly welcome you, ma’am. How may I assist you today?”

“Good morning.” Eleanor had her little speech ready. “I recently arrived to Nashville and was encouraged by one of your members to make a visit here.” Not revealing her relation to Aunt Adelicia was one way to avoid comparison.

“Ah! How wonderful. I’m Mrs. Daniel Jacobson Smith-Warner, the
third
,” the woman said, giving her a look that seemed intent on conveying shyness, but that did just the opposite. “And you are?”

“Miss Eleanor Elaine Braddock.” Eleanor clenched her jaw.
Why
had she used her middle name? How idiotic! Her first and last name had just seemed so small and insignificant venturing into the conversation all by themselves.

The woman’s gaze flitted briefly to Eleanor’s hair, and Eleanor resisted the urge to smooth the sides. She’d worn it the way she always did—pulled back and knotted at the nape of her neck. Nowhere near as elaborate a style as that of her new
friend.

“Braddock . . . Braddock,” the woman repeated, eying her as though trying to determine if her blood was blue enough. “I don’t believe I know that name.”

“My family is originally from Murfreesboro,” Eleanor offered, and knew immediately by the sideways tilt of the woman’s head that her hometown had not impressed.

“I see . . .” The woman continued to stare, tiny lines between her eyebrows telling the true story. “How wonderful for you. But, may I ask . . .
which
member encouraged you to make a visit here?”

Eleanor wished she could turn and leave right then, and never come back. “My aunt . . . Mrs. Adelicia Cheatham.”

Eleanor had never witnessed an eclipse of the sun—but she imagined it was something like what she saw. Every trace of skepticism
vanished, and Mrs. Daniel Jacobson Smith-Warner
,
the
third
positively beamed.

“Oh, of course . . .
that
Miss Braddock!” She pressed a hand to her lace-trimmed bodice and her smile spread unnaturally wide. “Oh, my dear, it is a pleasure to meet you. Your aunt told us you would be joining us. But that was weeks ago. We wondered why we never heard from you. . . .”

The woman’s words trailed off, signaling Eleanor that an explanation was expected.

“Yes, I’m sorry for the delay. I’ve been very busy . . . adjusting to life here.”

“Well, of course you have. There’s so much to do as a”—Mrs. Smith-Warner’s smile faltered—“woman such as yourself.”

If Eleanor could have blinked in that moment and been anywhere else in the world, she would have. And she would have chosen to be in the kitchen with Naomi, Marta, Elena, and the other widows. Women without a man in their lives, like her.

She felt a bond with them. A kindredness. And a welcome.

Mrs. Smith-Warner looped her arm through Eleanor’s. “The first order of business is to introduce you to some of your future fellow magnolias.”

Eleanor didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Fellow magnolias?”

“Oh! You’re not supposed to know that until after the initiation. So
shhhh
 . . .” She held a finger to her lips, peering up. “Don’t tell anyone.”

Eleanor smiled. “Not to worry.”

“Unfortunately, Miss Braddock, this being Thursday, most of our ladies are at tea in a member’s home. But I believe two of our finest members may still be here.”

Eleanor followed her across the hallway to the room she’d been about to enter earlier. Bracing herself for a fashion show in progress, she was surprised to see two women seated at a table, their heads bowed together over . . . a newspaper?

“Mrs. Hightower, Miss Hightower,” Mrs. Smith-Warner said, at which time the two women turned.

Eleanor’s gaze locked with that of the younger woman’s. In that instant, she felt a flash of recognition. She’d seen her somewhere before. But
where,
she couldn’t quite—

La Bienvenue.
Those perfect blond curls.

And perfect they still were, although considerably less shimmery sans candlelight. Miss Hightower’s eyes widened slightly before swiftly
returning to normal, but that told Eleanor what she wanted to know. The woman recognized her too.

“I’d be honored,” Mrs. Smith-Warner continued, directing her attention to Mrs. Hightower, “if you would allow me to introduce a future member to you and your daughter.”

“A future member, Mrs. Smith-Warner?” Mrs. Hightower, a stately looking woman, briefly shifted her gaze to Eleanor. Her pointed chin jutted, sharpening what had likely been a beautiful countenance in more youthful years. “I believe, Mrs. Smith-Warner, you mean future
nominee
for membership, do you not?”

“Well, I . . . I simply thought that since she’s Mrs. Cheatham’s—”

“Because unless every member in this organization has assigned her proxy to you, my dear heart”—Mrs. Hightower smiled, which didn’t improve her countenance—“then I believe we may be overstepping our bounds just a little.”

Eleanor took an instant disliking to Mrs. Hightower, and already didn’t trust her daughter. And even though Mrs. Daniel Jacobson Smith-Warner, the
third,
wasn’t high on her list either, she actually felt sorry for the woman.

As introductions were made, Eleanor slipped a glance at the newspaper on the table. It was open to the society page. And here she’d thought the women had been discussing fashion, not future husbands.

“So you’re the niece Adelicia has been telling us about.” Rivaling Eleanor’s height, Mrs. Hightower gave her a quick up-and-down glance. “Your aunt speaks very highly of you.”

Eleanor forced a smile. “She was being generous with her praise, no doubt.”

“We both know your aunt, Miss Braddock, and therefore know how unlikely that possibility is.”

As Eleanor looked at Mrs. Hightower,
formidable
was the word that came to mind. As did another word she didn’t wish to dwell on. Just as she didn’t wish to dwell in this moment any longer. Or in this place.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hightower”—Eleanor turned to the woman’s daughter—“and
Miss
Hightower, for your kind welcome.” She glanced at the woman beside her. “Mrs. Smith-Warner, I appreciate your assistance today as well. Now, if you ladies will please excuse me, I must be on to my next appointment.”

Eleanor closed the front door behind her and took a deep breath, grateful to check that dreaded to-do off her list, and ecstatic that her
path in life didn’t include dealings with Mrs. Hightower or her eavesdropping daughter.

The next morning, Eleanor felt an uneasy sense of
déjà vu
and prayed this visit with her father would go better than the last.

With any luck, the savory custard wrapped in a cloth beside her on the carriage seat wouldn’t end up on the wall.

She’d instructed Armstead to stop by the mercantile on their way to the asylum, and it being Friday morning, the streets were busy.

She’d ordered a book for her father last week, and Mr. Mulholland had said she could pick it up today. While there, she would gather the remaining ingredients for tonight’s menu, which included chicken and dumplings, stewed apples, corn bread, and molasses cookies for dessert. She wondered if Marcus might show up to help.

She hoped so, even while warning herself not to.

Somewhat to her relief, Aunt Adelicia and the family had yet to return. A flicker of guilt pelted Eleanor’s conscience at the thought.

On one hand, she welcomed their homecoming. Yes, she dreaded explaining to her aunt about cooking for the widows and children, but the mansion had been far too quiet and loomed even larger with the family gone, especially in the evenings. And especially since Marcus had been so scarce of late.

But on the other hand, she
had
enjoyed her independence and wasn’t overly eager to give that up. More than once in her letters, Aunt Adelicia had expressed an eagerness to hear all about “the wonderful evenings with Mr. Hockley” and the “highly anticipated good news.”

Eleanor wouldn’t put it past her aunt to have already written the man herself.

The carriage slowed to a crawl and finally stopped. Eleanor peered out the window. Ahead, a freight wagon loading goods from the feed store blocked the left side of the street while other wagons and carriages waited their turn to maneuver around it.

Eleanor felt the carriage dip to one side as Armstead climbed down.

He peered in through the window. “Miss Braddock, I’m sorry, ma’am, but it looks like it could be a while. You all right back here?”

Seizing the opportunity, Eleanor reached for the door handle. “Actually, I think I’ll walk the rest of the way.”

Armstead assisted her from the carriage even as his expression said
he would prefer she stay in it. “You sure you don’t wanna wait, ma’am? Mercantile’s still a good ways away.”

“Yes, I’m sure. I’ll enjoy the walk. I’ll meet you there.”

He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

She continued on foot, and with each step her thoughts slowed and her concerns faded. What she wouldn’t give to be able to spend the day in the kitchen making bread, working the dough until her arm muscles ached, in a good way. Push and roll, push and fold. The kneading process became almost like a dance atop the floured surface. And the aroma of the bread as it rested and rose . . .