Beauty So Rare, A (A Belmont Mansion Novel Book #2) (42 page)

Marcus had given no indication that his firm was in financial trouble. But remembering how embarrassed her father had been regarding their own financial demise, she doubted Marcus would be eager to speak of such things. He
did
have an air of pride about him.

Following dinner, she accompanied Lawrence into the small study off the main entrance, where a servant soon arrived with coffee and shortcake. The room was sparsely decorated, quite the opposite of Belmont, and had a somewhat sad, even forsaken feel. Still, Lawrence had a handsome home. One of the finest in Nashville. Far nicer than she’d ever dreamed of living in.

“May I ask you a question . . . Lawrence?” Though she’d used his given name on occasion, it had yet to roll off her tongue.

“Of course.”

“How is it you’re so . . . accepting of my cooking for the widows and their children? I’m grateful for your understanding, no mistake. But my aunt and most of the women’s league were not so obliging at first.”

“It’s quite simple, actually . . .” He took a sip of coffee before speaking again. “I was very much surprised when I first read the article, as I indicated in my letter. But it rarely benefits one to jump to conclusions. Better first to gather the facts. After hearing from you this evening, my suspicions were, in part, confirmed. The article was written, at its heart, for the purpose of maligning your aunt’s name. She had much more to lose, you see, due to her elevated social status and your own lesser one.”

Eleanor smarted a little at the truth and at how he stated it so matter-of-factly.

“You’re a kindhearted person, Eleanor. That you cared enough to want to help the less fortunate speaks most highly of your character.”

She smiled, genuinely appreciating the compliment.

“However, that you actually did the work yourself shows a surprising lack of judgment for a woman of your years, as well as a disregard for behavior deemed acceptable within our community, specifically within our own social circle.”

Her smile quickly fading, Eleanor’s guard rose in its place. “But
surely you would agree that if acceptable behavior prohibits a person from doing good, then perhaps the definition of
acceptable
should be reconsidered.”

“I don’t agree. A person could still accomplish the same good, Eleanor, but through a different avenue. One that’s congruent with his or her station in life. For instance, you could have gone to your aunt, or to the Nashville Women’s League, and requested they partner with you to meet the needs of those women and children.”

“But they wouldn’t have done it. Not in a way that would have been successful. That’s why I—”

His eyes widened. “That’s a rather bold statement on your part. And one, I fear, will have to remain unsubstantiated, seeing as you acted without benefit of my counsel or anyone else’s before proceeding. However, I do not wish to dwell on this, Eleanor. It is done, and it was done from a kind heart. And in light of that, I am more than willing to indulge this . . . womanly, philanthropic endeavor with the clear understanding that this will not be customary once we are wed.”

He picked up a newspaper, unfolded it, situated it just so, and proceeded to read.

It was all Eleanor could do not to implode.

The heat in her face was nothing compared to the thumping of her heart. It took everything within her to stay seated across from him as he so casually said such a thing, then moved on. To have a man speak to her that way, with such assumption and—

She breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth. She then drank sips of hot, black coffee, trying to burn away the responses that sprang to her tongue with frightening intensity. None of which would serve her well if voiced aloud.

The crackle of flame consuming logs in the hearth was oddly comforting and ushered the moments past. Her silence didn’t seem to deter Lawrence Hockley in the least. He read the newspaper first, then a book, leaving her to sit there, trying to envision a world in which she didn’t have to marry this man in order to care for the most important person in the world to her.

When enough time had passed that she could leave without appearing rude, she rose from the settee. “Thank you . . . Lawrence, for dinner this evening.”

He rose as well, his countenance smoothed of any trace of frustration. “The pleasure was all mine. I’ll ask Hilda to get your coat and gloves and see that the carriage is brought around.”

Eleanor waited in the entrance hall. He’d failed to ask for her answer, and she was in no mood to broach the subject.

Flickering light from the candelabra in the dining room spilled a soft glow into the hallway, beckoning her in. She followed and caught sight again of the portrait above the hearth in the dining room and stepped in that direction. She stared up, remembering the late Mrs. Hockley’s name.
Henrietta
. Plain, practical. It suited the woman. Much as Eleanor knew her own name suited her.

Something in Henrietta’s gaze drew her. Perhaps it was the way the artist—Washington Cooper, the signature told her—had captured both the natural light of her eyes, and yet also an empty, almost absent look. Though the woman’s expression wasn’t severe, neither would it be described as warm.

The corners of her mouth were upturned the tiniest bit, as though someone had reminded her to smile, but everything else about her—including the sadness in her eyes, the way her hands were knotted tightly in her lap, even the rounded, slightly hunched curve of her shoulders—suggested the greater truth of who Henrietta Hockley had been.

And who, Eleanor feared, she herself would become if she chose a similar path.

“Here you are, Eleanor.” Lawrence reappeared with her coat and gloves, his own already on. “It’s raining, I’m afraid.”

Neither spoke on the way back to Belmont, but the rain amply filled the silence, which was Eleanor’s preference. As the carriage passed the conservatory, she saw lamplight coming from within and wondered if Marcus was there. She knew then that every time she passed that conservatory, no matter how often in coming years, she would always think of him. And remember.

As Lawrence walked her to the door, tears waiting for release burned her eyes and throat. Again, thinking of Marcus, she offered her gloved hand.

Upon it, Lawrence placed a perfunctory kiss. “I’m most encouraged by our exchange this evening, Eleanor. I believe our pragmatic natures are more than compatible. Would you not agree?”

Unable to deny it, Eleanor nodded.

“And I’m assuming, since I requested as much, that you have made your decision?”

“I have,” she said softly.

“And your answer is . . . ?”

For some reason, the image of little Maggie sopping up spilled soup from the plank-wood floor rose in her mind, and Eleanor searched the memory, trying to understand why it would return at that moment. All she could see was that room full of women and children, most of whom had nothing and no one to take care of them. But she had someone. She only had to choose. Perhaps he would not care for her—or she for him—in the way she desired, but Lawrence Hockley was a wealthy man. And he was generous, in his own way.

As his wife, she wouldn’t be allowed to live the life she wanted, but she could still live one that mattered. She could see to it that the home always had the funding it required, and she could guarantee that her father would have what he needed for the remainder of his life.

It was logical. It made perfect sense. So why did that
something
deep inside that Marcus had awakened within her let out a silent, deafening scream when she whispered, “Yes.”

“We have two days of work left here in the warehouse, Mr. Geoffrey. Maybe three, if we stretch it.”

Marcus nodded, hearing the concern in his foreman’s tone. “That’s what I’d estimated as well.”

“The men have been asking what job is next. I’ve told them it’s still being finalized. But . . . they have families to feed, Mr. Geoffrey.”

“As do you, I realize, Callahan. I should know something this week. And I’ll push to know as soon as possible.”

“Sounds good, sir.” Callahan gestured to the plans on the table. “If I’m not mistaken, I think I see a little bit of your opera house in this design. This is gonna be the nicest widows’ and children’s home in the state of Tennessee.”

It was Marcus’s turn to smile. “And here I was aiming for the entire country.” He held out his hand. “I appreciate your loyalty, Callahan. And that of the men too. Tell them if we have to go without work for a day or two, I’ll pay them anyway, just to keep them on.”

“If it comes to that, Mr. Geoffrey, I’ll make the offer. But the men . . . They appreciate working for you, sir. They respect you. Not many bosses will scale the rafters with them. Tom Kender’s still talking about that.”

Marcus laughed. “Kender’s a good man. Just the other day, he—”

“Sir,” Callahan interrupted, looking past him. “I think you may have a visitor.”

Marcus turned and could scarcely believe his eyes. It had only been four days since he’d seen her, since that night in the library. But it felt like much longer.

“Eleanor . . .” He hurried to meet her, offering his hand as she maneuvered around stacks of freshly cut planks. “Good morning. What brings you out here? And so early?” His first thought went to her father. Not that he was supposed to know about him. However, he
was
planning on visiting the asylum later that week. He’d made a promise to the man, after all. “Everyone in your world is all right, I hope?”

“Yes, everyone’s fine. And good morning to you, as well.”

Formality not usually present graced her tone, but he didn’t find that wholly unexpected. Not when considering he’d kissed her breathless the last time he’d seen her, then left without further exchange.

He lightly squeezed her hand before letting go, and when she returned the tiny but telling gesture, he looked at her and wondered what it would be like to grow old with this woman—to get to know the feel of her hand in his like a second skin, to know her habits, her likes and dislikes, what she thought about just before drifting off to sleep, and then again upon awakening.

“I’m sorry to bother you here, Marcus. I considered waiting, but . . . under the circumstances, I thought it best not to.”

“Whatever it is, I’m glad you came. It’s nice to see you again.” He caught a sparkle in her eyes that did his heart good.

“You as well,” she said softly.

“While you’re here,” he gestured, “perhaps I can show you the designs for the building. I’ve been working on them day and night. I think you’ll be pleased.”

It might have been his imagination, but the glint in her eyes seemed to fade by a degree.

“I’m eager to see them, Marcus, but I think it would be best if I showed you something first.”

 33 

T
rying to mask his frustration, Marcus stood back and surveyed the three-story monstrosity of a brick building that took up nearly half a city block. He felt Eleanor watching him, no doubt trying to gauge his reaction.

When he’d gotten into the carriage with her a while earlier, he’d discovered her aunt and another woman from the Nashville Women’s League waiting—along with an agenda.

“So . . .” Eleanor’s tone was carefully neutral, but the spark of possibility in her expression was not. “Take your time. Look at it. Then tell me . . . what’s your initial impression?”

“That this cumbersome brick-and
-mortar box should be put out of its misery”
came to mind, but he doubted she would welcome his humor. He was a great admirer of old buildings, of which Europe boasted many. Most dating back to the fourteenth century or earlier. The soaring heights of Vienna’s St. Stephen’s Cathedral came to mind, and of course the Hofburg Palace. Masterful examples of art and architecture crafted from limestone that had more than simply withstood the weight of time. They had reigned over it.

But this building . . .

He grimaced at the lack of artistry in design and at the mortar already cracked and chipping. Americans didn’t seem to build with the goal of withstanding the test of time as much as they built racing against the clock. Of course, he was not one to criticize in that regard when faced with a looming deadline. . . .

He chose his words carefully. “I think Mrs. Bennett and her husband are a most generous couple. Their desire to donate this . . . imposing piece of property says a great deal about them both.” He glanced behind them to where Adelicia and Mrs. Bennett stood speaking beyond
earshot and with unmistakable exuberance. “Yet its condition is greatly compromised, to say the least. Renovating such a building might be a challenge I’d welcome . . . if not for the specific needs that a widows’ and children’s home demands. For instance, in my plans I’ve included—”

“But you haven’t even seen the inside of this building yet.” She gave him a look he knew only too well.

“That’s true . . . but I’m familiar enough with this type of building to have a good idea of what’s inside. Don’t forget, Eleanor, I’ve renovated a lot of buildings in this town.”

“Which is all the more reason,
Marcus
, to consider this one. Especially since it would be donated.”

Hearing that
steel
velvet in her voice, similar to that he’d often heard in her aunt’s, Marcus knew better than to push. For now, anyway.

“Have they approved a budget yet?”

She slipped an envelope from her reticule. “I was given it this morning.”

He reached for it, but she pulled it back, giving him the faintest smile.

“I want the estimate on your design
and
on the renovation of this building before I share this with you.”

He eyed her, proud of her beyond words while also wishing he could throttle her just a little. For a few days he’d let himself believe the chance to build something notable was finally in his grasp. . . . And it still was. He just needed to convince her his way was best.

“Mr. Geoffrey . . .” Adelicia’s voice came from behind. “I look forward to hearing your assessment once we’ve toured the building.”

“Yes, madam. I’m certain that will give us all a clearer perspective on the project.” He caught Eleanor’s sideways glance and returned it.

She shielded her eyes from the sun and peered up. “It’s a handsome property, Mrs. Bennett.”

“Thank you, Miss Braddock. It’s quite special to my husband. Mr. Bennett visits here nearly every week. The flooring and staircases are sound, he said. But the building
is
in need of repair.”

Marcus stared up at the redbrick albatross. Broken windows, like black eyes, dotted the three-story structure. Chunks of brick and mortar were missing, likely due to rifle fire, or a cannon blast. The arched detail work around the windows—which, granted, was a nice addition—was partially missing here and there and only served to whisper of better times long past.

But it
was
still standing, which he guessed said something.

“When Mayor Adler took office,” Mrs. Bennett continued, “he immediately ordered that a new courthouse be built.” Her tone wistful,
she lifted a shoulder, then let it fall. “I suppose this one wasn’t grand enough anymore. It was not nearly as ornate as the one the mayor had constructed.” Her smile held shades of memory. “My husband and his father built this building when he was little more than a boy, so . . . my husband will be thrilled and honored should you find it worthy of renovation for our project, Mr. Geoffrey.”

Feeling adequately chastised, Marcus nodded, but the very mention of Mayor Adler further soured his perspective on the place. He certainly didn’t want that man’s hand-me-downs. All he could think about was the opera house the mayor’s son was building. He knew life wasn’t fair, but this outcome seemed especially unjust.

With a proud smile, Mrs. Bennett withdrew a key from her reticule and handed it to him. “Since my husband couldn’t be here, would you do the honors, Mr. Geoffrey?”

“With pleasure, madam.” Marcus bowed, halfway praying the walls of the building would collapse in on themselves with the turn of the key. That would solve his problem entirely.

To his surprise, the cylinders in the lock clicked with well-oiled precision and the door opened with scarcely a squeak. Not a wall wavered.

He waited as the women preceded him through the doorway. The last to enter before him, Eleanor leaned close as she passed and whispered, “Work to keep an open mind,
Herr Geoffrey
, or I might have to hire myself another architect.” She winked and walked on.

Marcus smiled. Apparently he hadn’t masked the truth of his feelings as well as he’d thought. He allowed himself the privilege of watching her—all of her—unhindered. He had a feeling that reporting to Eleanor Braddock was going to be an experience he wouldn’t soon forget.

Especially when forgetting her was the last thing on earth he wanted to do.

Everywhere Eleanor looked, she saw potential. She couldn’t follow one idea through to completion before the next presented itself. Dust motes hovered in shafts of sunlight piercing the windows, and the crisscross pattern of light gave the space an almost dreamlike quality.

The air smelled of dust and disuse, like something set aside and forgotten, similar to the tunnel she and Marcus had visited together.
Still, she breathed it in and caught the scent of a dream, but watching Marcus beside her, she doubted whether he would say the same.

She didn’t think her aunt or Mrs. Bennett had picked up on his bias, but she had. And she understood. He wanted to build a building
“
more beautiful, more awe-inspiring than anyone has ever dreamed
or imagined.”
She remembered his words verbatim.

The only problem . . .

The budget she’d been given, while generous, had to cover so much more than the building. It had to cover the allowance for food, furniture for rooms, bedding, hiring of staff. A kitchen! She kept a notebook with her and constantly made additions.

Aunt Adelicia’s and Mrs. Bennett’s hushed voices wafted toward them from a room off the foyer, and the occasional scurry of what Eleanor hoped were only mice scuttling in the ceiling. Mice, she could handle. Rats were another issue altogether.

The foyer was larger than she’d expected, and she pictured it arranged in a way to welcome newcomers. Tables and chairs to encourage visiting in front of the expansive stone hearth, perhaps. Hooks to hang coats and scarves on. Shelves lined with books for the older children could fit perfectly along the wall to her right. And to the left, a large woven rug and wooden boxes containing toys for the younger ones would be a nice addition.

Slowly, she released the breath she’d been holding, as if exhaling all at once might cause the images to disappear. “It has potential,” she whispered, then glanced beside her when Marcus didn’t respond. She gave him a nudge. “I said . . . it has potential.”

Jaw firm, he scanned the ceiling overhead. “Don’t make too swift a judgment. You haven’t seen anything but the foyer yet.”

“Neither have you.” She frowned, not caring for the negative bent of his tone.

He tilted her chin upward. “See the dark stains along those support beams?”

Not wanting to, she nodded.

“Water damage. And rot. The roof probably needs replacing, which means a portion of the flooring will likely need it too.”

“But Mr. Bennett said the stairs and flooring are sound. And besides, don’t your men know how to do that?”

A scowl clouded his handsome face. “Of course we do, but that’s not the issue.”

“You being from Europe, I thought you would appreciate stately buildings of old such as this.”

“I
do
appreciate old buildings, Eleanor, but this”—he glanced beyond her to the room where her aunt and Mrs. Bennett were speaking—“hardly qualifies as stately. We have to be mindful of the cost of repairs for this building. We don’t want to spend so much money that we end up spending almost what a new building would have cost. And if we build from the ground up, I can build precisely to suit your needs. Exactly what you want.”

She raised an eyebrow. “But I thought that renovating is less expensive than building, and that’s why so many companies were choosing that route instead of the other.”

He stared at her. “Do you not forget anything, Eleanor?”

“Never.” She smiled as sweetly as she could, knowing it would likely irritate him.

Seeing him again hadn’t been as awkward as she’d anticipated. He acted as if nothing had happened between them, which was as he wanted it, she guessed. He ran a hand along a wall, knocking occasionally, listening for . . . what, she didn’t know. But she enjoyed watching him. Which she probably shouldn’t, considering she was—

She even had trouble thinking the word. She was an
engaged
woman. No ring yet. No announcement. No wedding date set either. Lawrence had said they would wait until after the widows’ and children’s home was completed. And that suited her just fine.

Aunt Adelicia had been thrilled at the news. That made one of them.

“Customarily, yes,” Marcus continued, standing on tiptoe to check out the beams overhead, “renovating is cheaper. But sometimes, when the building is as large as this one, and in such a state of disrepair, the cost of repairs can add up. I simply want you to be mindful of that possibility.”

“And I want us to be mindful of the budget they’ve given us. It’s generous. And while I’ll share it with you later”—she held up a hand when he started to interrupt—“I’ve learned that the money always spends more quickly than I think it will.”

His sigh held concession. “That’s always the case.”

They joined Aunt Adelicia and Mrs. Bennett and toured the main floor of the old courthouse. For the most part, the interior walls were intact. But in some of the former offices, it looked as though an ax had been used to chop rudimentary passageways between rooms.

Finding herself alone in one of the rooms with Marcus, Eleanor
couldn’t stop a recurring question from coming. “You said you’ve always known you must return to Vienna. What did you mean?”