Beauty So Rare, A (A Belmont Mansion Novel Book #2) (54 page)

“We’ll serve these people quickly and then get you right in,” she assured.

She shut the door, but no sooner had the latch clicked, than an elderly woman began beating on the window. “Let us in! It ain’t right
those of us from round here got to wait outside while them that are foreign—”

Eleanor opened the door and grabbed the scrappy little woman’s arm, fearing the woman would break Mr. Stover’s window and slice her arm to ribbons.

“Madam!” Eleanor stood a good foot taller and used every inch of it to intimidate. “You will refrain from beating the window.”

The woman yanked her arm back. “We ought to get to come in first, instead of them—”

“Every widow in this city, along with her children, is welcome within these walls. No matter what country they’re from, what language they speak, or what color their skin. But you
will
wait your turn, or I will ask you to leave.”

“You young ones,” the elderly woman snapped, “so high and mighty. Thinkin’ just ’cuz I’m poor and up in years that I’m good for nothin’. Well, I can tell you . . .”

Then it dawned on Eleanor who the woman was. That day . . . so long ago. Standing outside the textile mill. Eleanor opened her mouth to respond when a voice came from behind.

“Miss Berta?”

The little woman fell silent, and Eleanor turned to see Caleb. She glanced beyond him to where Naomi stood watching with a puzzled look on her face.

“Miss Berta.” Caleb stepped forward. “You can have my place, ma’am. I will wait.”

Certain the older woman would throw the offer back in Caleb’s face, Eleanor was shocked when Berta’s wizened countenance softened.

“Well . . .” Berta blew out a breath. “Finally, a young man who’s got some manners. Even if you do talk funny!”

Eleanor gritted her teeth as Caleb showed the woman to her seat, then took his place outside with the others.

“Thank you, Caleb,” she whispered.

He just smiled and shrugged. “Someone did something nice for me not long ago, and I will never forget it.”

Eleanor closed the door, hoping Berta would never forget it either.

The meal of corn chowder, stewed cinnamon apples, and corn bread was served and consumed quickly, and the next group was ushered in.

A while later, as they hurried to clean up, the snow coming down harder, the heavy footfall of boots sounded in the front room, and Eleanor paused in her drying to peer around the corner.

“
Hello
the kitchen!” Mr. Stover sang out, his cheeks rosy from the cold, his eyes even brighter than usual.

“Good evening, Mr. Stover.” Naomi gestured. “We saved you dinner, sir. If you are hungry.”

“Oh, I’m always hungry. But first things first.” He slapped an envelope on the counter in front of Eleanor. “Here you go, Miss Braddock. A deal’s a deal.”

Eleanor looked at the envelope, then at him, not following.

He grinned. “Open it.”

She did and, seeing the thickness of bills inside, her mouth slipped open.

“It’s the three months of rent you paid me, ma’am. Just like we shook on.”

“But . . . I don’t understand. The three months have long passed, and—”

“I sold the building, Miss Braddock. For sure, this time. Just a while ago.”

Eleanor looked at Naomi, who looked as surprised as she felt.

“And I got exactly what I was askin’,” Mr. Stover continued. “All because of you, Miss Braddock.” He leaned in. “So I put a little extra in there for you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Stover. But . . .” A hundred questions swirled in her mind. Eleanor chose one. “Why do you say all because of me?”

“Because you’ve made this here little buildin’ the talk of the town—that’s why. The buyer and his wife want to open up a café. And what better place than here, they said, ‘where Miss Braddock already got the idea going’.”

Eleanor looked again at the money, then a second question came. “When does the couple want the building?”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. We got a whole
week
before they want to start fixin’ up the place to move in.”

Early the next morning, the New Year nearly upon them, Eleanor climbed into the carriage. “Thank you, Armstead.”

“You welcome, Miss Braddock.” He closed the door and paused beside the front step of the mansion.

Eleanor peered out. “Is something wrong?”

“No, ma’am, I . . .” He shook his head. “I jus’ . . .”

She waited, seeing the disquiet in his expression. “We are friends, Armstead. Whatever is on your mind, you can say it to me.”

He glanced back toward the house. “I thought you might want to know, ma’am, that . . . people are talkin’.”

Her heart fell. Somehow the word about Marcus must have gotten out. Then it occurred to her that Armstead might be referring to her father being in the asylum. Considering the aspects of her life she preferred to keep private, she decided it was in her best interest not to make a guess.

She looked at him pointedly.

“They talkin’ about . . . you marryin’ the bank president, ma’am.”

Eleanor let out a breath. “I see . . .” The one aspect of her life she hadn’t considered gossip worthy. “And what are they saying?”

“Just that you gonna marry him, ma’am.”

His eyes narrowed, and though, to his credit, he didn’t voice the question
“Are you?”
she read it in his demeanor and in the silence following. But, for some reason, she didn’t want to answer.

“Thank you, Armstead. I appreciate you telling me that.”

Acknowledgment flashed in his eyes, and he dipped his head. “Just thought you be wantin’ to know, ma’am.” He gave the rim of his hat a brief tug before climbing to the driver’s seat.

A snap of the reins, and the team of horses responded.

The chill of winter swept through the window openings. But bundled in a coat, with scarf and gloves, Eleanor didn’t mind. Aunt Adelicia had wanted her to take the glass-enclosed carriage, but Eleanor preferred this one. It was less conspicuous. And more . . .
her
.

She’d stayed up last night and counted—
three
times—the money Mr. Stover had so graciously returned to her. Three months’ rent, plus an extra forty dollars. It felt like a fortune. It felt like
freedom
.

And would have been, if not for two things—the expense of her father’s care and the lack of a way to provide for herself. She didn’t begrudge paying the cost of the asylum. Not when she saw how content her father finally seemed. She only wished she could find a way to provide for him—and for herself—on her own.

Only a dusting of last night’s snow remained on the ground, and as they passed the conservatory, she looked for Regal near the tree where Marcus usually tied the thoroughbred. But no horse. Marcus must be in town. Just as well.

She faced forward, the carriage jostling over the hard-packed dirt.

Armstead guided the conveyance onto the main road that spanned
the two miles to Nashville, and Eleanor’s thoughts unfurled like the ribbon of road before them.

She would go by the home first and speak with Marcus about Mr. Stover selling the building. That news couldn’t wait. And . . . it would be good to get their first meeting over with. She dreaded the few moments of awkwardness when the words she’d practiced last night would inevitably escape her and she’d be left to—

The carriage suddenly dipped to one side.

Eleanor grabbed hold of the seat to steady herself when she saw a hand reach through the window and lift up the latch. The door flew open, and the next thing she knew, Marcus was seated on the bench opposite her, handsomely windblown and smiling his smile.

 45 

W
hat on earth do you think you’re doing!” Eleanor peered out the window, then back at Marcus, the countryside passing in a blur.

Grinning, he raked a hand through his hair. “I’ve always wanted to do that!”

“Do what? Nearly get yourself killed?”

He laughed. “And this from a woman who loves tunnels.”

Feeling herself warming to him—despite what had happened and what she knew—she told herself not to surrender a smile just because his charm all but commanded it. Seeing him again gave her pleasure she had no right to feel, and fearing those feelings were written all over her face, she drew her sense of reserve about her like a protective cloak.

“What are you doing here, Marcus?”

He met her gaze straight on, his own unflinching. “Commandeering your carriage seemed to be all that was left to me, since I apparently cannot persuade you to speak with me otherwise.”

With a dip of her head, she acknowledged the truth, then noticed the horses had slowed. The carriage came to a stop, and again, the conveyance dipped to one side.

“Miss Braddock! You all right, ma’am?” Seconds later, Armstead peered through the window. “Don’t know what happened back there, but—” He saw Marcus, and his eyes widened. “What you doin’ in there, sir?”

“I’m speaking to Miss Braddock.” All traces of humor were gone. “
If
she’ll grant permission for me to stay.”

Both men looked at her. Marcus, with cautious hope. Armstead, with confusion and a touch of concern.

Finally, Eleanor nodded. “Continue on to the widows’ and children’s home, please, Armstead.” Seeing his hesitation, she gave him a reassuring look.

Armstead returned to his post, gave the command, and the horses walked on.

Eleanor looked out the window and glimpsed Regal some distance back. “What about
your
horse?”

Marcus put his fingers to his lips and whistled.

A minute later, Eleanor heard the gallop of hooves closely matching those of the horses pulling the carriage. She smiled and shook her head. “I suppose you’re accustomed to people doing your bidding as well?”

Marcus regarded her. “For most of my life, yes.”

“How hard it must have been for you to come here.”

“Quite the contrary. It felt like . . .” He looked out the window for the longest time. “It felt like the first clean breath I’d taken in thirty some odd years.” He leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs. “I’m sorry, Eleanor . . . for not being honest with you. My coming to America was rooted in somewhat . . . troubling circumstances.”

She was tempted to poke fun at what
a royal
might consider troubling, but the bleakness in his eyes kept her from it.

“I told you my older brother died last year. But . . . that wasn’t the complete truth. Rutger”—he bowed his head, then slowly looked up again—“took his own life. We don’t know why. I guess we never will. . . .”

He sighed, and Eleanor heard a weariness in him she knew only too well.

“But the blow of Rutger’s death came on the heels of an uncle being executed in Mexico a short while earlier. Maximilian, father’s younger brother—” He paused. “I am assuming here, Eleanor, knowing you as I do, that you may have done some . . . light reading on my family history in recent days.”

Embarrassed to admit the truth, Eleanor nodded.

He smiled, though only briefly. “I would have done the same thing.” He glanced down at his hands clasped loosely before him. “Maximilian was in league—foolishly so, in my opinion—with Napoleon the third to seize Mexico.”

Eleanor held up a hand. “Mexico . . . as in . . . the entire country?”

Again, that smile. “I come from a rather ambitious family.”

“I would say so. Please . . . continue.”

“Needless to say, the efforts of my uncle and Napoleon were soundly thwarted. Napoleon withdrew his armies, and shortly thereafter, my uncle was captured and executed.”

“I’m so sorry, Marcus.”

“Thank you, Eleanor, but . . .” His eyes narrowed. “At the risk of
seeming unconscionably cruel, especially in light of what you know about my relationship with my uncle, the emperor, and my father, I was never close to Maximilian. So his death—while tragic—was not something I personally grieved. Not like Rutger’s,” he said softly, lowering his gaze.

Eleanor watched him, finding herself looking upon him one minute as the friend she’d known, only to have the image thrust aside by that of an archduke of the House of Habsburg. For some reason, she could not marry the two.

But she could see, quite clearly, why this man before her would not have been close to such an uncle as he had described just now. Equally, she could understand how the same might be true of his relationship with his father and his uncle Franz Joseph,
the Emperor
of Austria.

“Following Maximilian’s death,” Marcus continued, “my aunt Carlota, his wife, suffered a swift but severe mental decline. Which, of course, is not allowed for members of the House of Habsburg.” His laughter was dark, and embarrassment and shame riddled his handsome countenance. “She is now hidden away, residing in an . . .”

“Asylum,” Eleanor whispered, surprising herself by saying it aloud.

He nodded. “Which, as we both know, only too well, is not a subject about which families speak, much less of which they are proud.”

“And yet . . . you befriended my father.”

Marcus smiled. “Actually, he befriended me.”

She shook her head. “Friendship takes two, Marcus.”

He looked at her, his gaze moving over her face. “And yours, Eleanor . . . has been one of the most important of my life.”

She wanted to believe that, because the same was true for her. But the bruised parts of her heart weren’t quite so willing to trust again yet. “What happened to the baroness?”

The care and compassion in his expression bled away. “The baroness is gone. She departed on a train the morning after she arrived.”

But not, Eleanor wagered, of the baroness’s own volition. The image of such a woman being forced into a decision not of her own choosing tempted her to smile. Until she realized that, in essence, she was that woman too.

“It’s a political marriage,” he said after a long silence, the four words summing up so much.

Seeing the outskirts of town from the window, Eleanor sensed an opening. “Mr. Stover’s building has sold, Marcus.”

His head came up. “Sold? As in—”

“As in we have a week before the new owners take possession. And you’ll enjoy this. The buyers are starting . . . a café.”

In a single glance, he shared the irony of the situation with her and made the moment all the richer somehow.

“Where will you host the dinners?” he asked.

She smiled. “In our new home.”

He shook his head. “It won’t work. We’re not ready.”

“We will make it work, despite not being ready. We have no choice. I will not cease caring for those women and children. We can cook over the hearth. Perhaps we can cook at Belmont and then transport the food, if necessary.”

“You never give in. I like that about you. It’s one of the many things that first drew me to—”

He stopped abruptly, then rapped sharply on the ceiling of the carriage indicating for Armstead to stop. But he never looked away from her. “You would not have liked the man I was. I certainly didn’t.” His brow furrowed. “For a while, after we first met, I actually began to like the man I was. Or . . . was becoming. But then, I realized . . .” A moment passed, his jaw like granite. “I realized I was only that man because of you.”

“No,” Eleanor whispered. “You
are
that man, Marcus. I know it. I can see it in you. Even if you can’t.”

The carriage stopped, and his smile came slowly. Not the dashing, offhanded gesture she’d seen from him often enough, the smile that could slay a woman’s heart. But the steady, true, loyal smile of a friend.

He opened the door to the carriage and stepped out. “For the better part of my life, I was not a man who kept my word.” His gaze grew earnest. “But I
will
keep my vow to you. I will finish the renovation before I leave.”

She nodded, the mere thought of not seeing him once the renovation was finished felt like a vise around her windpipe. “Yes, you will,” she whispered, then took a steadying breath. “Naomi and Caleb,” she managed, then shook her head. “They won’t tell anyone either.”

Understanding deepened his eyes. He turned to go, then looked back. “May I still visit your father, Eleanor? If you say no, I’ll honor your wish.”

Swallowing past the ache lodged at the base of her throat, Eleanor prayed her voice would hold. “Of course, Marcus. You’re his friend.”

“And he is mine.”

The carriage pulled away, and Eleanor dug her fingernails into the seat cushion—counting to ten, making sure he was gone—before she gave in to the heartbreak clawing its way to the surface.