Beauty So Rare, A (A Belmont Mansion Novel Book #2) (58 page)

“Thank you again, Miss Braddock . . . Naomi.” Gretchen, holding precious little Hans, named after his father, hugged them both. As did
Maggie, who insisted on carrying the tin containing two extra pieces of chocolate custard pie. “The dinner was so very
gut
tonight, ladies,” Gretchen continued. “A
gut
way to begin the week.”

Smiling her thanks, Eleanor caught the young mother’s wistful glance back at the gathering area where the tables and benches were all but empty. And where the fire in the hearth—that Marcus had graciously built before leaving tonight—was slowly dying down.

They’d had a large attendance for a Monday night, and several of the mothers and children had stayed to visit.

Gretchen smoothed a hand over her son’s head. “My dear Hans always said”—she deepened her voice as though quoting him, emotion tendering her words—“ ‘You wait and see. We will live in a
fine
big house in America.’ I am guessing he was right.” She kissed her son’s cheek. “But I would rather live in a shack . . . and have my Hans still with me.”

Naomi hugged her again, and Eleanor found herself praying, as she often did, that God would heal the holes left in these women’s lives as they grieved the men they loved. And, secretly—doing her best not to picture a pair of blue eyes like pieces of glass with the sun behind—she thanked God she would be spared that pain.

Because Lawrence Hockley had been right about one thing. Her chances of ever marrying
were
infinitesimal. Especially with her thirtieth birthday just around the corner. Yet she was accepting that truth, again, in her life, even as she was anticipating what her own future held.

Over the past several days, she’d managed to avoid speaking to Marcus. Even with both of them working in the same building, it hadn’t been hard. The home was enormous, with three floors and endless rooms. And for the greater part of the week, he’d been working in
his
building out back, which was still forbidden territory for her. But . . . of which she had a perfect view from her kitchen.

Oh, that kitchen . . .

If ever there was a heaven on earth, it was cooking in that kitchen. All the women who assisted with preparation and serving—and who had already been half in love with Marcus—were now fully infatuated due to the kitchen amenities alone.

Later, in her room at the mansion, feeling more like a guest all the time, she picked up her well-used copy of
Conversations on
Common Things.
At half past ten, she found herself tired, but not yet sleepy, so she read awhile, taking comfort in the familiar words of Dorothea Dix.

She wished Miss Dix—an advocate for the downtrodden and mentally ill—could see the home they were building, that she could know what inspiration Eleanor had gained from watching her life from afar. Then a thought occurred. . . .

Eleanor sat straighter in the chair. What if they were to host an open house and invite—

A rustling noise beyond the door that led to her balcony drew her attention. Too loud to be the wind. Unless the wind was
only
blowing on the front side of the house. And only by that door.

Eleanor turned down the lamp, inviting darkness from the corners of the room. She rose from the chair and—

There it was again.
She stilled. Then instinctively looked for something to use as a weapon. Her hand closed around a marble statue on the side table—surprisingly heavy in her grip—and she almost chuckled at her actions.

This was
Belmont
. Adelicia Cheatham’s home. And the family was only—

An entire floor away. Asleep. Her grip tightened on the cool marble.

She wished now that she’d closed her curtains. But not having changed for bed yet, she hadn’t—

Sucking in a breath, she pressed back against the wall.

A shadow. Of a man. Just outside. And he was scaling the balcony railing! Never mind the marble statue. Dr. Cheatham had a Winchester and was an excellent shot.

She was halfway to the bedroom door when she heard a brusque whisper.

“Eleanor!” Then a soft rapping on the glass pane.

She paused and looked back.
No . . .
It couldn’t be.

She crept back, keeping to the wall, and peered around the edge of the door.
It was.

“Eleanor.”

Wanting to give back as good as the man gave, she jumped in front of the glass door, brandishing the statue, and Marcus stumbled back, falling against the railing. She laughed so hard she thought she might wake the family.

Still giggling, she opened the door, and the cold night air rushed in. “What are you doing out there?” she whispered, setting the statue aside.

“What are
you
doing in there?” he countered, a frustrated edge to his voice.

“You scared me, Marcus. I didn’t know it was you.”

“Who else would it be?” Then he paused and looked at her as if wishing he hadn’t said that. “Are you dressed?”

She cocked her head. “Would I have opened the door if I wasn’t?”

“Excellent point. Put on your coat. I want to show you something.”

“Marcus, it’s late.”

“I know. I had to wait for the family to extinguish their lamps. So hurry, we don’t have long.”

Hand on hip, she looked at him, all but forgetting about being embarrassed over their
almost kiss
. “We don’t have long until what?”

“Eleanor. Would you please trust me. Put on your coat, and I’ll help you climb over the balcony.”

Already having decided she was going when he asked her the first time, she did as he said.

 49 

H
olding her hand, Marcus led Eleanor at a steady clip through the moonlit garden down to the conservatory, hoping they hadn’t missed the start of
the
show
yet.

“Why are we in such a hurry?” she said, breathless.

“First, because it’s freezing.”

She answered with a sharp thumbnail to his palm.

“And second . . . you’ll see.”

She laughed.

He’d been surprised when he’d stopped by the conservatory earlier. He’d thought—hoped—“the event” wasn’t set to happen for another two or three nights. But the Night-blooming Cereus indeed had a mind of its own. Much like the woman beside him.

He opened the door, the warm air from within warding off the chill, and he inhaled. Then he let his breath out, relieved.

“What?” she said beside him, the collar of her coat pulled up about her neck.

“I was checking to make sure the show hadn’t started yet.”

She looked around. “The show?”

He smiled and gestured for her to follow, remembering the nights he had done this with his family while growing up. But never with his father. His father had always been much too busy for
such foolishness
. He forced thoughts of his father aside, seeing the ashes from the letter in his mind.

Moonlight shone through the glass canopy above them, but Marcus had also lit several lamps so they wouldn’t miss anything.

He stopped just before they reached the end of the aisle. “Close your eyes.”

“Marcus, you know I don’t—”

“Now.”

She squeezed her eyes tight and held out her hand, smiling.

He led her around the corner. “All right . . . Open!”

She blinked a few times, looked at the two chairs and the basket sitting between them, then at the
Selenicereus grandiflorus
, then back at him. Her expression clearly saying she was confused.

She bit her lower lip. “We’re . . . going to sit and watch the cactus?”

He laughed. “You never have liked that plant. Why not?”

“I
do
like it. It’s strong. And formidable. I just don’t understand why my aunt, who loves
beautiful
things, has it in her collection.”

“Fair enough. We’ll see what you think when she’s done.”

“When
who’s
done?” She eyed him.

“The Queen . . . of the Night,” he said, bowing in the direction of the cactus, while catching the blank look on Eleanor’s face. “You have to bow,” he whispered. “Or in your case, curtsy. It’s tradition.”

She gave him a wary smile, for which he couldn’t blame her.

“This takes me back to when I was a boy. My grandmother had a
Selenicereus grandiflorus.
Each year, for one night, and only one night, the cactus blooms. On those nights, Rutger and . . .” Saying his brother’s name brought a rush of memories. But most of them sweet this time. “Rutger and I, along with my mother and grandparents, would do as you and I are doing now, and wait to watch her bloom.”

Eleanor’s features, already soft in the silvery light, grew more so. She looked at the cactus and back at him. Then she removed her coat, handed it to him, and with the sweetest smile, swept her skirt wide, elegant arm extended, and curtsied as though being presented to Empress Sisi herself.

He showed her to her seat and claimed his. Then served her a doughnut and poured cups of coffee for them both.

“Compliments of Leonard Fitch,” he said.

She raised the pastry as though making a toast. “The best in town!”

He touched his doughnut to hers. “Long live Leonard Fitch.”

She laughed softly, then leaned forward, her gaze riveted to one of nineteen tubular buds set to bloom. “Did you see that?” she whispered. “It
moved
.”

“Just wait. It gets better.”

As time passed, midnight slowly gave way to one o’clock then two, and gradually, with a patience known only to nature, the blooms began their brief but extraordinary lives. Then they released their full fragrance.

“
Oh
 . . .” Eleanor closed her eyes and breathed deeply, again and again. “It’s so beautiful.
They’re
so beautiful.”

As they talked through the night—about their childhoods, and memories neither of them had thought about in years—Marcus wanted to tell her how glad he was they were on speaking terms again. But doing so would have only reminded her of that near kiss, and he knew she wanted to forget it. Even though he didn’t.

“What is it,” he asked, “that you most appreciate about doing what you do?”

“With the widows and children, you mean.”

He nodded.

She stared at the open blooms. “Watching them leave after dinner with stomachs and hearts full.” She closed her eyes, a slight frown forming. “And . . . witnessing their courage. Every day. Even as they carry a weight of grief and pain. I never knew any of their husbands, and yet . . . sometimes I feel as though I did. Or do. Because, despite having departed this world, they’re still here, in so many ways. I can’t imagine what it’s like to live with that grief.” She turned to him briefly. “And, in a way, I’m glad I won’t ever have to.”

Not the answer he was expecting, Marcus didn’t have a ready response, and he pondered her meaning.

Shortly before sunrise, he walked her back to the mansion, scaled the balcony, then pulled her up beside him. Apparently pulling a little too hard. She fell against him, and he caught her. For a second, she didn’t try to move away.

Then, as if realizing how close they were—the curves of her body fitting his better than was likely wise for a man and woman not betrothed—she moved away. Already regretting it, he let her go.

“Eleanor,” he whispered, needing an answer to the question plaguing him.

“What?” Her voice gained a nervous edge he hadn’t heard all night.

“Are you still marrying Lawrence Hockley?”

She looked at him, then slowly shook her head. “No.”

He reached out to touch her hand, and she let him. But this time—unlike earlier, when it was playful—she tensed a little. And rightfully so, on her part, he knew. She still thought he was engaged to the baroness, and leaving come summer. Tempted to show her all of his cards at once, he’d played enough poker—and won—to know better.

“I think that’s fairly important news, Eleanor. And you and I are fairly good friends. When were you going to tell me?”

She raised a shoulder, then let it fall, and his resolve to patiently win her heart fell a little further too.

“I’m sorry if you were hurt in the process.”

Another shake of her head. “I wasn’t. Mr. Hockley and I were . . .” She took a deep breath. “We weren’t a good match. Regardless of what my aunt thought.”

That told him plenty. And confirmed what he’d guessed about her aunt’s involvement.

The creak of a door breached the hush of morning, and Marcus tugged Eleanor toward the house, not wanting to be seen. They had done nothing wrong, but his presence on her balcony could certainly give the impression they had.

Though he couldn’t see Cordina as she moved around on the front porch, he recognized the head cook’s soft humming, then heard what he thought were rugs being shaken.

Marcus opened the door leading to Eleanor’s bedroom, and she slipped inside.

“Thank you, Eleanor, for joining me tonight. And may I wish you . . . an early happy birthday.”

Surprise lit her expression, followed by her appreciation. “Thank
you
, Marcus,” she whispered, “for sharing ‘the queen’s’ performance with me. I can’t think of a nicer birthday gift, or evening I’ve spent with anyone in a long, long time.”

He smiled, knowing that was a pretty good start. He walked to the stable and saddled Regal, and by the time he returned to the boardinghouse well after sunrise, he knew he needed to win her heart slowly, along with her trust, so as not to scare her away.

But how to do that with a woman who was no stranger to loss, or to saying slow, painful good-byes to people she loved?

Over the next week, at the oddest times, Eleanor caught the fragrance of the flowers on the clothes she’d worn that night with Marcus. The scent wafted toward her in the mercantile when she reached for potatoes, rose to her face when she hugged her father in his room at the asylum, and greeted her yet again when she served the women and children at dinner.

But true to Marcus’s word, by the time she’d returned to the conservatory the next morning, the blooms were wilted, their lives passing so quickly. Not to be seen for another year.

But it was a night—and a memory—she would carry with her forever.

Something about being with Marcus that night had been different. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but when he’d caught her and held her for that instant, she’d wanted to stay there in his arms forever, even as she’d wanted to turn and run.

“Miss Braddock,” Naomi whispered beside her.

Eleanor looked up from the serving line to see a young woman staring back, eyes full of loss and pain as clear as any she’d ever seen. “I beg your pardon, ma’am,” she said softly. “I was gone there for a minute.”

“I know the way of that.” A lilt in her voice, the woman smiled. But it didn’t lessen the heaviness in her gaze. “Sometimes I don’t know why my body’s still kickin’ when my heart was ferried away so long ago.”

Eleanor handed her a plate, not remembering her having visited before. “My name is Miss Braddock.”

The young woman offered a curtsy. “Mary O’Connell, ma’am.”

Eleanor stared, grateful the woman had already taken the plate.
Mary
 . . . And that lilt in her voice. Eleanor followed her progress through the line and noted where she sat, not wanting her to get away before she had the chance to visit with her.

After everyone was served, Eleanor found her at a table near the fireplace. No children. At least not in her company. “May I join you?”

Mary looked up and nodded. “I’d be honored, Miss Braddock.”

Eleanor set her plate down and began to eat, telling herself not to get her hopes up. Chances of this being the soldier’s
Mary girl
were next to impossible. But just as she had so many times before, she had to try.

“So tell me your story, Mary. Are you new to Nashville?”

“Yes, ma’am. Just came here lookin’ for my husband. Or . . . where he was laid to rest. We lived in South Carolina. I had no money, so it took me a while to save to come.”

Eleanor put her fork down, knowing there was no use. “You lost him in the war?”

“I did.” The shadows in the woman’s eyes lightened a shade. “If I didn’t know better, I’d be thinkin’ you were one of them mind readers.” She smiled sadly and looked around. “But I’m guessin’ the better part of the women in this room lost their men in the war.”

Eleanor nodded. “Yes, they have.” Not wanting to press, she knew what questions to ask. She’d asked them countless times before. “Do you know where your husband died, Mary?”

Without warning, the woman’s eyes filled. “I do. I was out there just
today, visitin’ his grave. A place called Carnton. The woman there—Mrs. McGavock, such a nice lady—she tends the graves. Told me to come back as often as I want. Or to write.” A tear slipped down her cheek. “She said she would take my letters to my husband’s restin’ place and would read them over him. Is that not a kind soul, Miss Braddock?”