Beauty So Rare, A (A Belmont Mansion Novel Book #2) (8 page)

Cordina beamed as she lowered the laden silver tray to the coffee table. “Oh, it ain’t no secret, Miss Braddock. You just got to make sure
you let the meat set a while in some spices ’fore you put it to cookin’. Then you cook it long and slow. Rushin’ it only make it tough.”

Eleanor wished she had paper and pen at hand. “Which spices do you—”

“Cordina”—Aunt Adelicia leaned forward—“you’ve been so busy today. I think we can serve ourselves this evening.”

Smiling, Cordina ducked her head. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.”

As the door closed, Eleanor couldn’t help but feel as if she’d somehow gotten Cordina in trouble. Surely not by initiating a conversation? Though a war had been fought—and lost, by the Confederacy—largely over the issue of slavery, she knew some people still preferred the ways of the “old South.”

But even in the few hours she’d been back at Belmont, she’d witnessed her aunt conversing freely with the servants—both Negro and white—so she didn’t think that was to blame.

Aunt Adelicia served Dr. Cheatham first, then poured a cup of coffee for Eleanor. “Cream and sugar, dear?”

“No, thank you. I prefer it plain.”

Sipping, Eleanor silently rehearsed how best to broach her plan with her aunt, preferring Dr. Cheatham not be present when she did. But whatever she said, she needed to deliver the words with confidence and determination, or Aunt Adelicia would never agree to fund the venture.

And she needed that funding.
A loan.
She would pay back every penny. And it would be worth it, because she would finally be doing something with her life, something that mattered. A job that would allow her to be independent, to have a home again. For her and her father.

“So tell me, Miss Braddock”—steam swirled from Dr. Cheatham’s cup—“are you prepared for the adventures my wife has planned for you?”

Glancing between the couple, Eleanor met the comment with a raised eyebrow. “I suppose it depends on what those adventures entail.”

“Oh, pay him no mind, Eleanor. He’s simply trying to stir up trouble.” Aunt Adelicia smiled, her delicate pinky extended at a perfect angle as she sipped. “But I
do
have some ideas I’d like to discuss with you. When we have a moment.”

Sensing something pass between them, Eleanor felt a little like a beetle about to be pinned to a board. Especially when remembering what Mr. Geoffrey had said to Mr. Gray in the conservatory—
“You said
she wanted to discuss an
idea
”
—and how Mr. Gray had looked at him.

“Well,” Dr. Cheatham said, rising, “I believe that’s my cue, as they say.” He winked in Eleanor’s direction. “Consider yourself forewarned, Miss Braddock. And as I said at dinner . . .” The creases at the corners of his eyes grew more defined. “Welcome to our home. We’re most happy you’re here.”

“Thank you, Dr. Cheatham.” Eleanor set her cup aside. “And thank you for all you’re doing for my father.” She looked at her aunt. “I’m grateful to you both. I know it’s due to your influence and connections that a place opened for him there.” Reliving the scene when her father had bolted from the carriage, she felt her throat tighten. “And I’m hopeful for his recovery.”

Again, she felt something subtle pass between them.

“Miss Braddock, I’m certain Dr. Crawford told you they’d do everything medically possible to help your father. . . . And I look forward to going by this week and seeing him myself. In the event Dr. Crawford hasn’t discussed this with you yet,” he continued, “the initial medication they’re administering has a sedating effect.”

Eleanor nodded. “He did mention that.”

“Very good. After the first week or so, depending on the patient’s adjustment, the medication is typically decreased, and your father will be encouraged to become more active. So you might give thought to what hobbies he would enjoy pursuing. Something that would give him purpose and provide exercise.”

She thought for a moment. “He’s always loved tending a vegetable garden. I didn’t see sign of a garden while I was there, but perhaps I could help him plant a small herb garden in his room by the window. If his room
has
a window.”

“I’m certain it does,” her aunt chimed in. “And that’s an excellent idea.”

“Indeed, it is.” Dr. Cheatham’s smile held compassion, and gentle warning. “You must not cling too tightly to the hope that he’ll fully recover, Miss Braddock. When dementia—
if
that’s what it is—begins to manifest itself in a person, the deterioration of the mind rarely reverses course.”

Her heart beating harder, Eleanor nodded, appreciating his candor and compassionate manner, even though his words cut her to the quick.

He reached over and took hold of her hand. “One day at a time, my dear,” he said softly. “That’s all that is given to us. And sometimes”—his own countenance clouded—“even that we must break down into hours. And minutes.”

He squeezed her hand, and she squeezed back, grateful for the firmness of his grip, and realizing how long it had been since she’d touched anyone in such a way—
purposefully
holding a hand, giving a hug. Or receiving one. Even today when greeting her aunt, she’d curtsied. And her father had never been a demonstrative man.

Teddy, though . . .

Eleanor felt a knife through her heart, thinking about her younger brother. Teddy had known how to hug. What she wouldn’t have done to nestle into one of his hugs again.

Calling upon every ounce of reserve, she thanked Dr. Cheatham again with a smile, not trusting her voice.

No sooner had he opened the door than Richard and William appeared. The two thirteen-year-old boys—brothers since the wedding and thick as thieves—grabbed him by the arm and clamored for him to join them in the billiards room. With a parting glance, Dr. Cheatham peered back into the study, feigning the fear of being kidnapped.

Aunt Adelicia merely smiled and waved.

Eleanor exhaled, part sigh, part amazement. She’d never experienced a home life with such vibrancy of youth. “It seems there is never a dull moment in this house.”

“Oh, there’s not.” Aunt Adelicia laughed. “Especially since we installed the new billiard table off the grand salon. Just until the new billiard hall is completed,” she explained. “The boys love it. We moved the schoolroom upstairs for Claude and Pauline. Of course, the older children will be going away to their schools soon. But for now it’s quite lively having them all at home. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Her features softened with gratitude. “There’s nothing more beautiful than family, harmony, and affection.”

Having thought much the same thing moments earlier, only from a different perspective, Eleanor rose to pour herself another cup of coffee. She offered to refill her aunt’s first, but she declined.

Thinking it better if she were facing her aunt straight on for this conversation, Eleanor claimed the chair opposite Adelicia’s. Only then did she notice the vase of cut roses on a table in the corner. The petals were purest white but for the very tips, which looked as though they’d been painted in the palest shade of pink. Like a sunrise.

She’d never seen anything like them and didn’t have to think long to know from where—and from
whom
—they’d come. She recalled Mr. Geoffrey bowing to her, so regal in his bearing. The gesture had seemed second nature to him. Odd for a man in such a position.

The recollection stirred feelings she didn’t quite know what to do with. She only knew they were best left unstirred.

Collecting her thoughts, she looked across from her and knew this was the moment she’d been waiting for.

“Aunt Adelicia, I—”

“Eleanor, dear, I—”

Having spoken in unison, they laughed.

Eleanor gestured. “Please . . .” But she really wished she could get her part over with first.

Aunt Adelicia offered a conceding tip of her head. “Eleanor, dear . . . as Dr. Cheatham stated so well, we’re grateful you’ve come to live with us, and we want you to feel at home here. Belmont will be your home for as long as you like.”

Grateful, Eleanor hoped her expression communicated that.

“After all, your father was my late hus—” Aunt Adelicia’s voice caught, and she briefly firmed her lips. “Your father was my late husband’s dearest cousin,” she finished, her voice softer. “Joseph always spoke so highly of him.” She gave a faint laugh, the melancholy in her features lessening. “He told me countless times about all the trouble your father got him into when they were young.”

Eleanor smiled, sipping her coffee. “I’ve heard those same stories too, many times. And each time the risks grew greater.”

“And the punishments more severe.” Aunt Adelicia sighed, the sound full of memory. “You’ve done well, Eleanor. With your father, I mean. And taking care of the household, all of the responsibility resting on your shoulders. The past years have been hard . . . I know.”

Eleanor fingered the delicate handle of the cup. “It’s been . . . a challenge, at times.” She knew, too, that—despite the splendor of her current surroundings and the present happiness in this home—her aunt had endured her own weight of grief and responsibility throughout the years.

Aunt Adelicia held her gaze. “I’ve known you since you were eleven. And you’ve always been older than your years. You know that, don’t you? You were born an old soul, Eleanor. I recognized that in you from the start. Because the same was true for me.”

Eleanor bowed her head. “I’ve been aware of that quality in myself for a very long time. Maybe since childhood.” She lifted a shoulder, then let it fall. “I just never realized anyone else saw it.”

“I used to give Joseph a hard time about calling you Little Ellie. Especially when he continued it into your teen years.”

Eleanor exhaled a laugh. “By then, I was as tall as he was.”

“He always meant it as an endearment. I hope you knew that.”

“I did. Just as my father did when he too continued using it. But . . . my father hasn’t called me that in years. Which is only right, considering.” Eleanor smiled, more from a sense of obligation than humor.

She took a sip of coffee, but it had grown lukewarm.

Aunt Adelicia sat straighter. “Enough of this remembering. A little makes one more grateful. An overabundance sows bitterness.” She reached for something on the table behind her. “Now . . . I’m especially thrilled at your arrival today, because there’s the dearest group of women I want you to meet. We gather once a week for coffee and to chitchat, and do something special. And tomorrow we’re meeting here! I’ve already told them all about you. You’ll adore them, and I know they’ll adore you.”

Eleanor tried to appear enlivened at the prospect, but seeing what was in Aunt Adelicia’s hand made that difficult. That, and the fact she’d never enjoyed making small talk. Especially with people she didn’t know.

“Tomorrow we have someone coming to teach us how to make these floral sachets.” Aunt Adelicia sniffed the perfumed bag in her hand, then held it out for Eleanor to do the same. The pungent scent caused Eleanor’s eyes to water.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Aunt Adelicia beamed. “They’re made using crushed flower petals. Two weeks hence, a woman from England will be here to teach us how to make
paper
flowers. She sent me a sample in the mail sometime back.”

Her aunt handed her the sachet, then retrieved a long, thin box from the desk drawer and withdrew a flower—a chrysanthemum, Eleanor thought—and handed it to her as well, proudly looking on.

Holding the sachet in one hand and the flower in the other, Eleanor rotated the stem between her thumb and forefinger, not understanding why anyone would go to such great lengths to make something from paper when the real thing could be plucked not twenty feet away outside.

Her aunt moved to stand beside her. “Isn’t the detail delightful?”

“Yes. It’s . . . quite something.”

Aunt Adelicia fingered the trailing scarlet ribbon cinching the top of the sachet. “The ribbons are hand-spun silk from France.”

Considering the prospect of a life where hour upon hour would be spent making perfumed sachets, paper flowers, and chitchat, Eleanor
found herself wishing for enough silk ribbon to loop around her own neck a few times—before pulling taut.

“Of course, our ladies’ group takes part in other pursuits as well. We attend concerts, and the opera. Oh, and the ballet on occasion. So splendid. We also have a contingent—the Nashville Women’s League—that meets in town. There are a few women closer to your age in that group, so you would find that beneficial. They participate in . . .”

Listening to the endless activities engaged in by Aunt Adelicia and her friends, not to mention the
league
, Eleanor felt a wall being erected around her at a rapid rate. Her aunt’s friends were all married women, and wealthy, judging from their apparent plentitude of leisure time and how they spent it. So very different from her own circumstances.

The term
royalty
came to mind again, and she had to concede . . . the journalist who’d written that article
did
have a point. Her aunt and her aunt’s friends lived a charmed life, one her aunt was inviting her to live along with her. But Eleanor couldn’t.

Between the perfumed sachet tainting the oxygen around her and already knowing how adamant her aunt could be once her mind was set, she found it impossible to breathe. It felt as if someone had cinched her corset too tight.

“. . . and then last year, I conveyed all the ladies to New Orleans, where we took part in the festivities in the city before continuing on to my—”

Eleanor stood abruptly, her thoughts colliding. She deposited the items on the coffee table. “Forgive me for interrupting, Aunt Adelicia. And I know you mean well, but . . .” She took a fortifying breath. How to speak her mind without causing hurt feelings? “But
this
 . . .” She motioned to the sachet and the flower. “I’m sorry, but . . . this isn’t me.”

The surprise in Aunt Adelicia’s face slowly melted to compassion. “Oh, my dear . . . I understand.” She gave Eleanor’s arm a squeeze. “With all you’ve had to bear, you simply haven’t had the same opportunities in life. But don’t be intimidated by—”