A Beauty So Rare Page 12

  She imagined herself cooking there, baking. The sturdy worktable seemed to beckon for a dusting of flour and a yeasty scrap of dough to be kneaded to a glossy shine on its smooth planks. She could almost feel the suppleness beneath her fingers. Baking bread had been a challenge when she was younger. Now it was therapy, almost an addiction.

  But . . . this wasn’t meant to be.

  “There’s a well out back. The hand pump gets stuck every now and then. But give it some elbow grease, and it works right good.”

  Eleanor took it all in. “You did a fine job, Mr. Stover. And what a nice, large kitchen in which to cook.”

  His smile dimmed as he looked toward the stove. “My wife always liked it. Made some mighty fine meals in this kitchen.”

  Catching the past tense, Eleanor trailed his gaze, trying to imagine what he was seeing in his mind’s eye. She remembered what he’d written in his letter. “You and your wife ran a boardinghouse together here?”

  “She did it mostly. I helped some. Back then I was workin’ for the railroad. Then the war came. And she got sick, and . . .”

  For a second, it appeared as though he might say more. Then he lowered his head.

  Eleanor tried to think of a response, but silence seemed to fit best. Giving him a moment, she continued looking through the kitchen, confronted by the fact that everyone had hurts. No matter who they were, or what kind of home they lived in, or what family they came from, no one was immune.

  The thought wasn’t new to her. If not for moments like these, there were times when life’s hurts became so overwhelming, so blinding, that a person could be lulled into believing that he—or she—was the only one.

  “Mrs. Stover, she . . .” He swallowed, the sound audible in the silence. “My wife made a buttermilk pie that could warm your belly like nothin’ else. Did it in one of those pans right there.” He motioned to iron skillets and pie tins hanging neatly on the wall. “She always had plans to open up a little eatin’ place, too. A café, she called it. Out front there. So when I got your letter, Miss Braddock, it just seemed to be the right fit. And the right time.”

  Eleanor looked at him. “Do you mean . . . the building has been empty since . . .” She let the sentence trail off.

  He nodded. “She’s been gone almost five years now, ma’am. Just didn’t feel right at first, openin’ up somethin’ else when this was hers. But it’s time. And if you don’t mind me sayin’, Miss Braddock . . . I think my sweet Eloise—I always called her Weezie—would welcome you cookin’ in her kitchen.”

  Eleanor felt a pang of regret, stemming both from what he’d said and from dreading what she must tell him.

  “Mr. Stover, I need to discuss our agreement. You were kind enough to allow me to sign a lease for three months, a much shorter term than you desired, I know. But . . . I’m afraid I . . .” Her admission was even more difficult in light of what he’d shared. “I find myself without the necessary funding to open my restaurant. I was so certain it would come to fruition. But . . . it didn’t. And unfortunately I don’t see any immediate solution on the horizon.”

  He didn’t answer right off, just ran his hand along the top of the oak worktable. “So . . . you’re sayin’ you won’t be takin’ it after all?”

  Eleanor shook her head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Stover. I wish I could.” More than she could say. . . .

  She felt awkward asking her next question, but in light of her financial situation, she had little choice. “The contract I signed—and that I will abide by—stated that my three months’ rent was not refundable. I understand that,” she hastened to add. “But if you are able to rent the space within those three months, would you consider returning whatever portion remains? It would be a great help to me. But again, I recognize you’re under no obligation to do so.”

  He looked at her with something akin to admiration. “My Weezie was a good talker too. Knew how to string words together like you do, so that they all made sense. And yes, ma’am, I’ll get the sign back up, and we’ll see what comes.”

  Back in the front room, Eleanor paused, her heart telling her one thing, while her head told her another. Finally, an idea having formed, she found it wouldn’t let go.

  Key in hand, Mr. Stover looked back from where he stood by the door. “You all right, Miss Braddock?”

  Eleanor surveyed the room. “I wonder, Mr. Stover. . . . Would you allow me to make a business proposition? It’s something I think might profit us both.”

  After accompanying Caleb part of the way home, well past the alley where the boys had attacked him, Marcus waved good-bye to the boy. He was grateful Fitch had still had a few doughnuts left.

  Turning the corner toward the textile mill, Marcus glanced up, and slowed his pace, his attention drawn to a building across the street, or more rightly, to the woman standing in the open doorway of the building. There was no mistaking who she was. His question centered around what Adelicia Acklen Cheatham’s niece was doing in the city’s warehouse district. And why, of all the oddities, she would be shaking hands with a man?

  He started across the street, his first thought to ensure her safety. But when she looked his way, alarm tightened her features. Then it struck him. . . . She hadn’t appeared the least distressed—

  Until seeing him.

  9

  By the time Marcus crossed the street, the man was walking away and Miss Braddock stood alone by the closed door. All signs of alarm had been smoothed from her expression, and carefully crafted composure was in its place. He had to hand it to her—she was not a woman ruled by emotion.

  He liked that. Along with the fact that she didn’t seem particularly fond of him. It was a rare occurrence for him with women—one he found irresistible.

  “Mr. Geoffrey!” She managed a smile that almost appeared genuine. “What a coincidence . . . meeting you in town.” She slipped something into her pocket. Or tried.

  A key landed with a dull thud on the hard-packed dirt.

  She bent to retrieve it, but he beat her to it, catching her grimace.

  The iron key was heavy and deeply notched, crafted for a substantial lock. Much like the lock on the door behind her.

  Marcus glanced down the street. The man she’d been speaking with moments earlier, some distance away now, turned and briefly looked back in their direction. Marcus didn’t recognize him.

  He turned his attention back. “Good morning, Miss Braddock.” Bowing slightly, he held out the key, and she scooped it from his palm, her annoyance clear. “And you’re right, it is a coincidence. I wasn’t expecting to see you either. And certainly not in this particular neighborhood.”

  “Yes, well . . . I . . .” For an instant, her expression faltered. Then her lips formed a tight curve, and she gripped the key as though imagining it were his throat. “I had business to tend to this morning. As you must surely have for my aunt’s estate, Mr. Geoffrey. So please”—she gestured as though admonishing a child to run along—“don’t let me detain you.”

  Not many things tempted Marcus to smile. But she did. He liked that she thought him an under gardener. For the time being, anyway.

  He looked at the door behind her, his imagination running rampant. Whatever business drew her here, she didn’t want him to know about it. But what would a woman like Miss Braddock want with an old clapboard building when she had the entire Belmont estate at her disposal?

  She was formidable when it came to sparring, but that only made the challenge more appealing. And he liked having the upper hand. Especially when remembering how much pleasure she’d taken in putting him in his place yesterday with her comment about his compliments needing work. And about the Selenicereus grandiflorus.

  “It is most kind of you, Miss Braddock, to concern yourself with my schedule. But I am, in fact, in no particular hurry.” He withdrew his pocket watch and checked the time, partly for show, but also mindful of his needing to get to the textile mill. “So . . . your ladyship . . .” He bowed again for show, then closed th
e watch with a snap, aware of the smugness in his tone. And the frown on her face. “You may happily consider me at your disposal.”

  Looking as though she would like to dispose of him, she leveled her gaze, unblinking. Her expression told him she knew exactly what he was doing, which only increased his satisfaction.

  He took a step back and pretended to size up the structure. “Don’t tell me Mrs. Cheatham has decided to expand her estate and commissioned you as purchaser on her behalf?”

  The stone-faced stare the comment earned only spurred him on. “Or better yet, you’re looking for a place in the city to escape the ordinariness of Belmont?” He nodded, acting as though he were considering the property. “Very nice choice. Large windows.” He peered through the grime. “Spacious front parlor. Excellent location.”

  Seeing her eyes narrow, he wondered what tack she would take. Would she sidestep the issue and retreat? Or would she confront and defend her ground as before?

  He knew which response he hoped for.

  “You are correct, Mr. Geoffrey.” Her tone was strict, and she squared her shoulders in a gesture he was already coming to recognize. “Unfortunately for me, sir, you have the advantage in this situation, as we are both keenly aware.”

  Marcus didn’t dare interrupt, seeing she wasn’t finished yet and also sensing victory close at hand.

  “While I had hoped to take care of this errand quietly”—she hesitated, seeming to choose her words with care—“I see that fate has robbed me of that blissful opportunity.” Her thin smile took on fuller life. “Unfortunately for you, Mr. Geoffrey, I’m not easily coerced or intimidated. So, my dear sir . . .” She tugged on the hem of her sleeve, the smugness in her tone reminiscent of his. “If you’ll please excuse me.”

  She stepped back to the door, slid the key into the lock, and turned it. Giving the latch a firm shake, and apparently satisfied, she slipped the key into her skirt pocket and, with a parting glance, turned on her heel and strode away.

  Marcus watched her go, feeling strangely denied. Not bothering to check his watch this time, he pursued.

  Despite her determined stride, he caught up with her easily. “Though the possibility of Mrs. Cheatham purchasing the building still holds merit, I believe, from your behavior just now, that—”

  “My behavior?” she asked, casting him a sideways glance.

  “Yes, that’s right.” He liked the way she lifted her chin ever so slightly when she was on the defensive. “I believe the building holds more of a personal connection for you. My only question is why?”

  She smiled. “That’s odd . . . I would think your only question should be why you’re about to run into that wagon.”

  Turning back, Marcus saw the obstacle just in time and narrowly avoided it. But he didn’t miss her satisfied laughter.

  Eleanor increased her pace, knowing it would make little difference. Of all the people she could have happened upon in town—and at that building—why did it have to be him—this overly confident and most definitely too-high-brow-for-his-own-good under gardener who, for some reason, seemed to take pleasure in annoying her.

  And he was good at it too.

  When Mr. Geoffrey fell into step beside her again, she looked over at him. “Shouldn’t you be off planting a tree or”—she made a face—“making something more beautiful?”

  His laughter was deep and punctuated, and could easily become addictive, she decided. Not unlike the man, annoying though he was.

  “I’ll do that later. But for now, I thought I’d escort you to wherever it is you’re going next.”

  “In the hopes, no doubt, that my next destination will lend a clue to the mystery of my last?”

  He nodded. “Precisely.”

  She laughed. “I hate to disappoint, Mr. Geoffrey, but that’s where I’m going next.” She indicated with a wave of her hand.

  He trailed her wave, and a smile reached his eyes even if it didn’t alter his mouth. “The sign does not lie, madam. They truly are the best in town.”

  As he opened the door, she noticed how finely tailored his suit was. Whatever appointment he had on behalf of her aunt must be of an important nature. She started to comment on his manner of dress, but caught a whiff of a yeasty aroma coming from within the bakery and all else faded.

  She stepped inside and breathed deeply, her mouth watering. The aroma alone was worth the visit.

  “Guten Tag, Marcus!”

  Marcus? Peering over the line of patrons in front of them, Eleanor saw a man behind the counter waving in their direction—at Mr. Geoffrey. Mr. Marcus Geoffrey, apparently. She looked beside her. The name suited him.

  Mr. Geoffrey returned the gesture. “Guten Tag, Fitch.”

  Eleanor waited a few seconds, then leaned closer, lowering her voice. “Frequent patron, are you . . . Marcus?”

  Faced forward, he nodded once, the scarcest hint of a smile showing. “Now that you know my given name, Miss Braddock . . . would you do me the honor of telling me yours?”

  She liked looking at him from the side. Actually, she liked looking at him from any angle. Although heaven help her if he ever knew. The man’s ego practically entered the room before he did.

  “Francesca,” she answered with some hesitation, then schooled a grin when he turned to look at her.

  “I don’t think so,” he said softly.

  She tried to appear affronted, but it didn’t work. “When I was growing up, Francesca is the name I always wished my parents had given me. It sounded so . . . elegant and adventuresome.”

  “But?”

  All humor departed. “They named me Eleanor instead.”

  “Eleanor,” he repeated, the name sounding far more enchanting the way he said it. “Much better.”

  Eleanor stood a little straighter, actually liking her name a little better.

  Two patrons ahead of them in line, a young woman turned and looked back at Marcus, then nudged her friend, who also sneaked a none-too-subtle gander. The women giggled like schoolgirls, heads together, whispering.

  At first, Eleanor didn’t think Marcus noticed. Then a look of crafted nonchalance passed over his face, giving him away. He noticed all right. And further, he seemed accustomed to the attention. But of course he would be, handsome as he was.

  Moments passed. The queue moved slowly. And Marcus sighed at least twice, peering over heads. Apparently the man wasn’t accustomed to waiting.

  She cleared her throat. “From where does the name Geoffrey originate? It doesn’t sound very German.”

  “That’s because I’m Austrian.”

  “Which . . . is German.”

  He frowned. “The two peoples share a common language but little more. And the family name is actually . . . Gottfried. Geoffrey is the Americanized version.”

  She nodded, knowing other German immigrants who’d changed their names for various reasons. Though their accents, like his, were impossible to miss.

  When they reached the counter, Mr. Geoffrey—Marcus—introduced her to the proprietors and ordered two doughnuts and two coffees. She reached into her reticule.

  “No,” he said quietly. “Please, allow me.”

  She pulled out her coin purse. “Thank you, Mr. Geoffrey, but I’m quite capable of paying for myself.”

  He met her gaze. “That was never in question, Miss Braddock.”

  Aware of Mr. and Mrs. Fitch looking on and of how quiet the patrons around them had grown, Eleanor acquiesced.

  Marcus led her to a table by the window but didn’t sit. “I’m sorry I can’t join you. I need to be on my way.” A smile played at the corners of his mouth. “Trees to plant and weeds to pull, you know.”

  To her surprise, he placed both doughnuts before her.

  She frowned. “You’re not eating one?”

  “I stopped by earlier.” A devilish smile swept his face. “I already ate mine.”

  Despite his brawny confidence, Eleanor didn’t wish to appear rude. “Well, thank you for the pastries.
And my apologies if I seemed ungrateful just now. That wasn’t my intention. I’m . . .” She looked up at him. Why would such a man—even if only an under gardener—take such an interest in her? “I’m unaccustomed to having things done for me.” She gestured toward the counter. “Including that.”

  He leaned down. “Well . . . Eleanor,” he whispered, “you’d better start growing accustomed to it.”

  An unaccounted-for shiver passed through her.

  “After all,” he continued, “you live at the Belmont estate now, and you’re the niece of the wealthiest woman in America.”

  And just like that, the shiver was gone. That was why he was being so kind to her—she was Adelicia Acklen Cheatham’s niece. And a rich niece in his mind, no doubt. Add to that, he was employed by her aunt. Sadly, discovering his motivation wasn’t a big surprise.

  Eleanor managed a smile but didn’t feel it on the inside.

  “Trust me, your ladyship,” he continued, a gleam in his eyes, “I will figure out why you have a key to that building.”

  “I’m certain you will, Marcus. Though the real reason will pale in comparison to your imagination, I assure you. And I would prefer you not address me as your ladyship.”

  “And why is that? After all, you are the niece of Mrs. Adelicia Acklen Cheatham. Which, if you believe what you read in the newspapers”—amusement lit his expression—“she’s American royalty. Which, in turn, makes you—”

  “Please.” Eleanor held up a hand. “Don’t say it.”

  Her reaction seemed to take him aback. But only for a second or two.

  “Does madam feel uncomfortable with the role she’s been given to play?”

  “Madam,” she parroted back, trying not to appear as much out of sorts as she suddenly felt, “does not appreciate being compared to a group of pompous, self-centered people who have no understanding of real life, much less any interest in making a meaningful contribution to the lives of others.”

  Eleanor blinked. The words had left her tongue effortlessly. She could scarcely believe she’d thought of precisely the right thing to say in the very moment she needed to say it. And she’d said it to him, no less. It felt good. And yet . . .