A Beauty So Rare Page 2

  “I been carryin’ this with me, my sweet Mary,” he whispered. “Just like you asked.” His lips trembled. His blue eyes smiled. “I still can’t believe you’re mine, darlin’. That you said yes . . . to the likes of me.”

  Eleanor blinked, and only then did she feel the moisture on her lashes. She’d never minded the sight of blood. She’d assisted in the surgical tent, where the large wooden table ran red for days on end, and she’d watched wagon after wagon lumber away, loaded with amputated limbs. But this . . .

  Listening to final whispers, to the contents of a man’s heart poured out to a stranger . . . this she couldn’t do without crying. Whoever this woman—this Mary girl—was, she prayed the woman knew how well she was loved.

  Or . . . had been loved.

  Not doubting herself at all now, Eleanor leaned close so he would be sure to hear her. “I’m proud to be yours, and always have been,” she said, trying to imagine what it would be like to be so loved by a man. But she couldn’t.

  She looked again at the handkerchief, thinking about how brief life truly was and about all the things she hadn’t yet done—she’d never been kissed, much less married or given birth to children. She’d never traveled outside Tennessee or seen the ocean’s tide roll in and out. Growing up, she’d never held a boy’s hand, other than Teddy’s, and she’d never lain awake all night beneath the stars to watch the sun’s journey begin again. Countless other never hads flitted through her mind, and yet . . . how distant and unimportant they seemed now, in comparison to the world closing in around them.

  “You’re proud to be mine,” he whispered, as if relishing the thought even while struggling to accept it. “It’s too late, I know, Mary girl, but . . .” Deep furrows knit his brow. “If I could, I’d . . .” He grimaced and sucked in a breath.

  Her chest aching with the weight of this man’s regret, Eleanor pressed the handkerchief into his palm. “What?” she whispered, squeezing his hand, feeling him slipping away. “What would you do?”

  He peered into her eyes. “Oh, my precious Mary . . . I’d do like I promised you and—”

  A blast of winter shook the canvas walls of the tent. Only, Eleanor felt the ground shake this time too, and she realized it wasn’t the wind.

  “Miss Braddock!”

  She turned to see Dr. Rankin racing toward her, chaos in the tent behind him.

  “Quickly!” he shouted. “Get to the ambulances! Federal troops have taken the hill!”

  A high-pitched whistle pierced the air overhead, and in the brief second it took her to place the sound . . . the world exploded. Dr. Rankin grabbed her shoulder to steady her. Smoke filled the tent. The acrid burn of gunpowder thickened the air.

  “Go, Miss Braddock! All volunteers to the ambulances. Now!”

  “But . . . we can’t leave the men!”

  “We’re moving those we can.” He turned. “But if we don’t leave soon, we’ll be dead alongside them!”

  Only then did she realize . . . the soldier had let go of her hand.

  She looked back at him, saw his slack jaw, the dissonant peace in his expression. . . .

  Hearing the volley of gunfire, she hastily touched his cheek, hoping his regret over whatever it was he wished he’d done in this life would somehow be lessened in the next. She turned to go—

  And remembered.

  Frantic, she checked the soldier’s hand for the handkerchief. A volley of gunfire made her flinch. His hand was empty. Wanting to keep the handkerchief made no sense, but knowing how much it had meant to him, it seemed wrong to simply leave it behind to be trampled and forgotten.

  Finally, she spotted the bloodstained cloth on the floor and grabbed it. But the rose was gone. Never partial to flowers, she dismissed it at first, but quickly thought again of the soldier having carried his Mary girl’s rose into battle.

  Heart racing, and hearing the blast of cannon fire explode outside, she knelt in the dirt, feeling foolish as she searched, telling herself it was useless. She needed to be—

  There. Her palm closed around the delicate pressed flower, the petals coming loose in her grip. She positioned the flower carefully into the handkerchief and then into her pocket. As she turned to leave, she saw the remaining wounded in the tent.

  So many . . .

  She spotted a soldier struggling to stand—a man Dr. Rankin had scheduled for surgery—and with strength she didn’t know she had, she pulled him to his feet, draped his arm around her shoulders, and half dragged, half carried him to the ambulance. Someone from behind picked her up and shoved her into the wagon beside him just as a second shrill scream sounded overhead.

  Eleanor covered her head and braced for the impact, thinking of Teddy and praying he wasn’t dead, and promising herself that if she got through this alive—if this wretched war ever ended—she would get as far away from death and dying as she could, and she would do a better job at living than she’d done before. She would make her life count for something.

  And she would find that soldier’s widow, his Mary girl, whoever she was, and tell her what he’d said. And ask her what he’d meant.

  1

  SEPTEMBER 2, 1868

  NASHVILLE, TENNESSEE

  Eleanor knew in her heart that what she was doing was right—so why was her heart fighting her on it now, when the day had finally arrived.

  Seated across from her in the carriage, her father stared out the window, solemn, hands clasped in his lap, so different from moments earlier when they’d first entered the city of Nashville. He’d seemed almost childlike in his enthusiasm as the carriage carried them through the heart of town.

  She’d asked the driver to stop by the post office first. It wouldn’t take her but a moment inside. She preferred to have the signed contract in hand for her meeting later that afternoon, and the building owner with whom she’d corresponded in recent weeks had indicated he would leave it for her there.

  “I’m going there to rest,” her father said softly, his tone bordering more on question than certainty.

  Knowing what he meant, Eleanor nodded. “Yes . . . Papa, that’s right. And it’s only for a short time.” She coerced a smile to reinforce the statement, praying the doctor’s expectations were correct.

  Exactly when her role as daughter had shifted to that of caretaker, she couldn’t say. But as she looked across the carriage at the strapping giant of a man—whom she favored in more ways than was likely best for a daughter to do—a place deep inside her yearned to again be that little girl who, when she looked into her father’s warm brown eyes, knew that everything in the world would be right. And safe. And would make sense.

  But that little girl was gone. And so was her father.

  The carriage slowed, and Eleanor spotted the post office ahead. “Papa, I need to run a quick errand. But I won’t be long.”

  He glanced out the window. “Perhaps I should come with you. I could help—”

  “That’s not necessary,” she said a little too quickly, and regretted it. She reached for his book. “Why not stay here and continue reading where we left off. Then we’ll discuss the passage once we’re on our way again.”

  Not looking convinced, he studied the book in his hands, then finally nodded. “You will come back . . . won’t you?”

  “Of course I’ll come back, Papa.” She squeezed his hand in affirmation, but the guilt already nipping her heels took a firm bite.

  The carriage driver opened the door, and Eleanor hurried into the post office. She paused inside and looked back to see her father reading, his lips moving as he did. She hadn’t wanted to risk him coming with her, not when considering the spells that frequently overcame him these days. His temperament was so unpredictable.

  Patronage was heavier than she’d imagined, and the queue reached almost to the door. She glanced at the chatelaine watch affixed to her bodice. She had a few moments to spare before her father’s scheduled appointment, and she needed that contract in hand.

  The line moved more s
lowly than she would have liked, and after a couple of moments, she glanced out the front window to the carriage and stilled, not seeing her father anymore.

  She craned her neck to one side. Perhaps he’d changed seats. He’d insisted on that twice already on their ride from Murfreesboro that morning, saying it was bad luck to ride in one direction for an entire trip. Then she saw the door.

  Ajar.

  She raced back outside to find the driver still atop the carriage but the carriage—empty. And her father nowhere in sight.

  “Armstead!” she called up, searching the street. “My father. He’s gone.”

  The driver appeared at her side, bewildered. “I’m sorry, Miss Braddock. Last thing I knew he was in here.”

  “You go that way.” She pointed. “And if you find him first, please . . . try not to upset him. We don’t want to cause a scene.”

  “Yes, ma’am!”

  Eleanor started in the opposite direction, peering inside stores and businesses as she went, trying not to think about her father’s recent antics or what might happen if someone attempted to confront him and he became upset.

  The high-pitched laughter drew her attention first. Then she saw him. Across the street. Peering in the window of a dry-goods store.

  Dodging a freight wagon and another carriage, she managed to reach the other side, but not before her father had entered the store and taken a spool of ribbon from the shelf, along with a pair of scissors.

  He spotted her. “Eleanor! Isn’t it pretty? I thought you would enjoy this. You like wearing ribbons in your hair.”

  She managed to get the scissors from him, but he stuffed the spool into his pocket.

  “Papa, it’s lovely but . . . I don’t wear ribbons anymore, remember?” Eleanor retrieved the spool and returned it to the shelf. Then she glimpsed a man, presumably the proprietor, headed straight for them. Consternation lined the man’s face.

  He glared at her father, then her. “May I help you?”

  Embarrassed, Eleanor tried not to show it. “We were just looking, sir. And now—” She took her father by the arm. “If you’ll excuse us, please.”

  Feeling the proprietor’s attention on her back, Eleanor hurried outside, grateful to see Armstead walking toward them. With his assistance, she managed to get her father back to the carriage without further incident.

  “I’ll watch him this time, Miss Braddock,” the driver insisted. “You go on inside, ma’am, if you want.”

  Considering what awaited her that afternoon, Eleanor felt she had little choice.

  In a hurry, Marcus Geoffrey exhaled, questioning yet again his desire to experience the life of the common man. The queue inside the post office nearly reached the door, and he estimated at least a ten-minute wait. It seemed patience was a virtue he was destined to learn.

  The door to the post office opened behind him, and an older woman entered, slightly stooped and tottering. At the same time, the wind gusted and blew the door back. The woman reached for it . . . and stumbled. But Marcus caught her and stopped the door before it slammed back against the wall.

  “Oh, thank you, sir.” She covered his hand on her arm, regaining her balance. “I’m not as spry as I used to be.”

  “Who among us is, madam?”

  She gave him an appreciative look, and Marcus—thinking of his own dear mother, gone long before her time—motioned for the woman to move ahead of him in line. He withdrew a pad of paper and pen from his suit-coat pocket and used the opportunity to sketch an idea for the warehouse his crew was renovating. It had come to him earlier that morning and he hadn’t yet had time to—

  “Yes, that’s correct. The gentleman said he would leave it here for me,” a female stated from somewhere in front of him. “Would you mind checking again, please?”

  Marcus slowly raised his head, curious about the creature to whom the beguiling voice belonged.

  “Yes, sir,” she continued. “At least that was my understanding.”

  Marcus looked toward the counter and spotted the woman—or rather, the explosion of pink with a woman swathed somewhere beneath—speaking with the mail clerk. Her voice bore the accent customary to the people of Nashville but had a satisfying, almost sultry, quality to it. Like the touch of a breeze on the back of one’s neck on a hot summer day. But the woman’s ensemble . . .

  Her jacket and skirt, well tailored, stood out in marked contrast to the hues of black, gray, and dark blues worn by most of the other patrons.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but there’s nothing for you here by that description. Nor do we have record of having sent anything like that to Belmont.”

  She sighed, shoulders sagging.

  Even viewing her only from behind and without benefit of an introduction, Marcus knew who she was. Personal business took him to her aunt’s estate nearly every day, and he’d overheard Mrs. Adelicia Acklen Cheatham speaking of the woman’s arrival, expressing an eagerness for her to make everyone’s acquaintance at Belmont.

  But having met more than his fair share of wealthy, well-bred, overly eager, husband-seeking women in his life—despite this one being taller than most and the niece of the richest woman in America—he had no intention of pursuing her acquaintance, nor encouraging it in any way.

  If she attempted to gain his attention, he would be kind, he decided, even affable—considering Adelicia Acklen Cheatham was his benefactress, of sorts. But beyond that, he would firmly, yet gently, rebuff any flirtations on the young woman’s part.

  She turned then and headed straight for him.

  He summoned an air of practiced nonchalance, the words replaying in his mind . . . Firmly, but gently.

  The woman didn’t so much as blink in his direction as she passed.

  Feeling aptly put in his place—and not overly fond of the feeling, Marcus watched her exit the post office. He wasn’t accustomed to being ignored. Her attention was clearly focused elsewhere. He studied her as she walked toward a waiting carriage, the driver already standing by the door.

  Tall and blond, she bore not the slightest resemblance to her aunt, who was a petite brunette. Even at a mature age, Adelicia Cheatham was still a striking dark-haired beauty. This woman, on the other hand, while not unattractive, possessed less remarkable features, less delicate, to be sure. Hers held more strength. One might even describe her as handsome. And he suspected she was older than he’d first imagined—

  “Sir?”

  Marcus turned.

  The elderly woman he’d assisted earlier was several feet ahead of him in the queue. She smiled and motioned him forward.

  Feeling a little foolish, Marcus moved ahead, then chanced another look back at the window in time to see the woman climb into the waiting carriage.

  It had been a long time since he’d noticed a woman who—when in such close proximity—hadn’t reciprocated his noticing. Of course, he hadn’t endeavored to gain her attention. If he had been trying, she would have noticed, he assured himself.

  It meant nothing, really. After all, he’d had enough of those kind of women. And the woman he had now, he didn’t want. But . . . he blew out a breath. Nothing he did would change that.

  Minutes later he reached the counter.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Geoffrey.” The mail clerk greeted him, already rising from his stool. “We have something for you, sir. It arrived this morning.”

  Satisfied, Marcus waited. But when he saw an envelope instead of a box or crate, his satisfaction waned. “Nothing else?” he asked.

  The clerk shook his head. “That’s it. I’m sorry, sir.”

  Marcus managed a polite response and stepped to the side, fingering the envelope. The handstamp announced the origin of the envelope even before he read the return address. He tore open the flap and found another envelope inside. When he saw the royal wax-embossed seal, he quickly concealed it, even as he felt an unseen noose tightening about his neck.

  Never had Uncle Franz written to him, and Marcus knew only too well who had put
him up to it. He started to tuck the letter away to read later but thought of his father’s tenuous health, and reconsidered. Moving to a quieter section of the busy post office, he opened the letter.

  His gaze fell upon the salutation and first lines of the missive, and he swiftly realized his father’s health was not the issue. The letter was about something else.

  To the Archduke Gerhard Marcus Gottfried von Habsburg . . .

  His uncle’s use of his formal name and title didn’t bode well for the letter’s purpose, and Marcus’s gratitude for the ocean separating him from what he’d left behind—at least for a little while longer—grew one hundredfold.

  His gaze edged downward, past the formal opening.

  Come next June, Gerhard, the reprieve granted to you shall have expired. At that time, you shall return home according to our agreement, in order to fulfill your duties to crown and country. Those born to privilege must bear its responsibilities with integrity and honor, despite one’s personal feelings and regardless of their . . .

  Marcus folded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope, wishing he could dismiss a decree from his uncle—the emperor of Austria—so easily in person. He knew his uncle’s speech by heart. It was one he’d heard countless times as a boy when he was third in line to the Austrian throne, behind his father and older brother.

  But he’d heard it even more often in the weeks prior to leaving for America when the Austrian newspapers had reported he’d become second in line “through extenuating circumstances.”

  He’d never sought the throne, nor ever considered that it might someday come to him. He still didn’t believe it would happen. Not with his uncle healthy and strong, and still trying for that first son. Marcus hoped—even prayed, on occasion—that the Almighty would make fruitful that royal endeavor.

  He could scarcely believe close to a year had passed since he’d left his homeland. He was still somewhat surprised his uncle and father had agreed to his coming to America. But after Rutger’s death . . . everything had changed.

  He had changed.

  Both his uncle and father agreed that time away would be good for him, and good for the House of Habsburg, considering the rumors that were circulating around Rutger’s death. “Best you not be seen in public for a while, Gerhard,” Uncle Franz had counseled. “Let the scandal calm to a simmer, then slowly dissipate to nothing, as these situations almost always do—given time and something else on which the public can chew. And by all means, if you must sow any last wild oats, do it discreetly. The last thing we need is an American scandal on top of this one.”