A Beauty So Rare Page 25

  “Mr. Stover”—Naomi dipped her head in deference—“I explained to them that you are the owner of this building, sir. And that this is a safe place for them to be.”

  Mr. Stover greeted them and, if Eleanor read his expression correctly, was sharing much the same initial reaction as she had.

  “And, Miss Braddock,” Naomi continued, “I told them you are a kind and generous lady who has prepared a special dinner . . . just for them.”

  Grateful for Naomi’s sensitive nature, Eleanor smiled, wanting the children to feel welcome. It hadn’t occurred to her that whoever Caleb brought for dinner might not understand English. “Willkommen, Kinder,” she offered.

  The older children returned the polite gesture. But not little Blue Eyes. The girl frowned, obviously unconvinced.

  Caleb looked down the line. “This is Levi and Hutch. And Ruthie and Anja.”

  The two boys dipped their heads as the older girls stared.

  “And this”—Caleb tousled the hair of the little blond beside him—“is Maggie.” He grinned. “But we call her Magpie because she does not talk much.”

  Mr. Stover chuckled, and Caleb glanced at Eleanor as if wanting to make certain she caught his play on words.

  Eleanor gave him a wink, then repeated the children’s names, smiling at each of them as she did. “Now, shall we eat?”

  Caleb ushered the little ones into the kitchen, Mr. Stover following, and Eleanor retrieved plates from the cupboard. With Naomi’s assistance, she portioned out the food, hoping she had enough and wishing she’d made more.

  Naomi leaned close. “I am sorry, Miss Braddock,” she whispered. “I did not realize he had invited so many. These are some of the children who live in our building. We have shared the food you have given us with them. And their Mutters. My son has a kind heart, but sometimes he—”

  “No, Naomi. This is fine. More than fine.” Eleanor coaxed the last of the potatoes from the casserole. “I only wish I’d made extra.”

  “Whatever these precious children receive from your hand, Miss Braddock . . . be assured, it is more than fills their bellies on other nights.”

  Eleanor turned to see the children, Caleb included, seated on the floor, forks in hand, filled plates and cups of water before them, all of them staring alternately at the food, then up at her. Waiting.

  She joined Mr. Stover and Naomi at the table. Their chairs scraped overloud in the silence. When Mr. Stover bowed his head, everyone else followed suit.

  He offered a heartfelt prayer Eleanor knew she’d likely not remember, while at the same time knowing she would never forget the moment, or the tender ache crowding the corners of her heart.

  Here she was worried about a restaurant she would never have, and about having dinner with a man who—despite her flippant thoughts about him earlier—would likely prove to be a very kind gentleman, and all the while, these children, through no fault of their own, went to bed hungry most nights, only to awaken to the same.

  She thought again of the women she’d seen clustered outside the textile mill, of how desperate some of them had appeared. And how close she was to being in their same situation. If not for her aunt . . .

  How easy it was to slip back into the comfort of one’s own life, even into one’s own worries and fears, and to unintentionally forget. Tears rose to her eyes. Her throat tightened. Oh, Lord, forgive me. . . . Help me to be more grateful.

  “Amen,” Mr. Stover said, and a hushed echo rose from the children.

  Amen. A word that needed no translation.

  Eleanor picked up her fork, then paused and looked back to see the children shoveling food into their mouths as quickly as they could, their little jaws working to keep up with their appetites. She glanced across the table at Mr. Stover and Naomi and offered the tiniest smile—before picking up her plate.

  They laughed and did the same.

  By the time Eleanor scraped the last bite of peach cobbler from the dish—save for the few bites she’d set aside for Marcus—she wondered if this was why God had said no to her restaurant.

  Maybe He had something else in mind.

  She thought again of a man who carried a rose with him into battle and then carried regret with him into death.

  She didn’t want that—to have regrets at the end, to look back on things she wished she’d had the courage to do but didn’t even try. She didn’t want to merely survive this life. She wanted to live it.

  He was being blackballed. There was no other explanation for it. Marcus crumpled the latest response to a bid and threw it in the post-office waste receptacle. He didn’t have to look far to know who was behind the action either. He’d been getting steady work—up until the time he’d confronted Mayor Adler.

  On his way out the door, he remembered the letter to Burbank—and a brief one to the baroness—in his coat pocket and returned to the counter.

  “Something else for you, Mr. Geoffrey?” the mail clerk asked.

  Marcus slid the envelopes toward him. “I need to post these, please. Today, if possible.”

  “Yes, sir. Wednesday’s mail coach leaves in an hour. I’ll make sure these are on it.”

  Marcus handed the clerk a coin. Maybe he should go by the mayor’s office and speak to Adler, though he doubted that would help. He had the funds to make payroll for his men. For the time being, anyway. But if business dried up, he would lose his crew. They’d go where there was work. And with no money coming in, he’d have to access his cash reserves, which he was set against doing.

  Those funds were earmarked for a special project. If it came along in time for him to complete before he returned to Austria. From where he stood, those prospects looked slim.

  He had considered moving to another city. Every city needed architects. But it was too late now. Besides, he needed Nashville. More specifically, he needed Belmont and his plants. And with winter coming, the conservatory. But that wasn’t all he needed here.

  He couldn’t imagine leaving her behind, never seeing her again. Even if he had no right to think of her in that manner. Which he didn’t. Either way, leaving before he absolutely had to wasn’t an option.

  He’d simply have to continue submitting bids and meeting with city leaders until one of them had the courage to stand up to Augustus E. Adler.

  He’d grown so desperate, he’d even checked with the Nashville Women’s League about their tea hall—although if Fitch ever found out, he’d deny it with a vengeance. The job had already been awarded to another company, which he’d decided was for the best when he met the woman from the league responsible for overseeing the project. Miss Hillary Stockton Hightower.

  To say there wasn’t enough money in the world to tempt him to take the job was an understatement. Everything about her was off-putting: from the delicate way in which she laughed—breathy and practiced—to her carefully arranged blond curls of which she was most proud, judging by the way she tossed her head, to the way she gazed up at him, looking askance and smiling as if on cue.

  He hadn’t been in the meeting five minutes when she began to speak ill of the architect the organization had contracted. Heaven help that man. . . . The architect hadn’t yet begun the project, and Miss Hightower was already displeased.

  Marcus couldn’t say auf Wiedersehen quickly enough.

  After a quick lunch in town, Marcus supervised his crew through the afternoon. By day’s end, he gauged their progress and estimated another three weeks and they’d be done with this job.

  With nothing lined up after it.

  Standing at the door of the warehouse and looking down Union Street, he reached into his pocket for a sugar stick, one of several he’d bought after that day at the asylum. But they were all gone. He’d been back to the asylum only once, and hadn’t seen the old gentleman.

  What he really wanted right now was some of that peach cobbler Eleanor had made on Saturday. Or the chocolate chess pie on Sunday. Or the shortbread on Monday. Or that savory custard with ham and cheese she’d bro
ught him in the conservatory last night. If he couldn’t find another job, he might just build the woman a restaurant and set her loose in it.

  He smiled at the absurdity of the thought. But considering what he’d eaten in some of the restaurants of Nashville, she’d make a small fortune in no time.

  He’d enjoyed walks with her on the Belmont estate nearly every evening since her aunt had left almost two weeks ago. The last two nights Eleanor hadn’t met him until it was almost dark. Errands in town, she’d said, appearing exuberant despite the late hour.

  Those quiet walks were quickly becoming his favorite part of the day, and he looked forward to seeing her again tonight. He had plans to surprise her with something he hoped she would enjoy.

  “Boss, you all right?”

  Marcus looked up to see his foreman. “Yes, Callahan. I’m fine.”

  The rest of the men were gone. He and Callahan were always the last to leave.

  “Concerned about the next job, sir?”

  Marcus exhaled. “I wasn’t until today. I didn’t want to say anything while the men were around but . . . you’re aware of the bids I submitted for the photograph gallery and the Library Association.”

  Callahan nodded.

  Marcus shook his head. “I got the gallery’s rejection yesterday and the Library Association’s today.”

  Callahan frowned. “There’s no way anyone could have underbid us on those. Or proposed a better design.”

  “I thought so too, but . . . apparently someone did.”

  While he’d chosen not to relay the details of his last meeting with the mayor to Callahan, he’d made certain his foreman knew that Adler had been terse. And not at all pleased with him.

  A moment passed before Callahan spoke again. “Do you think somebody could be behind this, Mr. Geoffrey?”

  His tone drew Marcus’s attention. “Have you heard something?”

  Callahan shrugged, but it was a gesture Marcus recognized. The man had information.

  Robert Callahan knew pretty much everyone in Nashville. If anything was being discussed or planned in regard to construction, Callahan knew it. Or would by the time breakfast was over.

  “Word has it”—Callahan rubbed the back of his neck—“that Mayor Adler got into a stink with the city council after giving the project for the opera house to his son. And there’s more.”

  Marcus got the feeling he wasn’t going to like whatever Callahan said next.

  “I heard from someone who should know . . . that we were the city council’s first choice. You should’ve gotten that contract, sir. You should be building that opera house.”

  Marcus looked over at him. “We should be building that opera house, Callahan.”

  His foreman nodded. “Yes, sir. We should.”

  Marcus straightened, working the muscles in his shoulders and neck, and determined to sound more optimistic than he felt. “Something will come up, Callahan. It always does.”

  “Oh, I’m not worried, sir. In all my years in construction, I’ve never worked with anyone more skilled at this than you are.”

  Marcus shook his hand. “Thank you, Robert. You’re a good man.”

  “I just call it like I see it, Mr. Geoffrey. Good night, sir.”

  Marcus grabbed his pack, tucked the set of project sketches under his arm, and closed and locked the door behind him. He needed the warmth of a friend’s smile. A beautiful and kindhearted friend.

  And he knew just where to find it.

  “No, sir. She ain’t here.” Eli, one of the oldest and most trusted servants at Belmont according to Mrs. Cheatham, shook his head. He stepped onto the front porch of the mansion, leaving the door open behind him. “Miss Braddock left nigh on to an hour ago. She be at dinner, Mr. Geoffrey, with a gentleman.”

  The news hit Marcus square in the chest, and as defeated as he’d felt leaving work earlier, this was even worse. Especially with him standing here with a basket of bread and cheese from Fitch’s, along with a bag of doughnuts.

  “I appreciate you letting me know, Eli.” He gestured to the man’s napkin tucked in his collar. “I’m sorry to have interrupted your dinner.”

  “Aw, no bother, sir. Just me and Cordina tonight. Down in the kitchen.” The man’s laughter came easily, as if it was like breathing for him. “She fried up a batch of her chicken, and if I don’t wear this thing”—Eli gestured to the napkin—“I be a fine mess once I get done.”

  Marcus smiled and nodded, then turned to head down the steps.

  “Mr. Geoffrey?”

  Pausing, Marcus looked back.

  “We be happy, sir, to have you join us. If you like.”

  More than a little surprised by the offer, and knowing it showed, Marcus didn’t know what to say. He’d spoken to Eli—and Cordina—before. But never more than a few words. And he’d never taken a meal at Belmont. All he could think about was his father and uncle, and what they would say if they knew he’d been invited to dine with a servant and his wife.

  “That’s very kind of you, Eli.” Marcus glanced down at the basket, already having decided he wasn’t going back to the boardinghouse to eat alone in the dining room. He’d walk down to the conservatory and eat there instead. “But I’m fine.” He patted the basket. “I’ve got plenty.”

  Eli’s smile just widened. “Warm buttered biscuits,” he said slowly, drawing the words out. “Fresh corn done been cut off the cob. A mess of field peas cooked up with bacon. Stewed apples slathered with butter and sugar. Oh . . .” His eyes grew larger. “And for dessert . . . my wife’s fresh tea cakes. Pulled ’em out of the oven myself ’fore we sat down to eat.”

  His mouth watering, Marcus stared up at the man, debating. Dining with servants at Belmont? The archduke in him would have never accepted—which made him certain that accepting was exactly what he should do.

  24

  Lawrence Hockley sat across the white linen-draped table from her, the space between them accented with shimmering candlelight, delicate hand-painted Limoges china, wine-filled crystal goblets, and a surprisingly lesser expanse of years than Eleanor had imagined.

  He was eleven years her senior, to be exact. Though she would have guessed a few more judging by his mature appearance and disposition. Even knowing him so short a time, she suspected he’d possessed a more formal, reserved temperament all his life. Another old soul, it would seem.

  The restaurant, La Bienvenue, seemed crowded for a weekday evening, although Eleanor scarcely considered herself a good judge of that, never having been there before.

  Seated where they were by the window, with a lovely view of the city and the Cumberland River beyond, they enjoyed a measure of privacy. And conversation between them came more easily than she had expected.

  She inhaled, satisfying the need for a deep breath and feeling as though she were interviewing for a position with a company rather than contemplating a potential marriage partner.

  In this instance, the two seemed unnervingly similar.

  Over the past three hours and the first five courses—comprised of oysters, soup à la Reine, lobster Newburg over toast with cucumber salad, chicken Florentine with rice and vegetables, and frozen ices—they’d spoken at length on a variety of topics ranging from his position as president of the Bank of Nashville, to their childhood, to schooling, to his recent grand tour of Europe. His fourth, she’d learned, detecting no trace of vainglory in his tone. He’d stated it matter-of-factly, as he did everything.

  With only the green salad and dessert courses remaining to be served, she estimated that by the time the fancy cakes, preserved fruits, and coffee were presented, they would have exhausted every topic known to polite society, and Lawrence Hockley would know more about her and her opinions than most people knew about neighbors beside whom they’d lived all their lives.

  “So, Miss Braddock . . .” He sat back in his chair, regarding her with an inscrutable expression. “Tell me more about yourself. Not details I might have surmised from our conversation thu
s far this evening, or from your letter. But rather, the personal observations a woman might not share with a more casual acquaintance.”

  “But you are a more casual acquaintance, Mr. Hockley.” Eleanor framed her honesty with a smile, allowing a hem of truth to show in her eyes.

  “Quite right.” He nodded, not seeming the least offended. “However, taking into account the purpose of our dinner this evening, I believe we may dispense with the customary sensibilities inherit in society’s approach to courtship. If you are in agreement.”

  Eleanor nodded, staring at him from across the table while imagining another man. If Marcus had said something similar to her, the tone in his voice might have sounded much the same—not a trace of humor. But the gleam in Marcus’s eyes would have signaled his playful sarcasm and hinted at his truer feelings.

  Mr. Hockley, on the other hand was completely serious. Commonsensical to a fault.

  “I am wholeheartedly in agreement, sir.” And she was. So why was the fact she agreed with this man so bothersome?

  She’d opened her mouth to respond to his original question when a server chose that moment to bring the salads. And another to refill their glasses. She was already so full, she doubted whether she could eat much more.

  She contrasted the seven-course meal with the pot of hearty potato soup and loaves of bread she’d made earlier that day for dinner for Mr. Stover, Naomi, Caleb, and the other children Caleb saw fit to invite. Her meals were hardly the cuisine she’d dreamed of creating in a restaurant, and they were nowhere near the culinary experience of this fine eatery. Still . . .

  She wished she was there eating with them in a ramshackle building instead of this fine restaurant.

  Two nights ago, Caleb had shown up with nine children. Two mothers had come as well. Then Tuesday night the number increased by seven. She’d already instructed Naomi to invite them all back on Friday evening. Hopefully, they would return.