A Beauty So Rare Page 27

  “They are indeed.” Marcus knew what was coming next. The boy was fascinated with the intricacies of design, and he had a knack for the details of the process too.

  Caleb eyed him. “Are you sure you can’t do your work later? You have to eat sometime, sir. And you’re tired of eating alone. You said so yourself.”

  A darling little face with a pair of striking blue eyes peered around Caleb, and Marcus felt his resolve puddle at his feet.

  With a feigned sigh, he fell into step behind the children and listened as they jabbered—as his old friend at the asylum had said—to each other in German, which explained Caleb’s choice of language.

  A young boy pointed to his pack. “Was willst du da haben?”

  Marcus explained what he had inside his pack as they walked. He wondered where they were going and was surprised when the little entourage turned onto Magnolia Street, where Eleanor’s building was located. He hadn’t been by there in days.

  Her decision to clean the building had been a good one. It showed solid business sense, and he hoped it rented soon so she could move on. He knew only too well how wearing an illusive dream could be. But he wasn’t ready to give up his. Not yet.

  The boy continued to pepper him with questions, and already weary, Marcus found the lad’s enthusiasm a tad daunting. So he was grateful when the children slowed their steps.

  But when he looked up, he could hardly believe where they were. Eleanor’s building. And there were people inside. A lot of people. Then he noticed—

  The For Rent sign that had been in the window was gone.

  A sense of pride filled him. She’d done it. The building was rented. And due to her industrious efforts, no doubt. He couldn’t wait to congratulate her and celebrate the good news the next time he went out to Belmont.

  He followed Caleb and the children inside, scarcely able to find room to stand once they’d crossed the threshold. The chatter in the room dropped to a low hum and everywhere he looked, he saw women and children. Not another man in sight. Some were standing, some sitting, but without exception all were staring at him.

  Then everyone turned back to what they were doing, and the conversation increased in volume again.

  Marcus turned to Caleb and whispered, “This is where you’re eating?” But the boy apparently didn’t hear. Marcus felt a tug on his trousers and peered down.

  The little blue-eyed blonde looked up at him. Her lips moved but he couldn’t hear over the noise.

  He knelt. “Was ist es, das Kleine?”

  She touched her tummy. “Ich bin hungrig.”

  She was hungry. “Ja . . .”

  He nodded. “Ich weiß.”

  From where he knelt, he reached for Caleb, about to ask him what everyone was doing here, when the conversation in the room fell away for a second time, and he heard a familiar voice.

  “Ich bin so froh, dass Sie heute Abend alle hier sind. Vielen Dank, dass Sie wiedergekommen sind.” Eleanor smiled at the women and children, hoping she’d delivered her practiced greeting without any mistakes. Judging from their smiles and nods, she guessed she had. Next, she repeated the welcome in English. “I’m so glad everyone is here tonight. Thank you for coming.”

  Naomi had told her that most of those gathered were trying to learn the English language. “And repetition helps,” she’d said.

  The last several meals, Caleb had invited a few of the mothers to join the growing number of children they served, but this was the first evening to offer a meal to any widow or child in need, and the front room was full to overflowing. Judging from the sound of those gathered, most hailed from the German community. Understandable, since Naomi and Caleb had been the ones to spread the word.

  Other than knowing how to prepare the food, Eleanor had no earthly idea what she was doing. All she knew was what was happening wasn’t by her design. And, strangely, that gave her greater confidence as to where it might lead.

  “And now,” she continued, glancing at Naomi, “because my German is not very good . . . yet”—she smiled—“Mrs. Lebenstein will translate.”

  Naomi repeated the sentence in German, then paused.

  “We’ve been cooking for the better part of the day,” Eleanor continued, “and we have plenty of food. So everyone who is here tonight will get a meal. No one will leave hungry.”

  Eleanor waited for Naomi to translate, watching the children’s faces light up as though she’d announced Christmas would come early. But what she found even more touching were the tears that rose to the mothers’ eyes when their young ones looked up at them and grinned.

  “For those of you who are here for the first time, I’ll explain how we’ll serve the meal in just a moment. But first . . .”

  Eleanor paused as the kindness in Naomi’s voice filled the corners of the room.

  “As Mrs. Lebenstein and her son, Caleb, told you when you were invited, I want to remind you that we don’t ask for or accept any money for these meals. All we ask is that you do something kind for someone else tomorrow, and that you expect nothing in return for that kindness.”

  When Naomi finished translating, Eleanor leaned forward, affecting a conspiratorial look. “But if some of you children who were here earlier this week would like to tell me a kind act you’ve done, I’d love to hear it—after you’ve eaten your dinner.”

  Naomi imitated Eleanor’s expression and tone, and the children and mothers alike giggled. Eleanor smiled, grateful beyond words—literally—as several of the children looked at her and nodded.

  She’d determined to learn the German language well enough to be able to converse with these people, and she knew just who she would enlist to teach her.

  No matter that she tried to stop, she couldn’t help comparing Marcus to Lawrence Hockley. And the comparison always came out grossly one-sided.

  She hadn’t seen Marcus since Tuesday, and she’d decided she wasn’t going to say anything to him about tonight’s dinner, or her future plans, for now. He’d clearly lacked enthusiasm over her idea of starting a restaurant, so she’d made up her mind not to share this venture with him either.

  Which felt odd, since she’d grown accustomed to telling him about almost everything.

  She explained to newcomers how the meal, along with cups of water, would be served from the kitchen. Families were encouraged to come through the line together, then could sit wherever they wanted to on the floor. Unfortunately, they only had the original table and four chairs, but Eleanor was working on that too.

  As Naomi translated, Eleanor silently counted heads. First, the women . . . twenty-one. And the children . . . thirty-four. Fifty-five, she totaled. Plus herself, Naomi, and Mr. Stover, who was expected anytime. So many. And a crowd of people congregated by the door—Caleb among them—so she might have missed a head or two.

  A streak of panic skittered through her. She had assured everyone there would be plenty of food. Now she only hoped there would be.

  Footsteps behind her told her Mr. Stover had arrived, and she could tell he was doing something funny again, because the children started snickering.

  Smiling, she bowed her head, and the others did likewise. “Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name—”

  “Unser Vater, der du bist im Himmel,” Naomi followed after, a quiet chorus of soft voices joining her. “Geheiligt werde dein Name.”

  “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven.”

  “Dein Reich komme, dein Wille geschehe wie im Himmel, so auf Erden.”

  “Give us this day our daily bread . . .”

  “Unser tägliches Brot gib uns heute . . .”

  As Eleanor prayed, eyes closed, she sensed the language barrier lessening somehow. Especially with the final closing.

  “Amen.”

  “And now . . .” she said, loving the phrase a young boy had used a few nights ago, “guten appetit, let’s eat and drink!”

  Children clapped, and she and Naomi went into the kitchen to start di
shing up the pie tins. Plates were too expensive, she’d discovered. Metal tins and cups were more practical with children anyway.

  Half an hour later, her back beginning to ache from having been on her feet all day, she figured they had to be nearing the end of the line. She glanced at the number of stacked tins left. They’d started with sixty, to be safe. Only eight tins remained. And she’d already served Mr. Stover.

  She recognized the next face in line.

  “Caleb!” She smiled, glancing at him before taking the metal tin from Naomi. Eleanor added a healthy dollop of mashed potatoes to the side of crowder peas and carrots already nestled against a frugal slice of roast. She tucked a warm piece of corn bread slathered with butter onto the side of the plate. Hardly La Bienvenue’s artful culinary presentation, but it was filling.

  Thinking of the fancy restaurant made her think of Lawrence Hockley. But she didn’t want to think about him—or about the decision he was patiently giving her time to render.

  “Thank you, Miss Braddock,” Caleb answered, looking at the boy behind him, as if saying, “That’s how to say it in English.”

  The younger boy did well. But after serving him, Eleanor found her supply of potatoes exhausted.

  “Just one moment,” she said over her shoulder. “I have more mashed potatoes keeping warm on the stove. We have plenty, though, so don’t worry. You’ll not leave hungry.”

  “Knowing you as I do, Miss Braddock, that’s never been a concern.”

  Eleanor stopped cold. And turned. “Marcus!” She blinked, thrilled to see him but also feeling found out. She spotted Little Magpie beside him, staring up, along with a boy clutching a large leather pack. Two other children flanked him on either side. “I mean, Mr. Geoffrey,” she corrected. “What are you—”

  He grabbed the tin in her hand, and she looked down to see that the food was about to slide over the edge.

  He quickly righted the plate and gave her a wink. “Good evening, Miss Braddock.”

  Her face heated. She exhaled and tried to pull the tin back.

  He wouldn’t allow it. “This one can be mine,” he said. “It’ll give me a jump on digestion.”

  The twinkle in his blue eyes encouraged her to acquiesce but the chef in her wasn’t so easily convinced. She shook her head and tugged on the tin. “Not in my kitchen, sir.”

  He let go, a single dark eyebrow arching. “Your kitchen?”

  Again, she blushed. “Well, not mine, really. But . . . mine for now.”

  Under his watchful supervision, she served the remaining portions—scarcely having enough—then joined him, with Naomi and several children, on a vacant space of plank-wood flooring.

  Naomi leaned close. “This is so generous of you, Miss Braddock,” she whispered, eyes misty. “It is hard for me to put into words what this means to us. These women and children—many of them my friends, who live in our building—would have nothing to eat tonight . . . without this.”

  Eleanor found herself tearing up at the sweet admission. “It’s my pleasure, Naomi. And thank you for inviting everyone.”

  Eleanor made introductions between Naomi and Marcus, surprised when Marcus said he’d looked forward to meeting her.

  Naomi glanced across the room to where Caleb was seated with several other children. “My son enjoys working for you, Herr Geoffrey.”

  Eleanor perked up. “Caleb works for you?” She gave Marcus a discreet look. “In your construction company, I assume.”

  Marcus nodded, returning the look she’d just given him. “He’s a fine boy, Mrs. Lebenstein. You ought to be proud.”

  Naomi smiled. “I am. Thank you, sir.” Her head tilted to one side. “Caleb tells me you are also from Austria.”

  Marcus didn’t answer for a moment, chewing for what seemed like a long time before swallowing. “Yes, madam, I am. And Caleb tells me that you’re from a village near Strasbourg, that you were born there.”

  As Marcus and Naomi visited about their homeland, Eleanor tried her best to coax a smile from Little Magpie. But the girl seemed bent on keeping her at arm’s length.

  Giving up, for the time being, Eleanor retreated to the kitchen to cut the bread pudding and was grateful to find a majority of the pie tins already washed and waiting, thanks to Marta and Elena, two ladies whose help Naomi had enlisted.

  About Eleanor’s age, Marta approached, brow knitted. “The . . .” The woman paused as though searching for the right words.

  “Lebensmittel,” Elena supplied from behind, prodding her friend.

  But Marta shushed her, whispering, “Ich möchte es auf Englisch sagen!” Then she turned back to Eleanor, her countenance determined. “The . . . din-ner,” she said slowly, “. . . many good.”

  Delighted, Eleanor gave her forearm a squeeze. “Thank you, Marta.” She pointed to the washed tins, including Elena with a glance. “Danke für das . . .” Eleanor paused. What was the word . . . Oh! “Waschen,” she said, waiting to see if she’d gotten it right.

  The women clapped. “Ja! Sehr gut!”

  Eleanor retrieved the bread knife from the drawer, then noticed Marta and Elena had fallen quiet. The women peered over her shoulder with wide eyes, and Eleanor didn’t have to guess why. She’d seen that look on many a woman’s face when Marcus Geoffrey entered a room.

  “I’d be happy to help with something,” he said behind her. “If you need me.”

  Eleanor faced him, knife in hand. “That’s a dangerous offer to make in a kitchen, Mr. Geoffrey, if you’re not serious.”

  He looked at the knife, then at her. “If I make an offer, Miss Braddock, always assume I’m serious.”

  Calling his bluff, she held out the knife, handle first. “I need those five casseroles of bread pudding cut into sixty servings, and then”—wordlessly, he took the knife and promptly began cutting—“we need to spoon a ladle of warm sauce over each one.” She laughed softly.

  She came alongside him, noticing how perfectly straight his cuts were, and how symmetrical the finished pieces. “Have you done this before?”

  “Do you mean have I studied the carefully designed structure of something, measuring its space and allocating its usage based upon the purpose or need at hand?” His delivery, so dry, so succinct, and without a trace of a smile drew one from her.

  “Yes,” she said. “That’s precisely what I mean.”

  He looked over at her. “Never.”

  Laughing, she retrieved the sauce pan from the stove. Working together with Marta and Elena, the four of them served dessert in no time.

  “Why didn’t you say anything?” he asked once they were alone in the kitchen.

  Knowing what he meant, she started to shrug, then stopped herself. “Because of how you reacted . . . when I told you about wanting to open a restaurant.”

  Tin of bread pudding in hand, spoon poised, he stared at her. Then nodded. “Fair enough. But it wasn’t because I don’t think you can do it. It’s because—”

  “You don’t think I should,” she finished for him. “My aunt said much the same thing.”

  Surprise swept his expression. “She knows about this?”

  “Not yet.”

  He eyed her. “She’s going to be back eventually. How will she feel about it?”

  “It’s difficult to say. . . .”

  “I don’t think it’s that difficult, Eleanor. We both know she’ll have plenty to say.”

  She sighed, not liking the fact he was right. And that he clearly didn’t approve either.

  “What you’re doing here defies common sense, Eleanor,” he said quietly. “The expense of the food, the sheer numbers of widows and children in this city, not to mention what others in your social circle would say if they knew . . . all make this a very unwise decision.” His gaze moved from her, toward the front room, then back again. “It’s also one of the bravest and noblest acts I’ve ever witnessed. And I’m proud of you.”

  His praise was so surprising she had to work to take it in. “Thank you, M
arcus,” she whispered.

  He held a bite of bread pudding aloft as if making a toast, the warm cream sauce dripping from his spoon, then he popped the bite into his mouth. He closed his eyes as he chewed.

  Eleanor spotted Caleb standing just outside the kitchen, watching. The boy grinned, obviously enjoying Marcus’s antics.

  “Mmmm . . .” Finally, Marcus looked at her. “Exactly where and when would you like for me to build your restaurant, madam?”

  She smiled. And despite the alarms of warning going off inside her, she felt her heart open up a little more to this man.

  Caleb joined them, a conspiratorial grin lighting his face. “But, Mr. Geoffrey . . . is it as good as your Mutter’s strudel?”

  Marcus glanced at Caleb, then back at her, his expression odd. If she didn’t know better, she would have thought he was a little embarrassed.

  He spooned another bite of the bread pudding. “This is absolutely . . . delicious. But . . .” He sighed, his smile resembling Caleb’s now. “Nothing is ever as good as your Mutter’s strudel.”

  Caleb laughed and nodded as Marcus tousled his hair. And though Eleanor’s feelings were anything but hurt by the admission, she did feel a challenge in Marcus’s declaration.

  And silently accepted it.

  Later that evening, Eleanor slipped the key into the keyhole, turned it counterclockwise, and checked the latch, making certain the door was locked.

  It was still light out, though barely, and Marcus insisted on walking with her to the bakery, where she’d told Armstead to pick her up.

  She had yet to give Armstead the address to Mr. Stover’s building, nor had she told him about what she was doing. She always instructed him to leave her and fetch her at the bakery. It wasn’t as though she thought she was doing something wrong. But the fewer people at Belmont who knew about these dinners, the better.

  She draped her shawl around her shoulders as they walked along, a cool breeze stirring the night air.

  “Thank you, again, for your help, Marcus. The children seemed to enjoy you. After watching you with them, I’m guessing you must have younger brothers or sisters.”

  He shook his head. “No. I’m the youngest, actually.”