A Beauty So Rare Page 30

  If Eleanor could have blinked in that moment and been anywhere else in the world, she would have. And she would have chosen to be in the kitchen with Naomi, Marta, Elena, and the other widows. Women without a man in their lives, like her.

  She felt a bond with them. A kindredness. And a welcome.

  Mrs. Smith-Warner looped her arm through Eleanor’s. “The first order of business is to introduce you to some of your future fellow magnolias.”

  Eleanor didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Fellow magnolias?”

  “Oh! You’re not supposed to know that until after the initiation. So shhhh . . .” She held a finger to her lips, peering up. “Don’t tell anyone.”

  Eleanor smiled. “Not to worry.”

  “Unfortunately, Miss Braddock, this being Thursday, most of our ladies are at tea in a member’s home. But I believe two of our finest members may still be here.”

  Eleanor followed her across the hallway to the room she’d been about to enter earlier. Bracing herself for a fashion show in progress, she was surprised to see two women seated at a table, their heads bowed together over . . . a newspaper?

  “Mrs. Hightower, Miss Hightower,” Mrs. Smith-Warner said, at which time the two women turned.

  Eleanor’s gaze locked with that of the younger woman’s. In that instant, she felt a flash of recognition. She’d seen her somewhere before. But where, she couldn’t quite—

  La Bienvenue. Those perfect blond curls.

  And perfect they still were, although considerably less shimmery sans candlelight. Miss Hightower’s eyes widened slightly before swiftly returning to normal, but that told Eleanor what she wanted to know. The woman recognized her too.

  “I’d be honored,” Mrs. Smith-Warner continued, directing her attention to Mrs. Hightower, “if you would allow me to introduce a future member to you and your daughter.”

  “A future member, Mrs. Smith-Warner?” Mrs. Hightower, a stately looking woman, briefly shifted her gaze to Eleanor. Her pointed chin jutted, sharpening what had likely been a beautiful countenance in more youthful years. “I believe, Mrs. Smith-Warner, you mean future nominee for membership, do you not?”

  “Well, I . . . I simply thought that since she’s Mrs. Cheatham’s—”

  “Because unless every member in this organization has assigned her proxy to you, my dear heart”—Mrs. Hightower smiled, which didn’t improve her countenance—“then I believe we may be overstepping our bounds just a little.”

  Eleanor took an instant disliking to Mrs. Hightower, and already didn’t trust her daughter. And even though Mrs. Daniel Jacobson Smith-Warner, the third, wasn’t high on her list either, she actually felt sorry for the woman.

  As introductions were made, Eleanor slipped a glance at the newspaper on the table. It was open to the society page. And here she’d thought the women had been discussing fashion, not future husbands.

  “So you’re the niece Adelicia has been telling us about.” Rivaling Eleanor’s height, Mrs. Hightower gave her a quick up-and-down glance. “Your aunt speaks very highly of you.”

  Eleanor forced a smile. “She was being generous with her praise, no doubt.”

  “We both know your aunt, Miss Braddock, and therefore know how unlikely that possibility is.”

  As Eleanor looked at Mrs. Hightower, formidable was the word that came to mind. As did another word she didn’t wish to dwell on. Just as she didn’t wish to dwell in this moment any longer. Or in this place.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hightower”—Eleanor turned to the woman’s daughter—“and Miss Hightower, for your kind welcome.” She glanced at the woman beside her. “Mrs. Smith-Warner, I appreciate your assistance today as well. Now, if you ladies will please excuse me, I must be on to my next appointment.”

  Eleanor closed the front door behind her and took a deep breath, grateful to check that dreaded to-do off her list, and ecstatic that her path in life didn’t include dealings with Mrs. Hightower or her eavesdropping daughter.

  The next morning, Eleanor felt an uneasy sense of déjà vu and prayed this visit with her father would go better than the last.

  With any luck, the savory custard wrapped in a cloth beside her on the carriage seat wouldn’t end up on the wall.

  She’d instructed Armstead to stop by the mercantile on their way to the asylum, and it being Friday morning, the streets were busy.

  She’d ordered a book for her father last week, and Mr. Mulholland had said she could pick it up today. While there, she would gather the remaining ingredients for tonight’s menu, which included chicken and dumplings, stewed apples, corn bread, and molasses cookies for dessert. She wondered if Marcus might show up to help.

  She hoped so, even while warning herself not to.

  Somewhat to her relief, Aunt Adelicia and the family had yet to return. A flicker of guilt pelted Eleanor’s conscience at the thought.

  On one hand, she welcomed their homecoming. Yes, she dreaded explaining to her aunt about cooking for the widows and children, but the mansion had been far too quiet and loomed even larger with the family gone, especially in the evenings. And especially since Marcus had been so scarce of late.

  But on the other hand, she had enjoyed her independence and wasn’t overly eager to give that up. More than once in her letters, Aunt Adelicia had expressed an eagerness to hear all about “the wonderful evenings with Mr. Hockley” and the “highly anticipated good news.”

  Eleanor wouldn’t put it past her aunt to have already written the man herself.

  The carriage slowed to a crawl and finally stopped. Eleanor peered out the window. Ahead, a freight wagon loading goods from the feed store blocked the left side of the street while other wagons and carriages waited their turn to maneuver around it.

  Eleanor felt the carriage dip to one side as Armstead climbed down.

  He peered in through the window. “Miss Braddock, I’m sorry, ma’am, but it looks like it could be a while. You all right back here?”

  Seizing the opportunity, Eleanor reached for the door handle. “Actually, I think I’ll walk the rest of the way.”

  Armstead assisted her from the carriage even as his expression said he would prefer she stay in it. “You sure you don’t wanna wait, ma’am? Mercantile’s still a good ways away.”

  “Yes, I’m sure. I’ll enjoy the walk. I’ll meet you there.”

  He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She continued on foot, and with each step her thoughts slowed and her concerns faded. What she wouldn’t give to be able to spend the day in the kitchen making bread, working the dough until her arm muscles ached, in a good way. Push and roll, push and fold. The kneading process became almost like a dance atop the floured surface. And the aroma of the bread as it rested and rose . . .

  There was something comforting about bread needing to be still, needing peace and tranquility in order to become everything it was meant to be. She felt that way sometimes too. Perhaps that’s why she enjoyed cooking. It gave her time to “be still” on the inside.

  A sign in a window she passed caught her attention, and upon seeing what it advertised, she slowed her pace. Calico, Simple Prints, and Solid Fabrics on Sale. The handwriting on the slate board clean and tidy. Right above it painted in plain white stencil letters was the shop’s name. Simply Dresses. And beneath that: Made-to-Order Dresses Simply Made Well.

  She peered through the window. It was a tiny shop. Not much to it, really. But she thought of Naomi’s two dresses, as well as those of other widows in the close-knit group, and her hand was on the latch before she consciously summoned the act.

  A bell jangled overhead when she opened the door.

  What the shop lacked in size and elegance, it made up for in neatness and a surprisingly larger selection of inventory than she’d expected. Spools of thread, pin cushions, and seamstress tape, each in their own place, sat atop a small desk in one corner, a dais for alterations beside it.

  Almost before the final note from the bell above the door di
ssolved, a woman appeared through a curtained doorway, smile in place and work in hand.

  “Welcome, ma’am. How may I help you?”

  Eleanor glanced at her surroundings. “You have a very nice shop here.”

  “Thank you.” The warmth in the woman’s expression deepened. “It’s not fancy. . . .” She gave a somewhat shy smile. “But neither are the dresses I make. I sew mostly day dresses, ma’am. Also shirtwaists and skirts. I sew them fast but sew them well. I have samples of my work right here. Along with the prices.”

  Appreciating the woman’s candor, Eleanor viewed the dresses hanging on hooks to the side. Simple fabrics, no fancy tapering or scalloped necklines. But the material was thick and well woven, the stitching tight and true, and the buttonholes, even and well spaced. Far nicer than either of Naomi’s dresses. And the prices were very reasonable.

  Eleanor silently calculated, thinking not only of Naomi but of the other widows. And the children. Her personal funds were already stretched, but at this price, she could manage to help a few. Especially with winter on its way.

  “By chance, do you make children’s clothes?”

  The woman nodded. “I certainly do.”

  “Well . . .” Eleanor nodded. “You do fine work.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. . . .”

  “Oh . . .” Eleanor forced a laugh. “Actually, it’s Miss. I’m not married.”

  “I beg your pardon, ma’am.” The woman’s face flushed. “I simply assumed when you asked about children that—”

  “Oh . . .” Eleanor waved the comment away as though it were nothing. “I wasn’t referring to my own children, but children in general. No harm done, I assure you.”

  Eleanor maintained her smile. But deep inside, that distant heartbeat of the mother she might have been rose to a steady thrum. She thought of her upcoming dinner next Monday evening with Mr. Hockley, when he returned from New York, and of the decision she had to make. Her head told her one thing, her heart another.

  Seeing the woman shift beside her, Eleanor tucked her thoughts behind an embarrassed expression. “Forgive my manners . . . I’m Miss Eleanor Braddock. And you are?”

  The woman gave a brief curtsy, regret lingering in her gaze. “Mrs. Malloy, ma’am. Rebecca Malloy. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Braddock.”

  “The pleasure is mine, Mrs. Malloy.” Eleanor eyed the dresses again, this decision easily made. “You said you sew fast and sew well. I can clearly see how well.” Eleanor leaned in as though conspiring. “Now I’d like to see how fast. Shall we?”

  Armstead pulled the carriage to a stop outside the mercantile just as Eleanor exited, her father’s book in hand. Armstead climbed down to open the carriage door.

  “Miss Braddock! Miss Braddock!”

  Eleanor turned in the direction of the voice and saw Mr. Stover, short legs churning, waving to her as he crossed the street.

  Armstead straightened to his full height beside her, but Eleanor swiftly reassured him. “The gentleman is a friend, but thank you, Armstead.”

  Armstead dipped his head and moved a few steps away, but he remained watchful.

  Mr. Stover stopped before her and worked to catch his breath. “I’m glad I saw you, ma’am. I’ve got news!”

  “From the looks of it, I’m guessing it’s exciting news, Mr. Stover.”

  “Oh, it is, ma’am. It is!” He suddenly looked at the carriage as though just then seeing it and whistled low. “Well, if this ain’t fancy enough for Queen Victoria herself.”

  Eleanor winced, realizing Mr. Stover was still unaware of her connection to her aunt. Feeling as though she owed him an explanation—and guilt prodding her to give him one—she hurried to explain.

  “Mr. Stover, this isn’t my carriage. It belongs to—”

  “Mrs. Adelicia Acklen Cheatham. Your aunt. Yes, ma’am, I know. Everybody in town knows whose buggy this is.” He rose on tiptoe and peered through the window, his wheeze of laughter high-pitched. “It’s a real beauty, ain’t it?”

  Eleanor hesitated. “So . . . you’ve known all along that my aunt is Mrs. Cheatham?”

  He grinned. “Not all along, ma’am. But early on. One of the shopkeepers saw you comin’ into my place one day and thought I’d done sold the building to Mrs. Cheatham herself.” He laughed. “As if she got need for a place like that, I told him.”

  Eleanor returned his smile, but her conscience wouldn’t rest. “I’m sorry, Mr. Stover, for keeping that from you. It’s simply that I wanted to—”

  “Oh, I think I know, Miss Braddock. You wanted to do this on your own. Stand on your own two feet.” He nodded. “You bein’ one of them women who went to school and all . . .” He winked. “It added up for me.” His expression did another quick turn. “Now, my news! I just met with a man this morning, and I think we got us a renter.”

  Eleanor heard the words but couldn’t believe it. “A renter? For the building?”

  “Yes, ma’am!” He beamed. “So you’ll be gettin’ some of your money back. All of it, if I can swing it, seein’ what you’ve been doin’ for everybody else. I met with him at the building about two hours ago. He asked lots of questions too. Was real interested in knowin’ how it was bein’ used. So I told him all about you and what you were doin’. You better bet I sang your praises, ma’am. And every note was true.”

  Eleanor tried to appear pleased, knowing this was best for Mr. Stover. But . . . the building. Her building. Rented? Where would she cook in order to feed all these people? Where would they meet?

  Uncertainty crept into Mr. Stover’s expression. “You don’t seem too happy about it, Miss Braddock. I figured this was what you wanted.”

  “It was.” She managed a nod, then saw the earnestness in his face and realized she was viewing this from a very selfish perspective. “And it is.” She gave him what she hoped was a persuasive smile. “You’ve needed to rent this building for a long time now, so this is good news. But you said . . . we think we have a renter. So it’s not certain yet.”

  “No, ma’am. But like I said, he seemed real interested. Said I’d know his answer for sure in the morning.”

  The second-floor hallway of the asylum was unusually quiet, and Eleanor’s footsteps echoed down the corridor. Nurses and orderlies passed, greeting her with silent nods and briefly lived smiles. She returned them, wondering what kind of lives these people lived outside these walls and grateful for whatever it was that compelled them to work in an institution like this, caring for people like her father.

  Pausing outside his room, she balanced the savory custard in one hand and reached for the latch with the other, all while praying this visit would be worlds different from their last.

  She knocked softly and pushed open the door.

  Her gaze went first to the chair. But when she found it vacant, she looked at the bed—and saw him curled on his side beneath the covers, his back to her. Concern hastened her steps to him. Was he sick? If so, they should have sent for her.

  “Papa?” She set the custard and her reticule aside and rounded the bed, bracing herself. For what, she didn’t know. But when she saw the gentle rise and fall of his chest, and heard not a hint of labored breathing or rattle in his lungs—the telltale signs of pneumonia—she began to relax.

  His eyes were closed. His hands clutched the blanket beneath his chin. Her mind played a trick on her, and for an instant, she saw Teddy again, as a young boy, curled in that same fetal position, fast asleep. Tears rose to her eyes as she brushed the hair from her father’s forehead. The strands felt coarse beneath her fingertips.

  “Papa . . . can you hear me?”

  Only the sweet unencumbered sound of sleep filled the silence.

  The curtains to his room had been pulled halfway closed and dulled the brilliant sunlight of the crisp fall afternoon. She settled herself in his chair, the one they’d brought from home, and leaned back into it, the suppleness of the well-worn leather and the indentation of her father’s frame embracing her like an ol
d friend.

  Her eyes drifted shut, and she indulged them, the weight of cares and busyness of recent weeks—and months and years—tugging at her like a tide on the shore, and she finally gave in to it.

  She awakened to a shuffling sound and looked over to find her father sitting up in bed, a fork in his hand and the casserole containing the savory custard tucked in his lap.

  “It’s delicious,” he whispered, smiling at her.

  Eleanor blinked to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. But there he was, still eating, still smiling.

  She rose and stretched, noting the sun’s brilliance had only slightly lessened. She hadn’t been asleep long. “How are you, Papa?”

  “I’m better now.” He held up the casserole. “Ham and cheese. My favorite.”

  He held out the fork to her, but she shook her head.

  “I like watching you eat.”

  Still hesitant to trust the gift of this moment, she moved to sit on the edge of the bed.

  “I watched you for a while.” He pointed toward the chair. “It was nice, Eleanor. Waking up and seeing you sleeping there. It’s been a long time since we’ve seen you.”

  The moment quivered, as did her heart. “We?” she asked softly.

  He looked at her. “Why . . . your mother and I, of course. She should be back anytime now.” He shook his head. “She worries about you volunteering with those wounded soldiers. Being so close to the battle lines. It’s not safe for a woman, she says. And I agree.”

  “Don’t you worry about me, Papa. I’m being careful.”

  “That’s what I tell her, but you know your mother.” He shoveled in bite after bite.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I do.”

  Remembering the book she’d bought for him, she retrieved it from the side table. “I brought you something. One of our favorites.” She handed it to him. “It’s your very own copy. The cover looks different because the book has been reprinted recently.”

  “Conversations on Common Things . . . by Dorothea Dix,” he read aloud, opening the cover. “Why does this sound so familiar? Have I—” He stilled, then frowned, staring at the page. He shook his head. “No . . . no, no, no, no, no . . .”