A Beauty So Rare Page 39

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Roof lanterns. They’re windows that are installed on the roof, much like a regular window with glass and panes. They serve several purposes. First, they allow more light into the space, which saves on lamp oil. Second, they allow in the sunlight’s warmth, which helps to heat the room. But, most importantly”—he glanced up at the glass panels of the conservatory above them—“the sunlight enables you to grow flowers and plants. Indoors.”

  She looked at him. “Grow flowers and plants indoors. You mean, as in a conservatory?”

  “Similar, but not exactly. We’ll have actual flower beds in the lobby entrance, and even a small tree or two. The whole thought behind this building is to bring nature inside, to incorporate the beauty of creation with the beauty and functionality of man’s design.”

  Holding his gaze, she nodded slowly, then returned her focus to the designs. “I appreciate your love of flowers, Marcus. I appreciate nature too.” She looked up. “But how much would these windows cost? Not only in materials but in time to install them?”

  “Not as much as you’d—”

  “And what if they leak? Water will be everywhere. Or what about hail? One good storm, and glass could come raining down on the children. And wouldn’t installing those on the roof mandate cutting through other floors? Think of the living space that would be sacrificed.” She frowned. “I’ve never heard of . . . roof lanterns. Is it something from Europe?” She said it as if that might be a bad thing.

  “Do you have any more questions, Eleanor? Because if you do, go ahead and ask them so I can answer them all at once.”

  She winced. “I’m sorry. But I’m worried about going over budget. Aunt Adelicia has been very specific about that. And I . . .” She sighed. “I don’t want to do anything that will cause her to regret having given me this project.”

  Marcus heard what she wasn’t saying. She wanted Adelicia to be proud of her. Which was something he understood. He thought of his father’s letter again and wished he could speak to him. As it was, he pushed it from his mind for the moment.

  “The roof lanterns aren’t nearly as costly as you might think, and they’re already included in the bid. I guarantee you we won’t go over budget. I give you my solemn word on that. Now . . . to answer your other questions, I’ve already considered the issues you raised. We’re installing doors, similar to shutters that will protect the windows in stormy weather.”

  “And just who will go up on the roof to close those doors every time it threatens rain?”

  “The windows will seal tight. Same as ordinary windows. Not a drop of rain will get through. The doors are for when it storms.”

  Saying nothing, she went back to studying the designs. “Another thought to consider if we choose the old courthouse . . .”

  Marcus bristled at the thought.

  “With winter coming, and so many of the women and children without adequate housing, we might be able to finish a section and allow a portion of them to move in even as we’re completing the renovation project. I know it wouldn’t be ideal but—”

  “That would be far from ideal, Eleanor. Children and construction do not mix.”

  “Neither do children being on the streets, or children bedding down on a cold wooden floor with the wind coming through the walls.”

  They stared at each other for a moment, and he thought of Caleb’s building. He’d sent a few of his men over to work on it weeks ago. Callahan reported that they’d repaired the holes in the floor and sealed the cracks in the walls. He’d said the women and children were grateful. Marcus hadn’t been back to see what they’d done. And right now, looking into Eleanor’s eyes, he wished he had.

  “But,” she said softly, “we must also look beyond the urgent. A new building will serve the need very well, perhaps even better in some ways. If we’re to encourage members of the community to volunteer down the line, which I hope to, then a new building, one that’s attractive and that makes people ‘stop on the street just to stare at it’ ”—she arched an eyebrow—“will be a wonderful way to entice them inside.”

  Hearing her tout the advantages of new construction near elated him. Or would have, if hearing his own words parroted back to him hadn’t been so unpleasant. He recalled saying that phrase. But it sounded so much more . . . self-centered than he’d realized. Which didn’t sit well with him in light of the project’s goal. Which seemed to be expanding . . .

  “What do you mean when you say you want to encourage members of the community to volunteer?”

  Warmth deepened her brown eyes. “Last night, after dinner, one of the children brought me a book and asked me to read to them. So we had a story time. It was wonderful. And that set me to thinking. . . . What if we made a little library? And what if we provided reading classes for the children who don’t know how to read? Or for those who need to learn English so they can read the signs in stores and on the streets. Oh!” She touched his arm. “You’ve met Mrs. Claire Monroe?”

  He nodded, enjoying her enthusiasm.

  “I’ve spoken with her, and she’s willing to come and teach the children how to paint. Then there’s Mrs. Malloy, who has made dresses for some of the ladies. She’s agreed to teach the women how to sew. I think it’s important that we not only feed their bodies but also their . . .”

  A touch of color rose in her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Marcus. I’m talking too much.”

  “No,” he said quickly. “Not at all. Besides, I’d love to listen to you read.”

  Her smile—something he’d seen little of that morning—was a thing of beauty.

  She turned again to his sketches for the new building and ran a hand along the graduated roofline. “What you’ve designed is stunning, Marcus. Truly stunning.”

  “I live to serve, madam.”

  She cut her eyes at him. “Which is precisely the impression I got the first time I saw you.”

  He feigned being hurt but was also curious. “What did you think the first time you saw me? I wager it wasn’t a favorable opinion.”

  “Let’s just say . . .” She hesitated. “I was fairly convinced that you thought quite highly of yourself.”

  “And me being a lowly under gardener, no less.”

  She grimaced. “I still can’t believe you allowed me to think that of you for so long.”

  “Would it have mattered to you if it had been true?”

  “If you’d been an under gardener?”

  He nodded.

  “Of course not.” She met his gaze. “Would it have mattered to you if you’d known I wasn’t the wealthy niece of Adelicia Cheatham, but rather an all-but-destitute relative who came to live at Belmont”—her voice softened to a near whisper—”because she had nowhere else to go?”

  In the fragile silence following, Marcus sensed her vulnerability, and yet her strength too. And resilience that—unlike the simpering nature of so many women he’d met in his life—made her attractive in ways more than only physical. And that was saying a great deal. Because he’d lived the majority of his adult life pursuing pleasure.

  But Eleanor made him want to be a better man. No. Not just better. She inspired him to be the best he could be. By offering the same of herself. No matter who she was with. No matter if she was cooking in a kitchen in a rundown shack or speaking with a gathering of Nashville’s finest.

  “No,” he whispered, realizing they weren’t talking only about their first meeting anymore. “It wouldn’t have mattered to me either.”

  He wished he could have captured her image in a portrait in that moment. One he could carry with him in his pocket for the day he would no longer actually look into her eyes. The sunlight shining on her hair, her playful yet somewhat serious expression. He’d asked the Lord several times since that day in the warehouse to show him what he should do next. But so far, the Lord had remained silent.

  Marcus was reluctant to admit it, even to himself, but maybe his initial belief about the Almighty’s interest in the d
etails of people’s lives had been more accurate than Eleanor’s.

  Or perhaps . . . it was just his life the Almighty found unworthy of closer attention.

  “But I no longer hold that view of you, Marcus.” Her voice came tenderly, drawing him back. “You are a kind, talented, and very generous man. As evidenced, among other ways, by the tables and benches your men delivered yesterday. The women and children love them. No more sitting on the floor for meals.

  “Oh! Which reminds me . . .” She reached into her reticule. “I meant to give this to you earlier.” She placed the small cloth-wrapped bundle in his hand.

  “What is it?”

  “Open it and find out.”

  He did, and when he realized what he was holding, the same tingling sensation he’d experienced in the warehouse days earlier worked its way up the back of his neck. “This is a—”

  “Kaiser roll. Naomi shared the recipe with me. We made them for dinner last night. She said they’re very popular in Austria, and are named in honor of your emperor.” She said the word with an uppity tone, then her eyes narrowed. “Kaiser . . .”

  Marcus’s grip tightened around the bread. “Franz Joseph,” he said quietly.

  “Yes, that’s it. You’re familiar with the rolls, then.”

  “Oh yes.” He nodded. “Quite familiar.” If he didn’t know better—he looked at her again, just to be sure—he would have thought she was baiting him. But . . . no.

  She gestured. “Go ahead and taste. See what you think.”

  Accustomed to her watching him eat the creations she brought, he took a bite, and closed his eyes as his mouth watered at the familiar taste of home, of a distant but cherished childhood, and of memories from another lifetime. Memories when his mother and grandfather were still alive. And something occurred to him . . .

  His thoughts flew back over the years. Since the death of his mother, then his grandfather, he couldn’t remember ever being truly happy—experiencing that rare contentment you feel with someone you know cares about you without question, and who you cared about just the same—until now.

  He looked across the room. Eleanor was gathering the proposal, working to get the pages stacked evenly, and he couldn’t help asking . . . “When is the last time you heard from your father?”

  Her hands stilled. Her head came up.

  He didn’t want to make her uncomfortable. But he knew, only too well, the burdensome weight a secret added to a person’s heart.

  “I-I’ve actually heard from him recently.”

  He didn’t want to force her into telling him about her father before she was ready, nor did he wish to push her into a lie. He only wanted to help bear the burden, if she’d let him. “And how is he?”

  Gaze lowering, she shook her head. “Not well. It will likely be a long time before he’s able to join me.” She inhaled, then released her breath in a rush, as if forcing out the words. “But he’s with people who are taking good care of him. So . . .” She nodded, then cleared her throat. “You don’t mind if I take these, do you? To review over the weekend?”

  “Not at all. Let me know if you have any more questions. And, Eleanor . . . when the time comes, I look forward to you introducing me to your father.”

  She held his gaze for the longest time. Then finally, she nodded. “He would enjoy knowing you, Marcus.”

  He followed her out, and they were nearly to the door when she stopped in the aisle. Right beside the Selenicereus grandiflorus.

  “I see you’ve not had any luck beautifying that one.”

  “It doesn’t need beautifying. I think it’s the most beautiful thing in here.”

  She shook her head as she leaned closer. “It’s growing”—she frowned—“new things.”

  He laughed, seeing what she was referring to. “Most plants do. Over time.” Not wanting her to look much closer at those new things, at least not yet, he picked up a recent success he’d had in grafting. “Have you ever seen this color in a rose before?”

  She turned and looked at it . . . then at him. “It’s pink.”

  “It’s coral.”

  “Which is really pink.”

  “No. Which is really a combination of pink and orange. I had to graft the plants five times before it took. And the blooms proved to be fuller too.”

  Appearing quite unimpressed by his explanation, she pinned him with a look. “If you want to impress me, Marcus Geoffrey . . . then graft a potato that isn’t rotten when you pull it from the ground. Now that’s something that would impress me!”

  She turned on her heel, and—a little dumbstruck—Marcus watched her sashay her pretty little posterior toward the door. He caught up with her before she opened it.

  “A potato?” he said, more pleased than she could have ever imagined.

  “Yes, a potato. Even with the return agreement I have with Mr. Mulholland at the mercantile, I still pay too much for too little!”

  “The return agreement?”

  She looked away, as though embarrassed, then explained to him about a deal she’d arranged with Mr. Mulholland. As Marcus listened to her spirited diatribe, he felt himself falling a little more in love with her, even as he hoped God was listening to her request too.

  Because if God and Eleanor got involved, that practically guaranteed success with the potatoes.

  They stepped outside only to discover the temperature had dropped considerably during the day. Marcus guessed it to be in the midfifties, maybe colder.

  According to the almanac, the first frost wasn’t due for another two weeks, but he’d already moved the two troughs of potato plants from the field into the conservatory. As soon as the plants flowered and then the leaves started wilting—two to three weeks at the most—they’d be ready for harvesting. It took every bit of his patience at this stage not to dig up at least one just to check its progress.

  But he’d gone through this cycle enough times to know that trying to hurry nature along was like trying to tell the sun when to rise.

  He offered his arm. “Allow me to accompany you to the mansion?”

  She slipped her arm through his, then just as quickly removed it. “Marcus . . . I need to ask you a question.”

  “All right.”

  “This is uncomfortable for me, so I hope you’ll understand.”

  “My imagination is running rampant.” He smiled.

  She didn’t. “It’s about your company’s solvency. I . . .” She hesitated. “I need assurance on your part that once you start the project—whether we renovate or build—you will be able to complete it.”

  More than a little surprised by her query, he paused. “Without question I’ll be able to complete it. And on time. You have my word.”

  She looked up at him, then briefly away. “If it were up to me alone, your word would be ample. But . . . since this project involves other people’s investments, I need to request a financial history of your company. For the past five years.”

  “You . . . want me to provide a portfolio?”

  She nodded.

  It wasn’t that he couldn’t do it. In fact, he’d provided his financial information when he’d submitted a bid for the opera house months ago. He was simply surprised she’d asked for it. Then again, he had a feeling this was coming from someone other than her.

  “Certainly, I can do that. It’ll take me a couple of days to update it, but—”

  “A couple of days is fine.” Relief flooded her expression. “As long as I have it by Tuesday.”

  “Consider it done. But I can only provide it for the past year or so. Since I’ve been in this country.”

  “Oh . . .” Her expression clouded. “I suppose you could include the years you were working in Austria, then.”

  Again, though Marcus was certain she wasn’t, it felt as though she was fishing for information. “Unfortunately, I didn’t own my own company back in Austria. So I’m afraid my company’s history here will have to suffice.”

  He could see her reasoning things
out.

  “So . . . if you didn’t work as an architect back in Austria, what did you do?”

  On impulse, he laughed, but not from humor. He attributed it more to the directness of her question and to his utter inability to answer it. “Would you believe me if I told you I was an under gardener?”

  She looked at him in all seriousness, then a twinkle lit her eyes and she laughed too.

  He continued quickly. “So don’t give another thought to the portfolio. I’ll get that to you by the first of the week. Along with my bank’s guarantee of deposit for my company’s cash reserves. Will that suffice?”

  She smiled up at him. “Thank you, Marcus. That will be sufficient, I’m sure.”

  “Good, then. Now . . . about those potatoes.”

  Her expression perked up.

  “If you’d like to join me one afternoon in the next couple of weeks, I’d love to talk to you more about that.”

  “Are you serious? You would consider trying that?”

  He offered her his arm. “I most definitely would, madam. Now, may I escort you back to the mansion?”

  “No.” Her smile flattened. “But you may escort me to the carriage house. Armstead is waiting to take me into town. I need to start cooking!”

  They walked arm in arm through the gardens in the direction of the carriage house, and he sensed the opportunity to ask what he’d tried to ask a while earlier. Even though he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.

  “Eleanor, you said something to me the other night, about . . . an offer of marriage.” He felt her tense and looked over at her.

  She kept her gaze forward, and though her arm was linked through his and he could feel the warmth of her body, a gulf seemed to open between them.

  He paused on the path. She did as well, her head bowed. And he sensed her answer even before he asked the question.

  “So,” he whispered, “you”—he had trouble even thinking the words, much less saying them aloud—“accepted . . . Mr. Hockley’s offer?”

  A cool breeze stirred wisps of hair at her temples.

  “Yes,” she said, so softly he almost didn’t hear. Then she took a deep breath and lifted her gaze. “Yes,” she said again, louder this time, with determination in her voice and a smile that started to fade almost before it had bloomed. “I was planning on telling you, Marcus. But . . .” Her laughter came out breathy, nervous sounding. “It’s all happened rather quickly. I only gave him my answer Monday night.”