A Beauty So Rare Page 9

  After several attempts, Eleanor finally sighed and returned the book to its place. Simply wanting this day to end, she reached over to turn down the oil lamp . . . and paused.

  She pushed the covers back and crossed to the wardrobe on the opposite wall, the Persian rug luxurious beneath her bare feet. By the time she’d been shown to her room, her clothes had all been unpacked, brushed free of dust and dirt, and put neatly in their place. And her extra pair of boots had been polished to a shine.

  What a difference from home. Home. How far away Murfreesboro seemed. Only a handful of hours by carriage, yet another world away. And gone, forever. She thought of her father, as she’d done countless times throughout the day, and hoped he was resting, adjusting.

  She felt guilty living in the luxury of Belmont, when he was alone in the asylum—and even more so for being grateful for the temporary reprieve.

  Finding the skirt she’d worn that day, she reached into a pocket but found it empty, and her heart jolted. Quickly, she tried the other pocket, and her eyes closed in relief.

  Back in bed, she tucked the covers beneath her chin. “It does no good to cry, Eleanor,” her father had said more times than she could count. “A person held hostage by emotion is a fool indeed, and will be proven such in due time.”

  Rolling onto her side, willing the ache in her chest to lessen, she gripped the handkerchief tucked in her palm, and her thoughts turned to that night so long ago, with the soldier, when the world had seemed on the very brink of destruction.

  She’d made a promise. Not to him directly. But in a way, it felt as though she had. “I’m sorry,” she whispered into the darkness, as she’d done many times before. “I tried to find her. . . .”

  When sleep refused to come, she wished she could walk outside in the night air like she used to do in their backyard at home. But being unfamiliar with the rules of her aunt’s house, she didn’t feel comfortable striking out at this late hour.

  Best save the walk until morning. Perhaps at sunrise.

  Instead, she walked, in her mind, the hallways of the building she’d rented in town, having imagined the layout from the proprietor’s detailed description. Seeing herself through Aunt Adelicia’s eyes, she felt every bit the fool she likely was.

  And yet, she couldn’t deny how led she’d felt to take that step in procuring the building. At her earliest opportunity, she planned on finding out if she had indeed been a fool.

  Or only a foolish dreamer.

  Just after sunrise the next morning, Marcus arrived at Belmont. It was far too early to call at the mansion for the meeting Mrs. Cheatham had requested, but he’d awakened with a nagging suspicion. One that first occurred to him yesterday. . . .

  What if Mayor Adler had already decided who would be awarded the contract for Nashville’s new opera house but for some reason wasn’t announcing it yet?

  He reined in at the conservatory and tethered his horse, Regal, to a nearby tree. Despite his lack of desire to rule, there were rare moments, like this one, when he missed how his decisions had been accepted in Austria without argument or question.

  Or anonymous fifth bids . . .

  No one in Nashville knew his family heritage, including Mrs. Cheatham, which was as he desired it. While on her grand tour of Europe three years earlier, Adelicia had met Emperor Franz Joseph, his uncle, but not the men in line to the throne. And that, as it turned out, had worked to Marcus’s benefit.

  On the surface, the business arrangement he had with the estate’s mistress might appear to some as being fortunate. But good luck and fortune had had nothing to do with it. He had been in audience when Mrs. Cheatham was presented at his uncle’s court, and had learned several details about the woman, and her city, that made it an excellent destination for his venture to America.

  He had come to Nashville, to the Belmont estate, for a very specific goal, which he was far closer to achieving now than when he’d arrived. Thanks, in part, to the city’s sultry summer heat and relentless humidity, odd as that would sound to some. And to the estate’s underground irrigation system that the groundskeepers of even the Chateau de Versailles would envy.

  He rubbed the muscles knotted at the base of his neck, recognizing the mark of too much work and too little sleep.

  First rays of dawn lay like a blanket of jewels over the Belmont estate, causing the drops of dew to shimmer in the light. He’d heard Belmont referred to as a Southern Versailles, and he could understand why. The scene reminded him of the request Mrs. Cheatham had made. Or “collaboration,” as Gray had referred to it yesterday.

  “I want you to create me a rose, Mr. Geoffrey. Blush pink in color,” she’d told him, ever exact a woman in her opinions, and willingness to share them. “Like that of first dawn, but not too light, and with the slightest hint of purple. But not overly orange. And not too overt.”

  He admired the woman but was hopeful that—after months of work—he was close to achieving the exact hue she imagined. Not only so she would be pacified, but so he could focus his attention on something far more important—his primary grafting endeavor.

  His gaze trailed upward to the mansion, its pinkish facade almost ethereal in the freshness of morning, and he wondered which room belonged to Mrs. Cheatham’s niece. And was she, by chance, an early riser? He smiled, thinking of her thinking of him as an under gardener. Talk about fulfilling his desire to be seen as a commoner. . . .

  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d met a woman so bent on escaping his company. And that, of course, only made him want to press his company upon her further. He’d always had that orneriness about him. When she’d reacted the way he’d suspected she would, it only made the antagonizing more enjoyable.

  And that voice . . . He’d enjoy listening to her read Tennyson aloud. Or perhaps John Donne. Anything, really, so long as she was doing the reading.

  Miss Braddock was certainly a woman who made an impression. Though he didn’t remember her for the same reasons he usually remembered a woman.

  Part of her appeal—and she did have a certain appeal, despite her . . . plainness—was that it appeared she didn’t much care whether she made a good impression or not. Which was an intriguing quality when compared with all the women he’d known whose sole purpose—in the way they dressed, in the elaborate contouring of their hair, in their flirtatious manner—was, above all, to be remembered.

  Yet Miss Braddock seemed the exact opposite.

  Her hair? Plain. Pulled back into a braided bun at the nape of her neck. Her manner? Anything but flirtatious. And her choice in dress? He hadn’t seen that much pink since visiting the Jardin des Tuileries in Paris several springs back. Pink tulips everywhere. And yet she possessed a sharp wit, keen intellect, and a sensibility rarely found in the gentler sex. She was a compelling woman, and . . .

  Compelling?

  That was a word he hadn’t used to describe a woman before. Interesting . . . He usually thought of women in very different terms, while focusing on very different attributes. But look where that had gotten him.

  And where it had gotten Rutger.

  Marcus closed his eyes at the memory of his older brother, which was never far away. Sickening regret took advantage of the moment and overtook his weakened defenses. If only he’d been with Rutger that night. If only his brother had confided in him. Rutger had long been given to bouts of melancholy, but never had the family expected that—

  Marcus exhaled a shaky breath, knowing only too well that nothing would be gained from such pondering. So he attempted to turn his thoughts in a different direction. But the path his thoughts took wasn’t much better. . . .

  What was he doing engaged to a woman he didn’t love—much less like? Oh, he had liked her at first. At the time, he was certain he’d never seen a woman more beautiful than Baroness Maria Elizabeth Albrecht von Haas. But how fleeting her beauty had proven to be, even though her countenance hadn’t changed.

  And yet . . . in his eyes it had.

  Bu
t Marcus knew there was no use in tugging at this thread of a question either. Because there was no avoiding an arranged marriage when your life was prearranged from birth.

  The air inside the conservatory was warm, and the fresh scent of roses mingled with the sweetness of honeysuckle for the perfect blend of richness and simplicity. He made his way to the propagating room, the earlier nagging suspicion returning.

  He was all but certain he’d submitted the lowest bid among the four contractors. Or five now. This project wasn’t about money for him. He already had money. This was about something far more important, and lasting. Something money couldn’t buy.

  And something he couldn’t accomplish in Austria.

  Because an archduke of the House of Habsburg, now second in line to the throne, simply didn’t build buildings—or “play in the dirt,” as his father referred to his study of botany. An archduke spent his life preparing to reign over a kingdom, whether or not he ever got the chance to rule. And whether or not he wanted to.

  When he first heard of the mayor’s decision to build an opera house, he’d known that was the answer to the second of his aspirations—to put brick and mortar to a long-held dream.

  In his mind’s eye, he envisioned the opera house he had designed, the perfect blend of form and function. Structure and nature companioned as one. If given time and opportunity, he would capitalize on the natural beauty of this city and integrate it with the elegant lines and movement of the Neo-Renaissance style. The combined beauty would be something of which America had never seen, and of which Austria would, hopefully, soon read about.

  If only his father could see his designs.

  Then again, perhaps not.

  His father had never shared his love of botany or architecture. Only after serving seven years in the military had Marcus earned the freedom to pursue his studies as well—as long as it hadn’t interfered with his other obligations.

  But discovering the difference between knowing what you had the ability to do and knowing what you were born to do had been a valuable lesson for him. One he’d never forgotten.

  In the propagating room, he examined a whip graft he’d performed earlier in the week, studied the wax-sealed scion and stock—a twig of a Baldwin apple tree grafted on a wild crab apple. He’d wrapped the immediate area in a bandage to give further protection and to hold the scion more firmly in place until the union was accomplished.

  Both nature and the grafting wax seemed to be doing their jobs. The only requirements now . . . consistent sunlight, moisture, and time.

  He checked the rows of other grafts, making meticulous notes as he went along, then moved outside to the field garden located a stone’s throw away behind the conservatory. For almost a year now, this plot of ground had been designated for his experimentation.

  Due to the lateness of the growing season, he’d planted his latest outdoor experiment in long wooden troughs that could be moved inside the conservatory when the lingering warmth of summer departed. He had no scientific proof that fresh air made any difference in a plant’s development. But it did in people, so he figured, why not keep them outside for as long as possible?

  A layer of dew covered the young potato plants, and in the freshness of morning the leaves almost glittered, appearing as beautiful to him as any prized rose. Because within these leaves, which fed the heart of the plant nestled securely in the earth’s womb, was the answer.

  At least that’s what he told himself every time he crossbred a potato—which he’d been doing for the better part of a decade.

  He sighed. None of the potatoes he’d seen thus far, in Austria or in America, fully met his idea of what a potato should and could be in form, size, color, production, and lasting quality of freshness—the specimens were small and wont to suffer from dry rot.

  So much waste, too little production.

  He examined each plant, gently lifting the leaves of the Early Rose potatoes, a crossbred variety he’d worked with for years, watchful for dark spots or areas of discoloration. The plants had yet to flower, that stage still a few weeks off.

  He’d been only eleven years old when the famine struck Europe twenty-two years ago. Still, he remembered. Starvation and loss had touched every corner of the continent. He shook his head. Though Ireland was most greatly affected, with one million people dead in that country alone, the disease ravaged potato crops throughout Europe.

  He checked the last plant. The leaves were hearty. Not a speck of dark on any of them. A good sign—one he’d seen often enough while waiting for the plant to mature . . . only to finally unearth the same ill-shaped, dry-rotting little tubers almost three months later.

  But just as he knew he could construct the opera house he’d designed, if given the chance, he knew there was a way—there had to be—to create stronger, more disease-resistant food. Potatoes, specifically. And he was certain he’d be the first to find it.

  Although he was equally as certain Luther Burbank would offer a differing opinion. Marcus hoped again that he’d made the right decision in agreeing to share findings with Burbank. After all, they were working toward the same goal.

  In the end, as was often the case in science, only one man’s name would be remembered for the discovery, and Marcus wanted it to be his own. He wanted to be known for something other than what had been handed him.

  He brushed the dirt from his hands and checked his pocket watch, surprised to discover it was later than he’d thought. Pushing himself to his feet, he started toward Regal.

  He had a meeting with Mrs. Cheatham, and if luck was on his side, he would have another run-in with Miss Braddock.

  7

  Minutes later, Marcus dismounted by the front steps of the mansion and, seeing Zeke running straight for him, gathered the reins of the stallion.

  “You out here early this mornin’, Mr. Geoffrey, sir.”

  “Yes, I am, Zeke.”

  The boy reached out as if to take the reins, a gleam in his eyes. And Marcus easily guessed why.

  He eyed the boy, then the recently purchased stallion. “Are you certain you can handle him?”

  Zeke gave the stallion a look of admiration and puffed out his chest. “Sure I can, sir. I been takin’ care of the Lady’s horse for a while now.”

  Following the direction in which Zeke pointed, Marcus spotted a magnificent bay stallion in the corral. He’d seen the horse before, but never being ridden. That was Mrs. Cheatham’s mount? He found himself surprised by the woman. Yet again.

  Marcus handed over the reins. “I entrust Regal to your care, young man.”

  With cautious respect, Zeke reached up and stroked the stallion’s neck. “He’s a beauty, sir. Where’d you get him?”

  “From Belle Meade Plantation. Not far from here.”

  “Oh yes, sir. I been over to Belle Meade with Mr. Monroe. That’s where the Lady gets all her horses. They got ’em some mighty fine ones, don’t they?”

  “The best I’ve seen.” He started up the front steps. “I shouldn’t be long.” At least he hoped not.

  Marcus could count on one hand the number of times he’d been invited—or summoned was more like it today—to the mansion. And that was fine by him. The conservatory was where he felt most at home, with nature.

  He rapped on the door, and the housekeeper—her name escaped him—gave him entrance. He briefly explained the nature of his visit. “Mr. Gray said Mrs. Cheatham wanted to see me this morning.”

  She ushered him through the entrance hall, with its statuary and paintings fit for a palace. But it was the expert craftsmanship in the woodwork and marble work of the mansion that drew Marcus’s eye.

  She paused outside the central parlor. “Please wait in here, Mr. Geoffrey. I’ll inform Mrs. Cheatham of your arrival.”

  When meeting with Mrs. Cheatham before, they’d usually met in a small room off to the right of the entrance hall. The library, they called it. Though, compared to the libraries he was accustomed to back home, the small space reminded
him more of a quaint reading room.

  A painting on the parlor wall drew his attention, and he took a closer look at the stunning colors and masterful detail. Just as he’d thought—it was Jan van Kessel’s work, a Flemish artist whose paintings hung in the palace back home.

  From memory of van Kessel’s other pieces, he dated the painting to the mid-sixteen hundreds, give or take. Adelicia Cheatham’s owning one was impressive.

  The next painting that caught his eye earned a near smile—a younger Mrs. Cheatham standing shoulder to shoulder with a bay stallion that looked very much like the one outside. But having seen both the woman and the thoroughbred, Marcus knew that a stool or crate of some sort must have been involved in capturing the image on canvas.

  Adelicia Cheatham, petite as she was, would have had to stand on tiptoe for the top of her head to come even close to reaching the thoroughbred’s withers. Not so for another woman he’d met only yesterday . . .

  He stepped forward and peered into the grand salon, then down both long hallways, admiring the architectural design and wondering, again, in which wing Miss Braddock’s room resided. He further wondered whether or not she rode. No dainty pony or delicate mare would suit her—in stature or in temperament. He would gamble—if he still allowed himself that vice—that she was a competitive rider.

  He looked back at the portrait of Mrs. Cheatham on the wall, and this time, he thought he caught a glimmer of resemblance between her and her niece. Not in physical appearance so much as the set of the chin, and the direct, uncompromising look in the eyes. He had no idea whether the two women were blood relations, but they most definitely shared the trait of obstinacy. Miss Braddock seemed to have difficulty sustaining a smile, whereas her aunt could command one at will, whether heartfelt or not.

  “Bucephalus,” a familiar voice announced behind him.

  Marcus turned. “Pardon me?”

  Mrs. Cheatham smiled. “My stallion’s name—Bucephalus.”