Beauty So Rare, A (A Belmont Mansion Novel Book #2) (20 page)

 15 

E
leanor shoved her father with a strength she didn’t know she had, much less thought she’d ever have to use against him. He staggered back a step, eyes seething. Then he reached for the casserole, unmistakable deliberateness in the act, and sent the dish crashing into the wall behind her.

Stunned, her breath coming hard, Eleanor stared at this man she’d known all her life, hearing again what Dr. Cheatham had said to her at breakfast.
“There may be times you’ll need
to remember . . . it’s not your father speaking to you
, it’s the disease.”

She struggled to see this moment through the lens of that counsel—but all she saw was that her father, the only family she had left, had become someone she did not know. She could scarcely reconcile that this was the same man who had penned the tenderly worded letter to Aunt Adelicia sharing his desire for his only daughter whom he loved so dearly to marry.

Mr. Jameson appeared and swiftly maneuvered around her to stand between them, then nudged her toward the door.

“Mr. Braddock.” Mr. Jameson’s voice was kind and steady. “Everything is going to be all right, sir. Dr. Crawford is on his way.”

Her father’s gaze darted about the room, the look in his eyes frantic, like that of a wounded animal.

Eleanor heard someone behind her, and Miss Smith—the nurse she’d met the first day—swept past her as though the tension in the room were nonexistent.

“Good morning, Theodore!” she said, her voice lyrical, encompassing a smile.

Theodore?
Eleanor frowned. Her father hadn’t been called by his middle name since he was a boy.

Miss Smith proceeded to smooth the bedcovers and pillows, then
moved to the window, her movements measured and routine, her presence bringing calm.

But Eleanor caught an almost imperceptible look the young woman gave Mr. Jameson as she passed.

“Oh, I almost forgot . . .” Miss Smith reached into her pocket and withdrew something.

Eleanor craned her neck to see what it was, noticing her father doing the same. She trusted the staff, but still . . . She hoped this wasn’t a ploy of some sort, a way to administer an injection or medication. That seemed cruel, even in light of what had just happened.

A touch on her back, and she turned to see Dr. Crawford. He motioned her into the hallway, then closed the door behind them.

“Miss Braddock,” he said, voice low, “though I have yet to be apprised of the details, I assume from present circumstances that your visit did not go as desired.”

“No, sir, it did not.” Eleanor rubbed her arm, still a little shaken. “He’s still so angry with me. Livid, is more like it.”

Dr. Crawford’s sigh held consideration. “Though your father has been stubborn at times about adhering to schedules and taking his medication, we’ve witnessed
none
of this anger since—”

“I was here,” she supplied, reading the truth in his expression even before he answered.

“Yes, that’s correct. But, Miss Braddock, it’s quite common for a family member to be the focal point of a patient’s anger. After all, in the absence of someone to blame, we often blame those we love.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t make sense, I realize. But it
is
the case. And you must remember, as frustrating and disturbing as this is for you, imagine what it must be like for your father, especially a man of his intellect. He can quote law briefs from 1853 and remember the most minute details of cases he tried and books he’s read, yet he can’t recall what he had for lunch. Or what he did an hour ago.”

Understanding, and yet also not, Eleanor looked back at the door. “Could it be something I did or said that brought this about?”

“I very much doubt it. But . . . tell me about your visit, from when you entered the room until your father became violent.”

She recounted every detail.

Dr. Crawford listened, nodding on occasion. “And when he threw the dish, do you believe you were the intended target?”

She replayed the scene in her mind, still trying to reconcile her father’s behavior. “No . . . he threw it well away from me. But I do
think he intended to strike me with his hand. And would have, if I hadn’t pushed him away.”

The door to her father’s room opened, and Miss Smith exited. “He’s calm now, Doctor. And eager to see you, sir.”

“Very good, Miss Smith. Thank you.”

“Yes, Miss Smith.” Eleanor touched the nurse’s arm. “Thank you for coming when you did.”

“You’re most welcome, Miss Braddock.”

“May I ask,” Eleanor continued, trying for a casual tone, “what was in your pocket? Back in the room just now.”

The nurse shot a look at Dr. Crawford, and Eleanor’s heart fell.

Dr. Crawford gestured. “It’s all right, Miss Smith. We have no secrets from family members here.”

Miss Smith briefly bowed her head. “In getting to know your father, ma’am, I’ve learned he responds best . . . to these.” She reached into her pocket and held out her hand.

Eleanor looked, both puzzled and relieved. “Sugar sticks?”

Miss Smith nodded. “Peppermint is his favorite. So I always keep a supply on hand.”

With an appreciative nod, Dr. Crawford dismissed the young woman, then laughed softly. “Not what you expected, Miss Braddock?”

Eleanor shook her head. “I didn’t even know he liked them.”

“Don’t feel badly. Our staff is dedicated to learning what methods and motivations work best for each patient. And it seems your father has an insatiable sweet tooth that has proven most convenient.” He smiled. “Now, in light of what happened earlier, I’m recommending a slight change of course. One that’s proven successful in situations such as these.”

Already sensing she might not like this
change
, Eleanor waited.

“For the next month or so, I suggest you write to your father in lieu of visiting.”

She started to object, but he held up his hand.

“You are welcome here anytime, Miss Braddock. You are, after all, paying for your father’s treatment. But you’re also paying for our expertise. Your father is mentally ill. But he’s also grieving, and grief takes many forms. Not the least of which is anger. Letters are an excellent way to communicate while removing the pressure of an immediate response. Your father is struggling with how to respond to his own emotions, much less life and all the changes it has thrust upon him. Both from within and from without.”

Eleanor heard the wisdom in his words. It simply wasn’t what she
wanted
to hear.

He reached for the doorknob.

“Dr. Crawford, one last question, please.”

He paused.

“Nurse Smith addressed my father as Theodore . . .”

“Ah, yes, apparently that was at your father’s bidding. I’m not certain why he requested it”—his eyes narrowed—“but one time, when he and I were in my office, he corrected me when I called him Garrison, told me to call him Theodore instead.”

“So . . . what do you think that means?”

“It means we’re on a road, Miss Braddock, with twists and turns. It’s a road I’ve traveled with many other patients, but never with your father. Take heart that, while the journey is, on one hand, unknown, it’s not completely unfamiliar. Your father still knows who he is. That is a very good sign. But I’ve seen no evidence of the disease waning, a possibility you and I had discussed and hoped for upon your first visit.”

“But you said that was a possibility.”

Covering her hand, he offered an encouraging look. “All of life is a possibility, Miss Braddock. None of us can predict what will happen tomorrow.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “Now, about writing those letters. . . . You don’t have to decide right now. Give it some thought. One day at a time, Miss Braddock. That’s all we’re given.”

She nodded, hoping her voice held. “And sometimes . . . even our days must be broken down into hours. And minutes.”

Eleanor left the pots, soil, and seeds she’d brought for her father with Nurse Smith, along with strict instructions not to tell him they were from her, lest he dash those against the wall too.

Another nurse escorted her back to the main entry, and Eleanor wasn’t halfway down the front steps when she realized she still had the envelope from Dr. Cheatham for Dr. Crawford tucked in the side pocket of the satchel.

She hurried back inside to catch the nurse, but the foyer doors were locked. Peering through the paned glass, she knocked. And knocked again.

But no one came.

She pulled out the oversized envelope and considered leaving it at the door. But she’d assured Dr. Cheatham she would hand deliver it.

Outside, she looked for Armstead, but saw no sign of the carriage—as
she expected, since her visit had been far briefer than planned. Now, how to get this envelope to Dr. Crawford?

The sound of spades shoveling dirt drew her attention, and she peered over the side of the steps. Surely there was another entry into the building. A back way, perhaps. And she wagered one of those men would know where it was.

Leaving her satchel at the bottom of the steps, she picked a path through the freshly turned soil, closer to the workers, so she wouldn’t have to raise her voice.

“Excuse me, sirs?”

One of the men stopped midshovel. “Yes, ma’am?” He wiped his brow with his sleeve. “Help you with somethin’?”

“Yes, thank you. I’m wondering if you could tell me where—”

“Miss
Braddock
?”

Eleanor froze at the voice behind her. It couldn’t be. And yet—

She turned, his name sticking in her throat. “M-Mr. Geoffrey . . .” A thousand thoughts collided at once, but only one mattered.

How was she going to explain being at the Tennessee Asylum for the Insane?

Marcus couldn’t believe it was her. Yet he’d recognized her instantly. That dignified, regal stature, the unassuming grace with which she moved. And that up-until-now-not-fully-appreciated sway of her shapely hips as she turned. How had he missed that about her? But, at the moment, it was the smoky brown eyes staring unblinking into his that rendered him transfixed. Not to mention a little speechless.

Which didn’t happen to him with many women. In fact, none that he could remember since he’d passed puberty.

He cleared his throat, brushing the dirt from his hands. “You’re the last person in the world I expected to see out here, Miss Braddock.”

Her lips moved but no words came at first. “I . . . I was thinking the very same thing about you . . . Mr. Geoffrey.”

Aware of listening ears and eager to shed the formalities an audience demanded, Marcus indicated for her to join him near the front steps.

He was surprised to discover a satchel there. And even more surprised when he recognized it as hers. “Don’t tell me you’ve grown weary of Belmont and have decided to take up residence
here
?” He laughed.

She did too. But it wasn’t the spontaneous, warm response he’d hoped his comment would elicit.

“No, of course not.” Her smile short-lived, she briefly looked away.
“I ah . . . told Dr. Cheatham I would deliver a package for him.” She held up an envelope. “But the front entry is locked.”

“And with good reason.” He nodded toward the building. “That isn’t a safe place for you to wander around inside. While most of the patients seem docile enough, there
are
some who can be violent.” He motioned to the envelope. “Why don’t you let me deliver that for you.”

She stared for a moment, her expression inscrutable, but leaning toward melancholy. She handed him the envelope. “Thank you. I would appreciate that, Marcus. It’s for Dr. Crawford, as you see there.” She indicated the name on the front.

He sensed something different about her but couldn’t pinpoint what. She was more reticent than the evening he’d escorted her back to Belmont. Remembering how she’d stiffened when he’d first swung up behind her on the horse, and how she’d rallied with a sharply honed response, left him wishing for another such encounter.

And discovering she knew some German, even a little, had pleased him more than he’d let on.

“I’d ask what
you
were doing here . . .” She gestured to where his men were working. “But I think it’s rather obvious. I’m glad someone decided to do this. It will be an improvement.”