Beauty So Rare, A (A Belmont Mansion Novel Book #2) (22 page)

“Oh, I am not worried about you, Mr. Geoffrey. You are a good man. And good men always find their way.”

Marcus leveled his gaze. “Something your father used to say?”

Caleb grinned. “No, sir, that was all me.”

Laughing, Marcus glanced down the street, an idea coming. “Where are you headed?”

“Home.” The boy lifted the bread. “I bought this for dinner. Mama should be there.” His expression brightened. “You should come. She would like to meet you. She made
Semmelknoedel
last night. There is enough to share.”

Marcus shook his head. “I don’t want to impose.”

Caleb frowned, eying him like a venerable schoolmaster might have.
“Ein Freund kann niemals eine Zumutung sein.”
Then the boy’s expression softened. “Especially one from our homeland, Herr Geoffrey.”

More than a little touched, Marcus gripped the boy’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze, which earned him another grin.

“
Danke
, my young friend. You’re very kind.”

Marcus indicated for Caleb to lead the way, then fell into step beside him. “So tell me what you’ve done today, Caleb.”

“Well, as we always do, Mama and I begin with prayer. Then after breakfast, she teaches me from Papa’s books before she goes to her work. Then I go out to find what work I can too. I have places I always check, but sometimes they do not need . . .”

The boy’s response continued in greater detail than Marcus had imagined, and stretched over six blocks and down an alleyway, until finally Caleb paused before a partially boarded-up two-story building. Not too far from Eleanor’s building, Marcus realized. But this property was in even greater disrepair.

Of clapboard construction, the building had an arthritic appearance, its sagging walls and crooked windows having long ago abandoned their original intent. Even the exterior doors—what few remained—leaned like weary soldiers against thresholds whose welcome had been worn thin a lifetime ago.

Across the top of the building, in faded, barely legible capital letters were the words
Maxwell’s Haberdashery.

“This is where you live?” Marcus heard the question in his voice and regretted it.

“Not by ourselves, of course. Other families live here too.” If Caleb had taken offense, his tone didn’t reveal it. “Mama and I have two rooms instead of just one. Come, let me show you.”

Marcus followed him inside, down one narrow hallway, then another. Caleb greeted what few women and children they saw by name. And Marcus soon discovered that the impressions he’d formed about the interior of the building, based on having seen the outside, proved grossly generous.

The once-white-plastered walls now stood dingy gray, stained with time . . . and other things he didn’t care to dwell on. The plaster itself had worn so thin in spots, the boards peeked through like aging bones.

“Careful there,” Caleb said, pointing.

Marcus stepped over a hole in the plank-wood floor, the board rotted clean through. Some of the other boards beneath him felt none too sturdy.

“Here . . . is where we live.” Caleb pulled back a curtain draped across a doorway. “I have my room there—” He gestured to what might have been a storage closet at one time. “And Mama has hers.”

Marcus peered inside. “Your mother isn’t here?”

“Not yet, I guess.”

Staying in the hallway, Marcus surveyed the room. “You and your mother have it arranged very nicely.” And they had, with what few
possessions there were. Mismatched dishes stacked on a shelf, a few womanly knickknacks beneath. Bedding folded and piled neatly on a straight-back chair in the corner. And books . . . everywhere, stacks of books.

All remnants of a better life.

“There is a kitchen down the hallway. That we all share.”

Marcus nodded. “I look forward to meeting your mother. Do you think she’ll be here soon?”

Caleb shrugged. “She may be working late. She has to sometimes. But we have the dumplings here in a bowl and then Mr. Fitch’s bread.”

Marcus heard him, but his attention was fixed on the slits of daylight fingering their way through hairline cracks and warped wood on the outer wall. It wasn’t a significant problem now, but come winter . . .

“I have an idea, Caleb.” He stepped back. “Why don’t you save the dumplings and bread for breakfast, and we’ll go get something to eat in town? While we’re there”—he attempted to sound conspiratorial, knowing that if Eleanor were there, she would have succeeded masterfully—“we’ll get something for your mother too, and you can have it waiting here for her when she gets back. All my treat, of course.”

For an instant, the boy’s eyes lit. Then his honest, hardworking upbringing seemed to offer challenge, and he shook his head. “You do not have to always buy me things, Mr. Geoffrey. That is not why I—”

“Caleb,” Marcus said gently, “I was dreading eating dinner alone again tonight. So . . . you’d actually be doing me a favor. And this would give us time to talk. I have a business proposition for you.”

The boy squinted.

“A job opportunity I’d like for you to consider,” Marcus explained. “With my company.”

The boy’s expression sobered. He squared his shoulders.

And Marcus knew he’d won him over.

After dinner, Marcus toyed with the idea of riding out to Belmont. But it was late, the sun’s light nearly spent, and the reason he would be going all the way out there would likely already be retired for the evening. So he returned to the boardinghouse instead.

A while later, the coolness of the sheets soothed his tired back and leg muscles, and he closed his eyes. He thought again of what Caleb had said to him, before they’d walked to the boy’s house.

“A friend can never be an imposition
. Especially one from our homeland.”

Marcus sighed in the dark, appreciative as other moments from the day replayed in his mind.

One stood out among the rest.

Was
he a good man, as Caleb had said? And if he was, why did he feel as though he’d been striving to find his way for years . . . and couldn’t? He felt as if he were lost in a fog, partly of his own doing and partly of others.

He’d been so certain he was the man destined to build that opera house, to show the city of Nashville how beautiful the partnership of man’s design and nature could be. At least until the fifth bid had entered the equation.

He shifted, trying to get comfortable, well able to imagine his father’s and uncle’s reactions if they knew he was renovating old warehouses, planting gardens at an insane asylum, and patching up an old shack of a building.

So much for “building something no one had ever built.”

He turned onto his side and shoved the second pillow beneath his head. Sleep felt a long way off.

So he did what he always did when the night stretched on before him. “ ‘Half a league, half a league, half a league onward,’ ” he spoke into the darkness, imagining the crackle of a fire among the familiar peaks of home. “ ‘All in the valley of Death rode the six hundred. Forward, the Light Brigade!’ ”

The image of his grandfather Marcus wielding a branch like a sword coaxed the memory closer, and he could almost hear the deep baritone of the man’s voice reaching across the years, stirring to life lessons of honor and courage bequeathed to a young boy.

“Was there a man dismayed? Not though the
soldier knew some one had blundered. Theirs not to make
reply, theirs not to reason why. Theirs but to do
and die. Into the valley of Death rode the six
hundred . . .”

 17 

E
leanor scooped a bite of warm buttermilk pie onto a fork, careful to get a fair amount of crust along with the silky, sweet custard. Casting a quick look at Naomi, she handed the fork to Mr. Stover, who slipped the bite into his mouth.

As he chewed, Eleanor sneaked a glance at the watch pinned to her shirtwaist. Almost half past five. She’d told Marcus she would meet him at the conservatory at half past seven tonight to explore the tunnel. She could hardly wait.

She was under no illusion that this invitation was anything other than him being kind to his employer’s niece. But still, she sensed he enjoyed her company. And she very much enjoyed his.

Looking at him wasn’t too painful either.

She watched Mr. Stover’s expression, trying to gauge his reaction to the pie. The dear man had graciously granted permission for her to use his wife’s kitchen, and in return she wanted to do something special for him. The recipe was one she’d perfected through the years. She only hoped it was similar enough to his late wife’s, and that perhaps the taste, and the memory, would bring him comfort.

Judging from the slow smile spreading across his face, it did.

“Just like my Weezie’s,” he whispered, then licked his lips. “Tastin’ this almost”—his voice broke—“makes me think I could see her walkin’ round that corner any minute.” He took a breath. “Thank you, Miss Braddock. This was awfully kind of you, ma’am.” He pointed to the slice she’d cut for him. “Mind if I finish it
before
dinner?”

Eleanor laughed and nudged the plate forward. “Naomi and I will help you eat the first pie . . . but the second one is for you to take home.”

“Would you like me to set the table now, Miss Braddock?”

Eleanor turned. “Yes, please, Naomi. Dinner won’t be long. Will your son be joining us, I hope? I’m looking forward to finally meeting him.”

“He said he would try. But he should have been here by now. Maybe he is still working. He has a new job working for a man in town.” Motherly pride softened Naomi’s voice. “If he does not come, Miss Braddock . . . would it be all right for me to take him a plate of food?” She turned to Mr. Stover. “
If
it is all right with you, sir. I will bring the plate back tomorrow morning. I give you my word.”

Fork in hand, Mr. Stover nodded. “Don’t mind at all, Mrs. Lebenstein. With all you and Miss Braddock have done to this place . . . seems I should be owin’ you.”

Eleanor put the final touches on dinner as Naomi set the small table Mr. Stover had brought from his house, along with four mismatched chairs. A welcome change from sitting on the floor as they’d been doing.

She thought again of her
appointment
later that evening.

She’d briefly seen Marcus yesterday afternoon as he, along with other men, loaded plants and trees from the conservatory to take to the asylum. Each time she pictured him working there or considered the possibility that he might come into contact with her father, she shuddered. She was thankful when he’d told her the garden was almost finished.

She wondered how her father’s window garden was faring, or if he’d even planted the seeds. She’d written him every day since last seeing him. And every day, she hoped to receive a response.

It was difficult, abiding by Dr. Crawford’s recommendation to not visit him for now. But if it helped her father get better . . .

In addition to making two buttermilk pies, she’d slow-cooked a beef roast, choosing that over pork in consideration of Naomi and her son, uncertain of their eating restrictions. She’d followed Cordina’s cooking instructions to the letter. And even now, the fragrant meat was “resting”—as Cordina called it—on the worktable.
“Let it
rest for twenty or thirty minutes, and it’ll slice
up real nice, Miss Braddock.”

Only vaguely aware of Naomi and Mr. Stover’s conversation behind her, Eleanor drank in the homey feel of the kitchen. The “hub of the home,” as her dear mother had called it.

She inhaled the comforting blend of aromas—buttery mashed potatoes warming on the stove, field peas Naomi had shelled earlier simmering in a neighboring pot, bits of onion nestled among them. All that remained were the yeast rolls browning in the oven.

This little celebratory dinner was turning out rather nicely. Even if
it had cost more than she’d planned. The roast had been a splurge, but a good one. And she’d gone through almost
four
pounds of potatoes just to find enough that weren’t spoiled or molding. And she’d bought them only two days ago!

But it was for a special occasion. Mr. Stover’s building all but sparkled now and was truly ready to rent. Strangely enough, a part of her hoped it wouldn’t rent too soon.

Yes, she could use the money Mr. Stover would return to her if it did rent, but she’d enjoyed cooking today. That enjoyment had been peppered with bittersweet thoughts about what this building could have meant for her—and for her father—had Aunt Adelicia said yes, but . . .

Eleanor smoothed the front of her apron. It was silly to miss something you never had, couldn’t have. Best to be grateful for what you
did
have, and move on.

She pulled the pan of rolls from the oven, and in the haze of heat, a memory rose, a memory so vivid it could have been from yesterday. She could see the soldier’s face, could feel his blood-slicked grip on her hand. She placed the bread on the stove and reached inside her pocket.

How could a worn handkerchief offer such reassurance? Especially when it represented a promise she hadn’t kept. She’d tried, though. She’d spoken to countless widows after the war. Learning their names, listening to their stories, until she wondered how God’s heart could possibly hold the flood of their grief, much less how He kept their tears in a bottle, as His Word promised.

As she’d done so many times, she prayed again that the soldier and his Mary girl were, somehow, both at peace.

The creak of the front door drew their collective attention.

“
Mutter
,
bist
du hier?
” a young voice called.

“
Ja
.” Naomi tossed Eleanor a smile. “We are here. In the kitchen.”

A young boy rounded the corner, and his smile was the first thing Eleanor noticed. That, and the
Kippah
sitting atop a head of thick dark hair that had a curl to it any woman would envy. He was thin, though not by nature, Eleanor suspected. Much like his mother.

He hugged Naomi tight, as though he hadn’t seen her in weeks, and the sweet gesture brought a lump to Eleanor’s throat.

“Caleb,” Naomi said, voice soft, “may I present Miss Braddock, the lady who gave me the work here. And this is Mr. Stover, the owner of this fine building.”

“Very nice to meet you, Miss Braddock.” Caleb dipped his head, then offered his hand to Mr. Stover. “Very nice to meet you too, Mr. Stover.”

The man’s eyebrows shot up. “Well, aren’t you just the grown-up one.”

Everyone laughed, including Eleanor, but something Naomi had said tempered her humor.

“Caleb.” Eleanor briefly touched Naomi’s arm. “Your mother has told me all about you. I’m so glad you’re able to be with us tonight.”

“I am too, ma’am.” The boy took a deep breath. “It smells good in here.”

As Eleanor served up the plates, she slipped Mr. Stover an extra yeast roll after catching him eying the pan. When it came time to serve Caleb, she read his expression and added an extra dollop of mashed potatoes.

The smile the boy gave her would no doubt slay a young girl’s heart someday. If it hadn’t already.

As Mr. Stover said grace over the meal, Eleanor bowed her head, keenly aware of the blessing of these unlikely friends, and of how much it meant to her to be sitting with them. She thanked God for each, and then prayed for her father . . .

All while picturing a mysterious dark tunnel and an impossibly handsome man.

After dinner and with hardly a moment to spare, Eleanor closed the door to the building behind her, reticule on her arm and covered plate in hand. She waved good-bye to Naomi and Caleb, still thinking about what Naomi had said in passing.

“. . .
the lady who gave me the work here.”

Eleanor slipped the key into the lock, feeling so foolish. It hadn’t occurred to her until hearing that statement that this
celebratory
dinner, as she’d called it, was likely anything but for Naomi. They had finished cleaning the building—all except for whitewashing the walls in the main room, which Mr. Stover said he would pay Naomi for doing. But finishing that meant no more work for her. And therefore no more pay.

“This pie right here is gonna be breakfast, lunch, and dinner for me tomorrow, Miss Braddock.”

Eleanor returned the key to her reticule, warmed by Mr. Stover’s expression and by how he clutched the pie tin as though someone on the street might try to snatch it from him.

“Mr. Stover, thank you again for giving me permission to cook here on occasion. It means more than you know.”

“My pleasure, ma’am. After eatin’ your food tonight, I know my Weezie would be pleased too. Best I’ve had since . . . since I don’t remember when.”

The softness in his eyes revealed his thoughts, and lingering grief.

Eleanor had intended to send a portion of the remaining dinner home with him as well. But he’d insisted Naomi and Caleb take it. Naomi had graciously accepted, saying she would share it with their neighbors tonight. She possessed a kind and tender heart. As did Caleb.

Naomi hadn’t revealed much about her past, yet Eleanor felt a kinship with her. Watching mother and son disappear around the corner, Eleanor imagined that—despite the woman’s quiet disposition—if given the right circumstances, Naomi Lebenstein could be a force to be reckoned with.

She liked that.

“You want me to walk you home, Miss Braddock? It’s gettin’ late fast.”

“Oh no, Mr. Stover. I’m fine. There’s plenty of light left. But thank you.”

In all their conversations, she’d purposefully not mentioned where she lived or whose niece she was, and Mr. Stover had never asked. And though Aunt Adelicia knew about the building, she didn’t know the building’s location. It still seemed best to keep the two worlds separate.

“For what it’s worth, ma’am . . . I think you’d have done a mighty fine job at havin’ a restaurant. I wish it could’ve worked for you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Stover.” Eleanor glanced back at the darkened building, able to picture imaginary patrons filling tables and chairs. “I wish it could have too.”

Maybe she wasn’t coming. Perhaps something had detained her or . . . she’d forgotten.

Marcus weighed the possibilities, and even though both outcomes meant he wouldn’t see her tonight, he hoped her reason was based on the former rather than the latter.

Even as that thought crystalized inside him, he realized he cared far more than he should have about whether she came or not. Far more than he would for a mere
friend
. Faced with that reality, he found it impossible to ignore the truth.

Eleanor Braddock was no more merely a friend than he was merely an under gardener. And yet she wasn’t anything
more
to him either. Not a lover. Not a . . .
paramour
. Not even the potential of either. He laughed without humor.