Beauty So Rare, A (A Belmont Mansion Novel Book #2) (29 page)

“Word has it”—Callahan rubbed the back of his neck—“that Mayor Adler got into a stink with the city council after giving the project for the opera house to his son. And there’s more.”

Marcus got the feeling he wasn’t going to like whatever Callahan said next.

“I heard from someone who should know . . . that we were the city council’s first choice. You should’ve gotten that contract, sir. You should be building that opera house.”

Marcus looked over at him. “
We
should be building that opera house, Callahan.”

His foreman nodded. “Yes, sir. We should.”

Marcus straightened, working the muscles in his shoulders and neck, and determined to sound more optimistic than he felt. “Something will come up, Callahan. It always does.”

“Oh, I’m not worried, sir. In all my years in construction, I’ve never worked with anyone more skilled at this than you are.”

Marcus shook his hand. “Thank you, Robert. You’re a good man.”

“I just call it like I see it, Mr. Geoffrey. Good night, sir.”

Marcus grabbed his pack, tucked the set of project sketches under his arm, and closed and locked the door behind him. He needed the warmth of a friend’s smile. A beautiful and kindhearted
friend
.

And he knew just where to find it.

“No, sir. She ain’t here.” Eli, one of the oldest and most trusted servants at Belmont according to Mrs. Cheatham, shook his head. He stepped onto the front porch of the mansion, leaving the door open behind him. “Miss Braddock left nigh on to an hour ago. She be at dinner, Mr. Geoffrey, with a gentleman.”

The news hit Marcus square in the chest, and as defeated as he’d felt leaving work earlier, this was even worse. Especially with him standing here with a basket of bread and cheese from Fitch’s, along with a bag of doughnuts.

“I appreciate you letting me know, Eli.” He gestured to the man’s napkin tucked in his collar. “I’m sorry to have interrupted your dinner.”

“Aw, no bother, sir. Just me and Cordina tonight. Down in the kitchen.” The man’s laughter came easily, as if it was like breathing for him. “She fried up a batch of her chicken, and if I don’t wear this thing”—Eli gestured to the napkin—“I be a
fine
mess once I get done.”

Marcus smiled and nodded, then turned to head down the steps.

“Mr. Geoffrey?”

Pausing, Marcus looked back.

“We be happy, sir, to have you join us. If you like.”

More than a little surprised by the offer, and knowing it showed, Marcus didn’t know what to say. He’d spoken to Eli—and Cordina—before. But never more than a few words. And he’d never taken a meal at Belmont. All he could think about was his father and uncle, and what they would say if they knew he’d been invited to dine with a servant and his wife.

“That’s very kind of you, Eli.” Marcus glanced down at the basket, already having decided he wasn’t going back to the boardinghouse to eat alone in the dining room. He’d walk down to the conservatory and eat there instead. “But I’m fine.” He patted the basket. “I’ve got plenty.”

Eli’s smile just widened. “Warm buttered biscuits,” he said slowly, drawing the words out. “Fresh corn done been cut off the cob. A mess of field peas cooked up with bacon. Stewed apples slathered with butter and sugar. Oh . . .” His eyes grew larger. “And for dessert . . . my wife’s fresh tea cakes. Pulled ’em out of the oven myself ’fore we sat down to eat.”

His mouth watering, Marcus stared up at the man, debating. Dining with servants at Belmont? The archduke in him would have never accepted—which made him certain that accepting was exactly what he should do.

 24 

L
awrence Hockley sat across the white linen-draped table from her, the space between them accented with shimmering candlelight, delicate hand-painted Limoges china, wine-filled crystal goblets, and a surprisingly lesser expanse of years than Eleanor had imagined.

He was eleven years her senior, to be exact. Though she would have guessed a few more judging by his mature appearance and disposition. Even knowing him so short a time, she suspected he’d possessed a more formal, reserved temperament all his life. Another
old soul
, it would seem.

The restaurant,
La Bienvenue
, seemed crowded for a weekday evening, although Eleanor scarcely considered herself a good judge of that, never having been there before.

Seated where they were by the window, with a lovely view of the city and the Cumberland River beyond, they enjoyed a measure of privacy. And conversation between them came more easily than she had expected.

She inhaled, satisfying the need for a deep breath and feeling as though she were interviewing for a position with a company rather than contemplating a potential marriage partner.

In this instance, the two seemed unnervingly similar.

Over the past three hours and the first five courses—comprised of oysters, soup à la Reine, lobster Newburg over toast with cucumber salad, chicken Florentine with rice and vegetables, and frozen ices—they’d spoken at length on a variety of topics ranging from his position as president of the Bank of Nashville, to their childhood, to schooling, to his recent grand tour of Europe. His
fourth
, she’d learned, detecting no trace of vainglory in his tone. He’d stated it matter-of-factly, as he did everything.

With only the green salad and dessert courses remaining to be served, she estimated that by the time the fancy cakes, preserved fruits,
and coffee were presented, they would have exhausted every topic known to polite society, and Lawrence Hockley would know more about her and her opinions than most people knew about neighbors beside whom they’d lived all their lives.

“So, Miss Braddock . . .” He sat back in his chair, regarding her with an inscrutable expression. “Tell me more about yourself. Not details I might have surmised from our conversation thus far this evening, or from your letter. But rather, the personal observations a woman might not share with a more casual acquaintance.”

“But you
are
a more casual acquaintance, Mr. Hockley.” Eleanor framed her honesty with a smile, allowing a hem of truth to show in her eyes.

“Quite right.” He nodded, not seeming the least offended. “However, taking into account the purpose of our dinner this evening, I believe we may dispense with the customary sensibilities inherit in society’s approach to courtship.
If
you are in agreement.”

Eleanor nodded, staring at him from across the table while imagining another man. If Marcus had said something similar to her, the tone in his voice might have sounded much the same—not a trace of humor. But the gleam in Marcus’s eyes would have signaled his playful sarcasm and hinted at his truer feelings.

Mr. Hockley, on the other hand was completely serious. Commonsensical to a fault.

“I am wholeheartedly in agreement, sir.” And she was. So why was the fact she agreed with this man so bothersome?

She’d opened her mouth to respond to his original question when a server chose that moment to bring the salads. And another to refill their glasses. She was already so full, she doubted whether she could eat much more.

She contrasted the seven-course meal with the pot of hearty potato soup and loaves of bread she’d made earlier that day for dinner for Mr. Stover, Naomi, Caleb, and the other children Caleb saw fit to invite. Her meals were hardly the cuisine she’d dreamed of creating in a restaurant, and they were nowhere near the culinary experience of this fine eatery. Still . . .

She wished she was there eating with them in a ramshackle building instead of this fine restaurant.

Two nights ago, Caleb had shown up with
nine
children. Two mothers had come as well. Then Tuesday night the number increased by seven. She’d already instructed Naomi to invite them all back on Friday evening. Hopefully, they would return.

Atop the salad were sliced sugared almonds and bits of juicy orange. She could only imagine the cost of this meal. She quickly worked the numbers in her head and estimated she could provide a modest but filling dinner for approximately one hundred people, maybe more, for the same amount.

Mr. Hockley followed the servers’ actions, neither smiling nor frowning but simply acknowledging their presence with watchful attention. He was a man of detail, and Eleanor took the opportunity to observe him more closely.

Though she’d feared she would tower over him, as it turned out, he was almost her height. He was absent the imagined powdered wig and walking cane she’d visualized when anticipating this evening in one of her earlier, more pessimistic moments.
Bookish
, is what her father might have called him. He was intelligent, no question. And his sense of humor—

She pondered that for a moment, checking her memory. Had he smiled at her even once during the evening? If so, she couldn’t recall.

Precious few strands of once-blond-now-graying hair framed an unremarkable, yet not unpleasant countenance. In that regard, they were very well matched. All in all, he was quite unlike what she’d pictured—which was a relief, in one sense, while a concern in another.

Because if it turned out that Lawrence Hockley
was
interested in pursuing something more with her, the possibility of a future with this man wouldn’t be as easily dismissed as she’d first thought. That is . . . if he preferred a woman dressed like a frosted pink
petit four
from a cheap French bakery. Why had she allowed Aunt Adelicia to coerce her into agreeing to wear this ensemble?

Not that she was eager to impress Mr. Hockley. Her honest expectations for this evening remained unchanged from when Aunt Adelicia had first told her about him wanting to meet her. Nothing would come of it.

With the servers departed, Eleanor spoke softly, mindful of patrons at nearby tables. “While I’m uncertain if you would classify these as insightful observations, Mr. Hockley . . .” She inclined her head to one side. “I am a woman who prizes practicality. I have my share of sensibilities, of course, but work to keep them in their proper place. I’m not given to fanciful daydreams but do possess an active imagination and a natural curiosity that finds fulfillment through reading and study. I’m not easily intimidated, but that’s not due to a puffed-up estimation of myself, I assure you. I simply do not devote time to dwelling upon what others may think about me. I learned at a young age, and subsequently since, that to do so is to invite disappointment and
disenchantment—two foes that I do my best to keep at arm’s length.” Not customarily so transparent to people she didn’t know, Eleanor surprised herself at the length of her answer.

Fork poised midair, Hockley looked at her for a long moment, his features revealing neither satisfaction nor displeasure, and the hushed murmur of conversation in the restaurant inched upward in the silence.

“Dr. and Mrs. Cheatham mentioned your straightforward nature, Miss Braddock.”

Eleanor finished chewing, not knowing how to respond. Had he meant the statement as a compliment? She couldn’t tell. If Marcus had said the same words, she would have known by the look in his eyes. Or the wry tip of his mouth.

“I esteem frankness in a person,” he continued. “For I, too, am practical by nature and have only become more so with age.” He sipped his wine, unhurried. “Time has a way of narrowing one’s youthful expectations. You make choices along the way, and move on. But as you grow nearer the end of your journey than the beginning, opportunities lost suddenly become more pronounced. To look back over your life, to see what you have accomplished, and what you haven’t . . .” He paused. “Those are sobering observations, indeed.”

His words struck a chord inside her. Had she not experienced similar moments of reflection?

He lifted his wine glass as though to drink again, then apparently thought better of it. “As I told you in my letter, I am widowed. For almost five years now. My wife, Henrietta, was a good woman. Kind.” His brow creased. “Thrifty,” he said, nodding thoughtfully. “And clean. We were married for twelve years. I found the arrangement most amiable, and trust that she did as well.”

Taken aback by his none-too-intimate summary, Eleanor had to remind herself to nod. Thrifty?
Clean?
This was how he described the woman with whom he’d lived as his wife for twelve years? How would he choose to describe
her
someday, if they were to marry? Strong and sturdy, with good teeth, no doubt.

“I have grieved my wife’s passing. However . . . life rarely turns out the way we plan, Miss Braddock. Time moves on, as they say, and forces us to move with it.”

Listening, Eleanor glimpsed her own determined, sensible nature in the man. “My condolences, again, Mr. Hockley, on your loss. And—”

“Lawrence, please—seeing as we are dispensing with the usual formalities.”

“Thank you . . . Lawrence.” The name felt odd on her lips. “And I agree with your general outlook. In my experience, thinking about what might have been has never made it so.”

He dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “Well spoken . . . Eleanor.”

A server approached with warm yeasty rolls. Pats of sweet creamy butter shaped like rosettes clustered at the edge of the plate. Such artistry in how the food was presented. Exquisite.

“But
making it beautiful does nothing to actually enhance the flavor
of the food, Eleanor. It’s strictly
ästhetisch
.”

Recalling Marcus’s comment, Eleanor could well imagine how he would tease her about the
beauty
of this meal if he were here. And she half wished he were. Though Mr. Hockley—Lawrence—would likely object.

She stole a glance across the table and discovered him intent on buttering a roll, in similar fashion to how he’d eaten his dinner. Each food separately, and in specific order. No variation once the pattern was established. He didn’t slather butter on the entire piece of bread like she did, so it could melt down into the yeasty crevices. He sliced off a tiny portion of a rosette and carefully laid it atop the bread. Bite by bite.

Calling the man meticulous would have been an understatement. Lawrence Hockley made the hands of a clock look spontaneous. And yet . . .

Such attributes could be seen as a credit to a man of his profession. Surely, serving as president of the largest bank in Nashville demanded exacting attention. If a woman were to purposefully view such a man in a specific light, she might be persuaded to see these dependable, even predictable, idiosyncrasies as something to be valued. Perhaps even treasured, given time.

Another server approached, but Mr. Hockley kindly, firmly waved him away.

“You are a gracious and intelligent woman, Eleanor, precisely as your aunt described you.”

Aunt Adelicia had provided this man a description? That was something Eleanor would’ve liked to have been privy to.

“You seem quite a disciplined woman, as well,” he continued, “respected, and from an established family. One that is still well regarded, despite the challenge of your . . . current circumstances.”

His final two words, so succinct and
neat,
encompassed so much that wasn’t. Yet Eleanor heard no condemnation in his tone. Only frank pragmatism, which she understood.

He leaned forward. “I am not of a romantic nature. I never have been. Nor do I want to risk a misunderstanding between us in that
regard. I have no inclination that ours will be a marriage of the heart—at the outset, at least—should we decide to pursue that course.” He hesitated, then sighed. “I’m not even certain there is such a thing. A marriage of the heart, I mean. A man and woman make a decision to wed and then build a life from there. It’s hard work, both must sacrifice. It’s by no means always enjoyable. But I believe that any man and woman who come together with mutual respect and integrity have as good a chance at happiness as any. Would you not agree?”