Beauty So Rare, A (A Belmont Mansion Novel Book #2) (32 page)

Eleanor nodded. “I understand, Mr. Mulholland, which is why I especially appreciate your willingness to work with me on the price.”

That earned her a begrudging smile. “Who knows, maybe what I save on apples will make up for the potatoes.”

She felt a touch of humor. “Perhaps.” His mention of apples reminded her of Marcus’s comment about his
Mutter
’s strudel. Though she’d never made a strudel before, she looked forward to the challenge.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re a lot like your aunt, Miss Braddock? From what I’ve heard, and from people who should know . . . she drives an awful hard bargain too.”

Eleanor smiled, rather surprised at how much she liked the comparison.

On her way to the post office, Eleanor recalled something Mr. Mulholland had said and slowed her steps. He’d said word travels fast. But . . .
how
fast?

She was losing her anonymity. People were starting to make the connection between her and Aunt Adelicia. Had Aunt Adelicia—though still out of town—gotten word about what she was doing? Surely not. At least Eleanor hoped that wasn’t the case.

She doubted her aunt would be pleased with her decision to sponsor the dinners, despite the woman’s philanthropic nature. In fact, remembering their conversation upon her first night at Belmont, and what Aunt Adelicia had said—
“No niece
of mine is going to serve as a
cook
. And
certainly not at some . . . common establishment in town”
—she felt certain her aunt would not approve. Like Marcus had said.

Thankfully, the family wasn’t due back until shortly before Thanksgiving. So she still had time to think of a way to present the idea to her aunt in a way she would accept it. If such a way existed.

At the post office, she gave the clerk a letter addressed to her father, along with three pennies for the stamp, then thanked him. She’d written her father every day for nearly a month now. Yet had received only that one oddly worded letter from him in response.

“Miss Braddock?”

Already at the door, her hand on the latch, Eleanor looked back.

The clerk walked around the counter, an envelope in his hand. No, two envelopes. And a small package in his other. “These came for you today. We were about to put them on the mail wagon. But since you’re here . . .”

She took them and, recognizing the handwriting on the top envelope, felt a flicker of hope. Then she saw the return address on the package and felt that boxed-in feeling again. “Thank you, sir. Very much.”

Outside, she found a bench beneath a tree and tore open the flap of the first envelope, leaving the others for later. Her gaze devoured the brief missive, cherishing every elongated curve and slanted loop of her father’s script.

Dear Eleanor,

I am well and hope you are the same. A visit from you in the future would be welcome. If you should choose to bring another savory custard, I pledge to accept it far more graciously than I did the last.

Most sincerely,
Theodore

A soft laugh escaped her. She could imagine the intonation of his voice as though he were standing here, speaking the words aloud. She could also hear Dr. Crawford’s—or perhaps Nurse Smith’s—gentle coaching as her father had put pen to paper.
In the future . . .
It wasn’t the warmest invitation. Yet, it
was
an invitation. What she’d been waiting for.

Theodore,
though. Why had he closed the letter with the name Theodore instead of his customary
Your loving
father
?

“Good news, I hope?”

Eleanor looked up, already recognizing the voice. But even if she hadn’t, and even with the sun in her eyes, the broad shoulders and commanding stance would have eliminated any need to guess.

“Yes, it is,” she answered, slipping the letter back into the envelope and both envelopes—the second from her aunt—into her reticule. She placed her reticule strategically atop the small package to mask Mr. Hockley’s name and address.

If Marcus remembered Aunt Adelicia’s mention of her dinner with Mr. Hockley, he had never let on. Nor had he asked her about it. She’d halfway expected he might—or maybe just hoped.

Marcus gestured. “May I?”

“Of course.” She scooted over on the bench.

“I was on my way to see you.” He settled beside her.

“You were?” Her tone revealed more delight at that prospect than was likely prudent.

He nodded. “I have something I’d like to show you.”

“And . . .” She glanced around. “Where is this something?”

He turned and looked at her, and whether it was his eyes—so blue, like pieces of glass with the sun behind—or the kindness in them that she’d somehow overlooked early on, she thought him the most handsome man she’d ever seen. Which made her think, again, oddly enough, of her dinner with Lawrence last night.

When he had walked her to the door of the mansion, and brought her hand to his lips in a good-night “kiss,” not the tiniest hint of attraction had stirred inside her. Though she had to admit she hadn’t felt the opposite either. Lawrence Hockley was far from repulsive, after all. He was a little older, yes, and certainly not the most charming man alive. But he was also refined, even dignified. Wealthy, to be sure. And kind. But . . .

He wasn’t Marcus Geoffrey.

“Walk with me,” Marcus whispered, and stood.

Giving her thoughts a mental shake, Eleanor steeled herself against emotions she knew better than to trust. She rose but checked the watch pinned to her jacket. “I need to get dinner started soon, so—”

“This won’t take long. And I promise”—he offered his arm—“it will be worth it.”

She tucked her hand inside and walked with him to a warehouse a few streets away.

He paused when they reached a side door. “Close your eyes.”

“I’m not fond of surprises, Marcus.”

“That’s fine. But you need to close your eyes anyway.”

She looked at him. “Are you going to surprise me?”

“Yes . . . I am.”

“But I just told you, I don’t like surprises.”

“Which is
why
”—he looked at her as though she were daft—“I just warned you about it. Now, close your eyes, Eleanor.”

Trying to hide her grin, and failing miserably, she did as he asked.

He took hold of her hand. “Follow my lead.”

Hand tucked in his—and loving the feel of him—she obeyed, her steps timid at first, then growing bolder after the first few. She heard hammering and sawing in the distance.

“There’s a step up here. But just one.”

She leaned into him, her grip tightening. “I hate surprises,” she whispered.

“If only you’d mentioned that before,” he whispered back. “Come along. We’re almost there.”

Finally, he stopped, so she did too, eyes still closed.

“All right . . . Open them.”

She did, and blinked. It took a second or two for her eyes to adjust to the dimmer light. Then she saw it. “Oh . . . Marcus . . .” She could scarcely believe it. She ran a hand over the top of the wooden table, then over one of the two benches. “These are wonderful.”

“We had some scrap lumber left from the project here. I drew up a design and asked a couple of my men if they’d be willing to help me.” His mouth tilted. “We started it over lunch yesterday, and finished it today. It’s nothing fancy. And we still need to sand it down and put some finishing touches on it. But it’s solid. And will handle those children, for certain.”

“And it’s a narrow table too, which I like. Very functional.”

He nodded. “My thought exactly. It allows enough room for two plates—or tins—right across from each other.” He motioned. “But since you serve the food in the kitchen, you don’t need all that extra room on the table. Besides, this size allows us to get more tables in the limited space. I estimate eight or nine could fit in there without overcrowding.”

Us.
Eleanor’s heart warmed. He’d said
us
. “It’s perfect, Marcus. Just perfect. I . . .” She laughed softly. “I don’t quite know what else to say, other than thank you!”

“You’re most welcome. But there
might
be another more . . . culinary way to express your gratitude.” He rubbed his jaw as though deep in thought. “If only I could think of something.”

Eleanor shook her head. “Truly? This is what it’s come to?”

His slow grin—part boy, mostly man—acted like hot cocoa on a winter day and threatened to thaw her steeled reserve.

“How about . . . a buttermilk pie?”

“How about . . . I give you, and each of the men who helped you, your very own buttermilk pie.”

“
Ja, danke.
” His expression proclaimed victory. And mischief. “
Wir beide haben einen Deal.
”

Knowing he was testing her, she didn’t flinch. “
Ja
,” she said, giving the word the accent she’d heard countless times from Naomi and
others. “
Wir haben einen sehr guten Deal
,
” she said more slowly than she would’ve liked.
We have a very good deal.

Pleasure lit his features.

Then something he’d said registered with her. “From your project here,” she repeated, taking in the structure, “is this where you’re working?”

He looked around. “Where we’re almost
finished
working. We have another week or so, then we’ll be done. The men are finishing a storage area in the back of the building.” He pointed in the direction of the muffled hammering. “We built a new office for the company’s foremen and replaced portions of the roof that were rotting. A common practice these days. Companies are short on capital, and it’s cheaper to—”

“Renovate than to build,” she finished, catching his inquisitive look. She gave a shrug. “I briefly considered—or dreamed, is more like it—of building a café when I was thinking about opening a restaurant. But I swiftly discovered it was cheaper to buy, or rent, something already established.” She looked beyond him to see a room constructed of fresh lumber in the far corner. Centered in one of the walls was a large window allowing full view of the warehouse. “Is that the new office?”

He trailed her gaze. “It is. Would you like to see it?”

She nodded and fell into step beside him.

“The warehouse is closed today, so there shouldn’t be anybody here.” He knocked on the door, then entered. He offered his hand as she managed the two steps.

Windows had been cut into the two outer walls allowing ample light into the office, which had a higher ceiling than customary. Work surfaces and cabinets gave the room a utilitarian, efficient feel. Perfect for its intended use.

Eleanor breathed in. “I’ve always loved the smell of freshly cut wood.”

He inhaled. “So have I.”

She ran a hand along the walls, not a warped or ill-fitting board among them. Same for the flooring. Winter’s cold wouldn’t dare show its face here. “Very nice work, Marcus.”

“Thank you, madam.” He gave a slight bow.

An architect’s table sat in the corner. “Is that yours?”

“Yes, I brought it over with me. It belonged to my maternal grandfather.”

“He was an architect?”

“A builder. And a good one. I learned a great deal from him.”

And she was learning a great deal more about this man. She sensed
his pride in his work, and with good reason. But she knew this wasn’t what he truly wanted to build. She hoped he would someday get the chance to construct the building he’d told her about—despite her having objected to the way he’d described it, and even her questioning his motivation behind building it. Anything Marcus Geoffrey would build was something she would like to see.

He checked his pocket watch. “Do you need help with dinner tonight?”

She eyed him. “
You
want to help me cook?”

He looked almost affronted. “I’ll have you know that I—” the flash in his eyes gave him away—“know absolutely nothing about cooking. But I can provide company and conversation while watching you.”

She grinned, thinking of nothing she would like more. “Herr Geoffrey . . .
Wir haben einen Deal.
”

A
fountain pen?

Lawrence Hockley had sent her a fountain pen? Seated in the small study later that evening, enjoying a cup of Cordina’s spiced tea, Eleanor opened the enclosed note.

Dear Eleanor,

In keeping with the custom of lavishing gifts upon one’s future intended, please accept the enclosed token of my gratitude for your kind attention and consideration of my offer.

Eleanor shook her head.
“. . . kind attention and
consideration of my offer.”
It sounded as though she was considering their becoming business partners instead of husband and wife. Merely thinking of making that commitment with him made her shiver. And not in a good way.

She continued reading. . . .

I sincerely beg your pardon but I must cancel our scheduled dinner for this Wednesday evening. Business in New York demands it. I return late Sunday and would appreciate your company for dinner on Monday evening, along with your decision.