Beauty So Rare, A (A Belmont Mansion Novel Book #2) (36 page)

The baroness was prone to exaggeration. Nonetheless, he’d written his father immediately and still awaited his reply. Daily he scanned the newspapers for word. But nothing.

He’d been just a boy at the time, but he remembered only too well his
country at war with the Ottomans, and the devastation that had wrought. A declaration of war would mandate his immediate return home.

Marcus mounted his horse. Regal seemed antsy, ready to run, just like him. So as soon as they cleared town, Marcus gave the horse his head, and the thoroughbred flew over the dusty back roads leading to the asylum.

The air held a chill, and the countryside, clinging to remnants of an all-too-swift fall, passed in a blur. If only he could feel this free on the inside—instead of shackled to a future he didn’t want that was taking him away from the woman he did.

Seeing the asylum in the distance, he reined in, his breath coming hard. He
wanted
Eleanor Braddock. He’d held back from fully admitting that, even to himself. But it was true. He thought of her constantly. When they were together, and when they weren’t. She was a friend, yes. Yet he wanted her to be so much more.

But apparently, so did Lawrence Hockley.

Marcus hadn’t inquired to Eleanor about her relationship with Mr. Hockley. And had no right to.
Friends
, he reminded himself. He and Eleanor were friends.

Winded but revitalized, he dismounted, studying the asylum garden from a distance. A freight wagon covered with a tarp sat off to the side, four delivery men waiting with it. He checked his pocket watch. They were early.

The statue Mrs. Cheatham had ordered was to be installed today, and he’d made it clear he wanted to be there when the workers unloaded it and set it on its foundation. He still had no idea what the statue was or who had carved it, only that Mrs. Cheatham said it was beyond exquisite and—

“Ahoy there!”

Marcus paused, looking around for the voice’s owner, thinking it might have been one of the delivery men calling to him. But none of them even looked in his direction. A handful of patients strolled the garden, but, again, their attention was focused elsewhere.

“
Pssst!
Take heed, friend, lest you be seen! They may be the enemy!”

Marcus followed the voice this time and spotted a wild tuft of white hair bobbing behind a laurel. And he didn’t have to wonder for long about the man it belonged to.

 29 

T
o the left about two inches.” His focus riveted, the elderly gentleman barked instructions to the delivery men as though the statue were from his own private collection. “Almost there. Careful now, careful . . .”

Silently, Marcus supervised from the side. He didn’t have the heart to step in and take over. Besides, the man was correct. The statue
did
need to come left about two inches.

The marble sculpture, still wrapped in blankets and bound with rope, was about his own height and measured thirty inches from side to side. A perfect fit for the foundation.

Nearby, a cluster of patients gathered, both men and women, their stares curious.

“Want us to unwrap it for you, Mr. Geoffrey?” one of the workers asked. “Before we leave?”

Marcus nodded. “Yes, that would be—”

“No.” The elderly gentleman held up a hand. “Your work here is done, sirs. You may go. We will have the unveiling shortly.”

Marcus smiled at the guarded looks the four men gave him, then gave his friend. “On second thought, gentlemen, we’ll handle that ourselves.” He counted out a few bills and handed them to the foreman. “Thank you. I’ll contact the gallery if there are any issues.”

As the wagon pulled away, Marcus retrieved the pocketknife from his pack and glanced beside him. “Are we ready now?”

The older man looked from him to the group gathered nearby, then back at the building. Marcus trailed his gaze and saw the windows full of eager faces, patients with childlike expressions, their hands pressed to the glass.

“All right.” The elderly man turned. “Now we’re ready.”

Marcus opened the pocketknife. “How about I cut the ropes and you remove the blankets?”

“Yes, that will work nicely.” The man leaned close. “They don’t like for me to have sharp things, Mr. Geoffrey,” he whispered, his tone secretive.

Marcus attempted to look surprised, as though that revelation were new to him. “Then you’re right, this works out nicely, Mr. . . .”

“Theodore.”

Marcus extended his hand. “Pleasure to formally meet you, Mr. Theodore.”

The man’s grip tightened. “No!” The muscles in his neck bulged. “It’s simply . . . Theodore.”

“Theodore, then,” Marcus swiftly corrected, recalling how the gentleman could become agitated. It felt odd to be calling a man so senior in years by his Christian name. But eager to retain the use of his right hand, Marcus complied.

“All right, then.” Theodore gestured, eyes bright once more. “Enough of this. Let’s get to it.” In a blink, his mood had altered. “The people are waiting.”

Cautious but also a little bemused, Marcus slit the ropes and pulled them clear, careful to leave the blankets in place. Then, with the flourish of a museum curator, Theodore stepped up, gripped the blankets, and pulled.

A chorus of soft gasps sounded from behind, accompanied by muted applause and rhythmic taps on windowpanes.

Marcus’s gaze moved over the marble sculpture. He was certain he’d never seen it before. But what Mrs. Cheatham said about it was true. The sculpture was exquisite.

“Are you familiar with the piece?” Theodore said beside him.

Marcus looked over, hearing a touch of sanity in his friend’s voice that, oddly enough, he found disturbing. “No, sir.” He frowned. “Are you?”

Theodore gave a pitying scoff. “It’s
The Prodigal Son
,” he said quietly. “The work of Joseph Mozier, based on the parable in the New Testament.” He squinted. “Sculpted in . . . eighteen fifty-seven, I believe. I may be off by a year, but I don’t think so.”

Marcus stared, which in turn earned him a surprisingly droll look from Theodore, one similar to what Eleanor gave him on occasion.

“I may be in an asylum, Mr. Geoffrey, but as I told you before, I’m not lame in the head.”

Marcus smiled this time. He couldn’t help it. And Theodore did too.

Recalling something, Marcus reached into his shirt pocket. “Here. For you.”

Theodore studied the sugar stick before accepting it. “You remembered,” he whispered.

“Of course . . . I’ve been enjoying them nearly every day at work.”

Theodore stuck the candy in his mouth, swirling it between his lips, then turned abruptly and walked to an arbor swing. The same swing Marcus had seen him in that first day.

Marcus followed and sat beside him, noticing a book on the seat between them. Theodore picked it up and held the book close, as though fearing Marcus might take it. The cover was worn and the pages frayed, signs of a book well loved.

Marcus settled back and let the older man set the pace, enjoying the gliding motion.

“And what is it you do when you aren’t here, Mr. Geoffrey?”

“You can call me Marcus, sir, if you’d like.”

Theodore shook his head. “I prefer Mr. Geoffrey.”

“Fair enough.” Marcus pulled a second sugar stick from his pocket, growing accustomed to the man’s frankness. “I’m an architect. I build things.”

Theodore slowed from his swinging. “I assumed you were a gardener.”

Marcus laughed. “You’re not the first, sir.”

Several of the patients stood around the statue, their expressions revealing the same appreciation, even awe, Marcus felt as he took it in. The two figures chiseled from marble looked so lifelike, he half expected to see the rise and fall of their chests as they breathed.

He knew the parable. A wayward son demanding his inheritance and leaving home, only to return a beggar, broken and penniless, without birthright or honor, without any expectation of acceptance. And yet . . .

When the father sees him, from a long way off, he runs to him.
Runs
to his dishonored son.

Marcus lowered his gaze and studied the sugar stick in his hand.
“We will never speak of
this again, Marcus.”
His father’s voice was clear in his memory.
“No one can ever know the dishonor
your brother has brought to this family. No one in
this family will ever speak his name again.
You
will
take your brother’s place in succession to the throne.
You
will restore the honor and trust my eldest son
betrayed.”

Marcus lifted his head and stared into the sightless eyes of the
prodigal’s father, then at the upturned face of the son who had been lost, and yet was found, upon returning home.

Home
 . . .

He swallowed. If he returned home, what would he find? The man he wanted to be? He would have a life there, certainly, but not one he desired. But if he stayed here, if he defied his father and uncle, defied the House of Habsburg and the very throne of Austria . . .

A quick intake of breath drew his attention, and he looked beside him. To his surprise, he found Theodore’s eyes awash in tears.

“Are you all right, sir?” he asked softly.

Theodore nodded, his white beard trembling. “I wish my son were here. But . . . he’s gone away. And”—he swallowed—“he won’t be coming back. My daughter . . .” His voice hardened. “She’s made certain of that.”

Not knowing whether the man spoke from a right mind or from an imagination twisted by some unseen, diseased hand, Marcus was nevertheless moved. “I’m sorry, Theodore. I know you must miss him.” Yet he also knew the disgrace that accompanied being in an asylum.

According to Dr. Crawford, some people—perhaps like Theodore’s daughter—admitted their family member to the institution and never returned. And though it shamed him, Marcus could understand, at least in part. Hadn’t he shared a similar opinion? Before coming to this place. Before meeting Theodore.

“I enjoy our visits, Mr. Geoffrey.”

“So do I, Theodore.”

A bell clanged, and the patients began to make their way toward a side door. Marcus rose, and Theodore rose with him, book clutched to his chest.

Theodore took a few steps, then paused, his back to Marcus. “Will you come again?” So soft was his voice, Marcus barely made out the words.

“Yes, sir. If you’d like for me to.”

Theodore turned back. “Next time we’ll read a book, and discuss it. Germans do like to read, don’t they?”

Marcus laughed. “Very much, sir. In fact, the next time I come, I’ll bring you one of my books.” Marcus knew exactly which one he’d choose. “A book I believe you’ll enjoy.”

Theodore smiled. “Very good, then.” Yet he didn’t move. He just stood there, gripping the book.

The bell clanged again, the woman at the door looking their way.

Marcus studied him. “Is something wrong, Theodore?”

He shook his head and frowned, then with a determined stride, walked back and held out the book. “You
will
come again.”

It was a question, cloaked in a statement, wrapped in a plea, and Marcus felt as though he were looking at a boy instead of a man. He accepted the book. “Yes, Theodore, I
will
. I promise.”

Theodore nodded, eyes misty. “Then, I’ll see you soon . . . Marcus. And we’ll speak together again.”

Marcus waited until the side door closed, just in case Theodore turned to wave, but he didn’t.

He strode to the tree where he’d tethered his horse, the enormity of the man’s trust sinking in. It was just a book. But it also wasn’t. It represented so much more. Regal snorted and pawed the ground at his approach, and Marcus gave the thoroughbred’s neck a good rub.

If the front of the book had once borne a title, that day was long past. Marcus lifted the cover and it opened right to the title page. He stared, unable to believe it.

The Collected Works of
Lord Alfred Tennyson.
He couldn’t resist . . .

He thumbed the pages until he found the familiar poem, the one he and his grandfather had reenacted so many times. “The Charge of the Light Brigade.” To his delight, that section was especially well worn. Something slipped from between the pages and fluttered to the ground. He picked it up. An old cigar band. Very old from the look of it.

Marcus opened the book again to return the marker to its place when writing on the inside cover snagged his attention. A name. Which he read. Then read again. It couldn’t be . . .

He looked back at the asylum, then back at the name, remembering the day he’d seen Eleanor out here. And while everything in him told him it was impossible, the name staring back at him—Garrison Theodore Braddock—told him it was not.

“Giving to those less fortunate is one thing, Eleanor. That’s a very right and noble thing to do. But
working
in a kitchen, cooking for them, is another.” Color had returned to Aunt Adelicia’s face in the past hour, and reserve to her demeanor. But a tension still hovered in the dining room. “Have you given any thought at all about how this . . .
incident
will likely affect your future with Mr. Hockley?”

Eleanor fingered the rim of the china cup. “First, I never intended
for it to be an incident, Aunt. I had planned to speak to him about it, but—”

“But that opportunity is now gone. Just as others may well be.”

The gravity of her aunt’s expression conveyed how important this potential union was to her. Eleanor searched for the words to help her understand why she’d done what she’d done, growing more aware by the minute of how dependent she was upon her aunt’s charity.