Beauty So Rare, A (A Belmont Mansion Novel Book #2) (37 page)

She looked at the newspaper heading again, her gaze hovering on the word
wealthy
. She’d already deduced where the reporter had gotten his information, however inaccurate in parts. Yet her frustration at Mr. Stover’s gullibility was all but dispelled when she realized there was no potential renter. It had all been a ruse by the reporter to persuade him to talk.

Once Aunt Adelicia had read the article and realized the
establishment
wasn’t a restaurant, the tone of the conversation calmed to a degree, and Eleanor had explained everything to her and Dr. Cheatham. Starting with how she and Naomi had cleaned the building, to the night Caleb had brought the children for dinner, to the first night they’d served the widows and children.

But nothing she’d said thus far seemed to persuade her aunt. Dr. Cheatham—who she was fairly certain was on her side—had taken his leave a while ago, claiming another appointment. Eleanor envied him, wishing she could do the same.

“I have the utmost respect for what you’re attempting to do, Eleanor. But it’s simply not an appropriate choice for a woman of your distinction and upbringing. This has likely cost us both
dearly
. I hope you realize that.”

Lifting her gaze, Eleanor met her aunt’s steady stare, and—for better or worse—she spoke from the heart. “I have the utmost esteem for you, too, Aunt Adelicia. I value your opinions, your courage, your . . . steadfastness. I’m grateful for all you’ve done for me,
and
for my father. And I would never do anything to intentionally embarrass you or bring shame upon your family. But . . . I must ask you to consider that the life you have in mind for me might not be the life I’m intended to live. Nor . . . the life I want to live.”

“But, my dear . . .” Aunt Adelicia placed a hand over hers. “You must know that the likelihood of ever receiving an offer like the one from Mr. Hockley is narrow at best.
Not
because of anything you lack, but because there simply are so few men left. Much less men who have retained their wealth and who could offer you the stability you need.
And deserve. You must think of this practically, Eleanor.” She exhaled. “Decisions of the heart, I’ve learned at great cost, are best made with one’s head. If you can manage it.”

“And that’s precisely what I’m trying to do.” Eleanor searched her aunt’s gaze. “These women and children I feed have lost everything. Their husbands, their sons, their homes. The widow’s pension they receive from the government, those few who are entitled to it, is paltry compared to their needs.”

Her aunt started to speak, but Eleanor beat her to it, feeling a rogue surge of courage.

“I would think that you of all women, Aunt, would understand what I’m trying to do. When you believe something is right, you act on it. Regardless of what others may think.” Eleanor glanced at the newspaper. “I remember reading an article written about you not that long ago. . . .” She shook her head. “I don’t know if I would’ve had the courage to do what you did with the cotton in Louisiana—to face both armies like that—but I hope I would have.”

A flicker of understanding—or was it anger?—flashed in her aunt’s eyes.

Eleanor continued, “As for Mr. Hockley, I
do
owe him an explanation, I realize that. And I’ll offer that explanation when I see him next week for dinner. At which time . . . he is expecting my answer to his proposal.

“However, as you have stated so succinctly, that opportunity may be gone. If that’s the case, then . . .” Did she dare say this? But did she dare not? “While I realize the fault will be mine alone, I also believe that, given the circumstance, it says an awful lot about a man who would choose not to marry a woman simply because she’s helping others in this way.”

She took a deep breath. It had felt so good to say the words out loud, but now they seemed to hang in the air, suspended like tiny daggers waiting to fall. And seeing the inexplicable expression on her aunt’s face, Eleanor questioned whether that had been rogue courage she’d felt a moment earlier, or complete and utter stupidity.

A knock sounded on the front door, and Mrs. Routh’s stoic tones soon drifted in through the partially open door, along with a murmur of voices.

“Is there anything
else
you wish to say to me,” her aunt said softly. Too softly.

Eleanor swallowed, wishing Cordina would return with more coffee. But if she were Cordina, she wouldn’t come back either.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Cheatham.” Mrs. Routh stood in the entryway of the dining room. “Mrs. Holbrook and two of the other ladies from the Nashville Women’s League are here to see you, ma’am. They say it’s most urgent. I’ve installed them in the tête-à-tête room.”

Aunt Adelicia applied pressure to her temple. “Thank you . . . Mrs. Routh.”

Seeing her aunt peer through the front window, Eleanor did the same, and spotted a carriage pulling up to the front door—right beside two other carriages already there. She didn’t know what her aunt’s league friends were doing here on a morning when no event was planned.

She only knew it couldn’t be good.

 30 

E
leanor kneaded the dough with fierceness. Beneath her hands, the mixture of flour, yeast, water, and salt became smooth and supple and turned into a living thing. She blew a strand of hair from her eyes and continued the therapeutic rhythm—
push
,
fold
,
push
,
turn
—that was as familiar to her as breathing, and almost as vital. Especially in the aftermath of what happened at the mansion that morning.

The somber look Aunt Adelicia had given her—part disappointment, part consternation—prior to closing the door to the central parlor was one she wouldn’t soon forget. Despite not caring what most people thought about her, she did care what her aunt thought.

More than she’d realized.

She oiled the mound of dough, placed it in a bowl and covered it to rest, then dusted the worktable with flour and started kneading the next batch.

More than anything, she wanted to talk to Marcus. She’d looked for him at the bakery, the livery, then finally at the warehouse where he’d taken her the other day. She hadn’t found him, but had met Mr. Callahan, his foreman. Callahan seemed like a very nice man who thought quite highly of his employer, regardless of having no idea of his whereabouts.

It occurred to her then that—in a lovely yet lonely way—Marcus was her closest confidant. She shared a special relationship with Naomi, as she did with some of the other widows, but she didn’t feel comfortable sharing the specifics of this particular struggle with them. But with Marcus she could recount every single nuance, and he would listen without interruption or judgment.

But he was nowhere to be found.

She worked the batches of dough until her fingers and shoulders
ached, making more bread than usual due to the article in the newspaper. No telling how many women and children would show up tonight. She arched her back and stared out the window at the gray skies building in the west. Feeding so many people was becoming too much.

And though she hated to admit it, part of her was embarrassed to admit defeat—in front of her aunt, Marcus . . . and the entire town now. But mostly it pained her to let down the widows and children.

She enjoyed providing for them. She enjoyed the cooking, the nurturing. It filled a place within her she’d once thought could only be filled by becoming a mother, or—when that hadn’t happened—by starting a restaurant.

Funny how often something she’d been so certain she needed turned out not to be a need at all, but a want—when the real
need
was something else entirely. Something that could only be gained by giving, not by getting.

When Naomi arrived, they started on the potato soup and stewed apples, a favorite dinner among the gathering, and one of the easiest to stretch and least expensive—which was an ever-increasing necessity as her funds dwindled.

Naomi was quiet, and Eleanor wondered if she’d read the newspaper that morning, or had heard whispers on the streets.

Peeling her third potato, Eleanor felt its flesh give. She sliced into it, and grimaced. Rotten. Into the crate it went to be taken back to the mercantile. Men had figured out how to graft flowers and trees to make them stronger or various selected colors. But could they create a potato that didn’t have dry rot? She shook her head. Apparently not. She would have to speak to Marcus about that.

She still intended to ask Aunt Adelicia if she would be willing to help sponsor these meals. But their last conversation somehow hadn’t seemed like the best time to pose that question.

She stole a glance at Naomi across the growing pile of potato peels, unable to keep silent any longer. “Did you read the article?” she asked softly.

Naomi kept focused on her task, then slowly nodded. “The newspaper was wrong to print those words. They make it sound like what you do here is wrong, or . . . that you should be ashamed.” Naomi lifted her face, her eyes darkening. “
They
are the ones who should be ashamed. You are doing
good
, Miss Braddock.” A pained look crossed her face. “But I am sorry I did not know you were such an important lady.”

Eleanor laughed. “Oh, I’m not. Not at all. My
aunt
is the important lady. I’m merely Mrs. Adelicia Cheatham’s niece.”

Naomi paused from peeling. “Before this”—she gestured to the kitchen—“every night, women and children in my building went to bed hungry. Then woke up with bellies sore from lack of food. Now . . . three nights every week, they come here and eat your food. And not only that, they are fed in their spirits. They laugh, they share. We have all been reminded, Miss Braddock, that we are part of a larger family. And you . . .” Her eyes misted. “You have done this. And that makes you
very
important in their eyes. And in mine.”

Seeing the gratitude and trust in Naomi’s expression warmed Eleanor’s heart, while also compelling her to admit the truth—that she only had enough money left to cover a handful of meals, depending on how many people showed up. But . . . she couldn’t say the words.

Not only because she didn’t want to see the disappointment in her friend’s eyes, along with the fear of where the next meal would come from, but also because she couldn’t begin to imagine her life without these people, and all they offered her. Which was
far
more than she’d ever given to them.

Marta, Elena, and the other women arrived as scheduled, and with their assistance, dinner was soon ready. When the front door was opened, women and children started crowding in, and kept coming. And coming. Many of the faces were familiar to Eleanor, though some were not.

She visited with them, listening to their stories of how they’d “passed on the kindness” as she always asked them to do, while also trying to keep an eye on those still entering.

Finally, she raised her hand, the signal for conversation to quiet and for them to take a seat on the floor. Marcus had told her the tables and benches he’d promised were nearly finished, and while she was eager to put them to use, she hated for him and his men to have gone to so much trouble for the scant use the furniture would receive now.

“Welcome to everyone, I’m so grateful you’ve come and . . .” As she greeted everyone in English, pausing briefly to allow Naomi to translate, she peered past those seated and those few people crowded around the door, and—in a flash of panic—she saw a crowd still waiting to enter. In fact, the street outside was
full
of women and children.

“For those w-who . . . who have been . . .” Every thought left her head, save one. They didn’t have enough food.

Somehow she muddled through the welcome, aware of Naomi
watching her. Eleanor indicated for Mr. Stover to step forward and offer a blessing for the food and hoped he would pray as long as he usually did.

Meanwhile, she discreetly signaled Naomi to join her in the kitchen.

Once around the corner, Eleanor kept her voice low. “I counted more than seventy in the front room, and at least that many waiting outside. We don’t have enough food for that many people.” She exhaled. “And I’ve always told them no one would leave here hungry.”

Naomi glanced at the pots of soup. “Maybe there is something else we can put with the dinner?”

They both started searching the cabinets, but all their effort earned them was a ten-pound bag of dried beans and meager staples such as flour, cornmeal, and odd spices left in the kitchen between meal preparations. Nothing that would effectively bolster the supper.

“Well . . .” Eleanor reached for a pitcher of water, pained by what she had to do next, especially after working so hard to make the soup taste so good. “I’ll start watering down the pots.”

Naomi nodded, then held up a hand. “Oh!” she whispered. “What about this?” She grabbed the stack of metal bowls they’d laid out for serving and placed them on a back table. She reached for the metal cups by the pitchers of water. “What the eyes don’t see, the mind won’t tell the stomach to miss.”

It occurred to Eleanor what she was suggesting. “We’ll serve the soup in cups instead of bowls.”

“I have done this with Caleb before.” Naomi’s expression turned sheepish. “When food was scarce.”

“Did it work?”

She hesitated. “For a moment, your cup is full.” She smiled. “And that is a picture the mind does not soon forget.”

As they worked to make the changes, Eleanor was reminded of another time she had relied on the potency of suggestion in a dire circumstance. No matter how many years passed, she would always wonder what that soldier had wished he’d done for his Mary girl.

She reached for the bread knife. “We’ll do the same with the bread. That’s one thing we have plenty of.” She cut the thick slices down the middle. “Everyone will still get a whole piece, but we’ll stack it beside their cup. Oh!” She raced to the icebox, which was empty—except for a large crock of butter she’d been saving to portion out over the next few meals. She turned and held it up.

Naomi nodded. “We’ll put extra butter on each slice!”

“No,” Eleanor whispered, feeling almost wanton. “We’ll let everyone put their
own
butter on tonight!”

Naomi’s eyes widened. Then she covered her mouth and giggled like a schoolgirl. “Caleb will not believe it! He
loves
butter.”

“Who doesn’t!” Eleanor skirted around the table as the telling shuffle of feet and excited voices indicated that Mr. Stover had more than amply blessed the food.

Eleanor greeted the first few in line, knowing them by name since they’d been coming all along. Though they said nothing when they saw the soup being ladled into cups instead of bowls, something in their eyes caused Eleanor’s heart to wrench, and it was all she could do not to apologize.

She served the cups of soup with a smile. “And please help yourself to the butter tonight. It’s down on the end.”

When the first pot of soup was empty, Naomi brought the second of four, leaning close to whisper in Eleanor’s ear. “I told Marta to count how many are left.”

Eleanor nodded. “Very good. You might want to water down the remaining pots a little more.”

“We already have,” Naomi whispered.

Next in line came Little Magpie, the girl’s blue eyes wide and watchful, with her mother, Gretchen. Eleanor guessed Gretchen to be in her early to midtwenties. But the dark circles beneath the woman’s eyes and her stooped shoulders—helped along by the burdensome weight of her unborn child—gave her an older, more worn look.

“Good . . . evening, Miss Braddock,” Gretchen said with deliberate enunciation, her German accent heavy.

“Good evening, Gretchen. How are you feeling?” Eleanor ladled the soap into the first cup, then the second, noticing the mixture was already tepid due to the water they’d added.

“Big,” she said, barely smiling. “And . . .” She frowned as though searching for the word. “Needing . . . bed.”

“Weary,” Eleanor supplied, handing both cups to her while noticing how little Maggie’s eyes widened. The girl loved potato soup and had come back for seconds on earlier visits. But there would be no seconds tonight.

Maggie had yet to fully open up to Eleanor, but Eleanor was still working on her. She slipped the girl a wink, and Little Magpie smiled before catching herself and going cautious again.

Eleanor smiled. “How much longer until the baby comes, Gretchen?”

“Mmmm . . .
sechs
?”

“
Six
weeks? That’s not long. Be sure to let me know if there’s anything I can do for you or Maggie.”

“Thank . . . you, Miss Braddock.” Gretchen nodded and moved on down the line, gesturing for her daughter to get the bread.

But Maggie shook her head and pointed to one of the cups in her mother’s hand. “
Ich will die Tasse nehmen.
”

“Nein.”
Gretchen sighed and pointed again to the bread. “
Ich nehme die Tasse. Du
nimmst das Brot.
”

Eleanor served those next in line, watching Maggie’s frown escalate to a scowl at her mother’s comment. “
I’ll take the cup. You take
the bread,”
if Eleanor translated it correctly. Gretchen turned to go sit down, but Maggie grabbed at one of the cups. It was on the tip of Eleanor’s tongue to warn the young mother, but it was too late.