Beauty So Rare, A (A Belmont Mansion Novel Book #2) (38 page)

The tin cup clattered to the floor, spilling soup onto the dusty plank wood. Chatter in the room fell silent, all eyes turned, and Eleanor’s heart wrenched when she saw Maggie’s face crumple. Maggie dropped to her knees and began sopping up the soup with her bread. Gretchen, tears welling, gently pulled her daughter up by the arm, whispering in hushed tones as the little girl cried soft, hiccupping sobs.

Eleanor’s vision blurred as she swallowed back the knifing pain in her throat and continued to serve those waiting. Conversation in the room gradually edged up again. But not enough to cover Maggie’s quiet sobs from the corner.

By the time Eleanor said good night to Naomi and Caleb, it was a little past nine and she was long past exhausted.

Key in the lock, she paused and looked back at the darkened front room, then at the corner in which Maggie and Gretchen had sat. When mother and daughter had left, the little girl’s eyes had been puffy and swollen.

Everyone who had come tonight had been served a cup of soup, but only because—with Naomi’s discreet assistance—the last two pots of soup had been watered down.
Three
times. Eleanor had foregone eating anything, and saw Naomi drink only half of her cup before giving the rest of hers to Caleb. Every crumb of bread and speck of butter had been devoured.

For a long time to come, Eleanor would remember Maggie’s soft cries, and the pain etched in Gretchen’s face.

She inhaled, then let out a shaky breath, wiping away the tears she’d
fought so hard to keep inside earlier, and feeling almost blasphemous at the thoughts she was having.

She believed God saw every hurt, every tear, that He knew the intimate details of every life. Believing in His sovereignty and power wasn’t an issue for her. Not anymore. He’d proven that to her time and time again. What she couldn’t understand was how He could see those hurts, those tears, the excruciating pain of lives broken and torn apart—and yet chose not to act on their behalf. At least not the way she would have, if she were God.

Her chin shook, both from crying and from knowing that, even now, the Lord heard
every
accusing thought in her head. “I trust you,” she whispered, wishing she trusted Him more. “I just don’t understand you.”

As confident as she was that He had led her to this juncture in her life, she couldn’t fight reality. Unless Aunt Adelicia—or someone else—supported her in providing these meals, she was all but finished. Perhaps this idea had been doomed from the start, and in her exuberance, or maybe her pride, she simply hadn’t seen it. Until now.

“Focus only
upon what is before you. What you can see, Eleanor
. Not on what your imagination attempts to convince you is
there.”

Oh, Papa . . .
If only it were that easy.

If only her father were still with her. Oh, he was, in a sense. But so much of their relationship had been lost. And she feared it would never be regained. Would he have to live in the asylum for the rest of his life? That thought alone was daunting. But the financial cost it would demand was even more staggering. How could she possibly ever pay for it? She couldn’t.

That reality forced another decision to the forefront of her mind. A decision she needed to give to Lawrence Hockley. It was unsettling, realizing how much time she spent thinking about the decision she had to make regarding the man, rather than the man himself.

She’d been telling herself she was simply weighing all the variables, but her lack of eagerness to give him an answer wasn’t due to her not knowing her response. She knew her decision. In light of her alternatives, there was only
one answer
she could give Lawrence Hockley.

Her struggle lay in reconciling her heart to that answer, and that was especially hard since her heart felt reconciled to another man.

She closed the door and locked it behind her.

The street was dark and empty. A gusty wind carrying more winter than autumn knifed through her shawl.

With no reason to keep the building a secret any longer, she’d had Armstead drive her to the building earlier that day, and he’d promised to be back by nine. But . . .

She peered down the road, frowning. He was late. Which was odd, because Armstead was always so—

“Need a ride home, madam?”

She jumped at the familiar voice and turned. “Marcus!” She exhaled, heart thudding yet also pining a little at the sight of him. “You scared me.” She popped him in the chest like she used to do her brother, but the gesture felt far more intimate with Marcus. The faint flicker of a gas streetlamp illuminated his smile. “While I appreciate your offer,” she continued, wishing she could accept, especially seeing he was on horseback, “I’m waiting for Armstead.”

“Which creates a problem . . . since I met him as he was coming from Belmont and told him not to come.”

She stared, curious. “Why would you do that?”

“Because it’s been a while since I’ve seen you.” He gave a one-shouldered shrug that was distinctly male. “And I wanted to congratulate you on your debut in the
Republican Banner
.”

While the first part of his comment tempted her to smile, the second part didn’t. Especially after tonight. She briefly bowed her head. “Oh, Marcus, my conversation with my aunt did
not
go well. She and the family returned sometime during the night. And as soon as I left my bedroom this morning, she was there, in the dining room, and we—”

He put a finger to her lips. “I want to hear every single word, but after we’re on our way. I’m guessing you’ve had a very long day, Eleanor. And I . . .” He paused as though about to say something else, then pulled something from behind his back. “I’ve brought fortification.”

He unwrapped the paper, and she smelled them before she saw them.

Her eyes watered. “You got me doughnuts?”

“I did. This morning. I was on my way to see you then, but . . . the day got away from me.”

“And you didn’t eat them?”

He frowned. “I told you I got them for you.”

“Yes, but”—she laughed, hoping to offset a reprisal of tears—“saving doughnuts all day long isn’t for the faint of heart.”

“Neither is cooking for all these women and children.”

She sniffed. “True enough.”

“Which reminds me . . . We’re nearly finished with your tables and
benches. The men and I will bring them by first of next week. I think you’re going to be very pleased.”

Oh, this
man . . .
Eleanor was glad her face was partially shadowed. “I’m sure I will be,” she whispered. “Thank you, Marcus, for”—her voice caught—“doing that for me. And for them.”

He cocked his head and leaned down a little. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. And no . . .” She blew out a breath. “We had a
multitude
of people show up tonight, and we all but ran out of food. Then . . .” She thought of little Maggie again and knew if she said anything else she wouldn’t be able to hold her emotions in check. “I’m mostly just tired, I guess.”

“Well . . . let’s get you home, then.” He extended his arm. “Shall we?”

She accepted his help onto the horse and arranged her skirt over her legs as he eased into the saddle behind her. He reached around her for the reins—did she imagine his brief pause when their faces nearly touched?—and she found herself trying to memorize what being close to him felt like. The warmth from his body chased away her chill, not only outwardly but on the inside too. And as they made their way south of town—the cadence of the thoroughbred’s stride a lulling metronome inside her—she soon discovered the desperate
what if
s of moments earlier all but silenced.

What she wouldn’t give to have a man like Marcus—

No, not a man
like
Marcus, but to have
Marcus
care about her the way a man cared for a woman. Logic reminded her of the nature of their friendship, and she told herself she could be satisfied with that. That it would be enough. But her thoughts and emotions betrayed her reasoning and refused to toe the line.

And the lie.

Despite saying she was tired, Eleanor talked most of the way back to Belmont—between bites of doughnuts. Details of her day poured from her. Marcus listened, having his own questions he wanted to pose but willing to be patient. Especially when it meant he could listen to her voice—the rhythm of her sentences, the rise and fall of her tone—as she shared personal insights he sensed she wouldn’t tell just anyone.

Maybe not even Lawrence Hockley.

And the way the curves of her body fit against him—like Eve fashioned just for Adam in the garden—wasn’t too bothersome either. He smiled. Though the ride into town had been chilly—the wind kicking
up, bringing the cold with it—there was nothing chilly about him now. Quite the opposite.

If not for his pledge to Armstead to deliver Eleanor directly back to Belmont in keeping with “Mrs. Cheatham’s
firm
request,” he would’ve been tempted to keep riding.

But when the turnoff for Belmont came, he took it.

Nestled warm against him, Eleanor grew quiet, and a minute later, her head lulled forward before she snapped it back again. She took a deep breath and shifted positions, and Marcus gently tightened his arms about her waist.

He thought again about the book in his satchel, as he’d done throughout the day, and about how she had responded to his questions about her father in the past. She hadn’t lied to him. She’d simply . . . evaded the issue. A practice he was quite familiar with and couldn’t fault her for. Not without sentencing himself to the same guilty verdict.

Theodore had commented so negatively about his daughter that morning. Was Eleanor the type of daughter who would leave her father at an asylum and never return? Marcus had a hard time reconciling that behavior with the woman in his arms right now. Yet, the antagonism Theodore displayed had been unmistakable.

On the other hand, Theodore Garrison Braddock was hardly a man in his right mind—at least for some of the time.

Marcus guided the thoroughbred down the winding lane toward the mansion, weighing the possibilities. He and Eleanor
both
had their secrets, and he knew whose were worse.

They rounded the last curve leading by the conservatory, and moonlight fell across the road like a silver ribbon unfurling in the breeze. The chirrup of crickets abed in the brush blended with the soothing coo of mourning doves in the perfect lullaby. In fact—

“Eleanor?” he whispered.

Her head tucked beneath his chin, she didn’t answer. She didn’t move. Telling himself she would have allowed him this privilege if she were awake, and acting quickly before chivalry counseled otherwise, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead, the feel of her skin soft against his lips.

So soft, in fact, he chanced another. But when she stirred, he quickly straightened, the chaste kisses worth every bit of scolding she would dole out if she’d caught him.

She yawned, stretching. “Oh . . . I’m sorry, Marcus,” she whispered. “I fell asleep for a minute.”

He smiled. “No harm done.”
At least not much.

She took a deep breath, then exhaled.

He heard more weariness of heart than of body in the act, and gently squeezed her hand. “Are you certain you’re all right, Eleanor?”

She said nothing for a moment, then took his hand in hers. Her shoulders started shaking, and her quiet cries awakened a protectiveness within him to shield her. He reined in and touched her shoulder, encouraging her to look at him.

“What’s wrong?” he whispered.

She bowed her head. “Something happened tonight . . . with little Maggie.”

“Is . . . is she all right?” His mind raced, thinking of the sweet little girl.

“She was so hungry, Marcus. I could see it in her eyes.” She shook her head. “Then . . . she dropped her cup of soup. The whole thing.”

“Couldn’t you give her more?”

A soft strangled sound. “There wasn’t enough,” she whispered, voice weak. “She started sopping it up off the floor with her bread, and—”

He pulled her closer and kissed the crown of her head, telling himself the gesture was more casual than it felt to him. “I’m sure her mother will take care of her.” But even as he said it, he thought of the recently widowed young woman, well along in her pregnancy and overworked as it was—and he wondered. “You can make more food next time. You’ll be better prepared.”

She shook her head again. “You don’t understand.”

“I think I do. You had no way of knowing how many people would come tonight. Especially after that . . . silly article today. Next time, you’ll simply be—”

“I’m out of money, Marcus.” She looked up at him, her brown eyes glistening in the moonlight. “I only have enough for one, maybe two, more meals.”

Out of money?
He eyed her. “But . . . you’re Adelicia Acklen Cheatham’s niece. I thought you—”

“I know what you thought.” She sniffed. “The same thing everyone else thinks. But my personal finances are in ruin.” She blew out a breath. “So, contrary to what you read in the newspapers”—she gave a humorless laugh—“I am
not
the
wealthy
niece of Adelicia Cheatham. I am the all-but-destitute-if-not-for-her-Aunt-Adelicia niece.”

Marcus didn’t know what to say. He thought back to the few times he’d attended the dinners in recent weeks. He’d assumed she was
covering the expenses from the abundance of her wealth—not from more meager coffers.

“So . . . why did you do it?” he asked, the question out before he realized how revealing it was about himself. And though her expression conveyed no judgment, his own conscience declared him guilty.

“Because,” she said softly, “they were hungry.” She lifted a shoulder and let it fall. “I’d prayed about what steps to take next. I thought it was what the Lord was leading me to do. I was certain of it. And it’s funny—I still am certain, but . . .”

Hearing her sincerity, he nodded, while at the same time sincerely doubting the Almighty had been behind that orchestration. He’d seen too many people die of hunger to believe that. No, it was up to mankind—working with what God had created long ago—to provide an answer. To
be
the answer. It was this woman’s own loving heart that had been the motivation behind the dinners. He knew that full well.