Beauty So Rare, A (A Belmont Mansion Novel Book #2) (4 page)

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P
owerless to intervene, Eleanor watched as her father—though a foot taller than the men—proved no match for their combined strength. As they forced his arms behind his back and wrestled him into submission, her father’s angry screams, then his cries, tore at her heart. And her conscience.

Armstead climbed down from his perch atop the carriage and stood wide-eyed by the door, obviously uncertain what to do next.

Her hand still throbbing, Eleanor climbed out of the carriage, only to be met by Dr. Crawford.

“My apologies, Miss Braddock.” He lifted a hand in warning. “Under the circumstances, you won’t be able to accompany your father inside today.”

“But . . .” Eleanor glanced beyond him to see the men leading—almost dragging—her father up the front steps to the imposing double doors. Each step of the way, he fought them, calling out her name. She forced herself to look away and addressed the doctor. “You said I would be welcome anytime, Dr. Crawford.”

“And you will be,” he assured, glancing at a young woman standing behind him. “But your presence today”—he shook his head—“would only increase your father’s agitation. We’ll administer a mild sedative straightaway and—”

“A sedative?”

He nodded. “For his anxiousness.”

“Is that necessary? He usually calms down within a few moments.”

Dr. Crawford gave her a look, and she remembered the details she’d disclosed during her previous visit. She glanced away and saw Armstead had moved to check on the horses. “Sometimes it
does
take an hour,” she admitted softly. “Or more.”

“Miss Braddock . . .” Dr. Crawford’s voice held compassion. “It’s noble, what you’ve done . . . taking care of your father as you have. And yes,” he added quickly, “there are times when he seems almost normal, I know. But as you said yourself, those times are becoming less and less frequent.

“As I stated during our initial meeting, it is imperative that we immerse your father in a carefully controlled environment, one that minimizes confrontation and friction. From what you’ve told me and . . . frankly, from what I just observed, I believe it would be best for you both if you allow us to proceed as I’ve recommended.”

Eleanor looked from him to the imposing double doors, then back again, not at all inclined to agree, not really knowing what was best.

“If we are to help your father,” he continued, “
if
he is capable of being helped”—his pause felt like it went on forever—“then now is the time, Miss Braddock, before his memory loss advances further. And . . . it would be best if you would give us a few days before returning. I’ll send word as soon as he’s ready to see you.”

Everything within her fought the idea of leaving her father alone, and in such a frantic state, much less for days before she returned. But try as she might, she couldn’t think of a single argument to refute the doctor’s prescription. Her father blamed her for bringing him here and would be upset with her for who knew how long.

Following the incident where he’d lit an oil lamp, then proceeded to set the still-lit match atop a newspaper, she’d confiscated every matchstick in the house. And he hadn’t spoken to her for a week. And that had only been over matchsticks.

Finally she gave a small nod.

“Very good,” Dr. Crawford said, a touch of relief in his voice. “I assure you, Miss Braddock, this is the best course.”

Eleanor glanced back at the building. She’d thought it so stately and regal upon first view. Now it seemed sterile and lonely, almost foreboding. Not so much a place of healing as one of . . . confinement.

“Before you go, Miss Braddock . . .” The doctor gestured to the woman behind him. “Please allow me to present you to the nurse who will be caring for your father while he’s with us.” The nurse stepped forward, and Dr. Crawford continued the introductions. “Miss Smith is newly arrived to our fair city but comes with sterling credentials.”

The young woman’s demeanor could best be described as curious. But her eyes, blue as a robin’s egg, seemed kind and open. “It’s indeed a
great
honor to make your acquaintance, Miss Braddock.” Miss Smith
offered a poised and proper curtsy, her crisp British accent suiting her perfectly.

Eleanor lifted a brow, grateful for the generous greeting but more than a little surprised by it. “That’s very kind of you, Miss Smith. But the pleasure is mine.” She returned the curtsy. “Let me retrieve my father’s satchel. It’s on the seat inside the—”

“Oh no, ma’am!” Miss Smith practically lunged for the carriage door. “I’ll happily retrieve it for you.” She did just that and climbed back down, giving the carriage an overlong awe-filled look.

Only then did it occur to Eleanor. . . . Did the woman think
she
owned a carriage so fine? That she was so wealthy, so high and mighty? The thought was laughable, but Eleanor didn’t laugh. She gestured to the book in the side pocket of the satchel. “I marked where we left off reading in each of my father’s books. I read to him every night before he goes to bed. And sometimes during the afternoon. It calms him.”

“Then I shall do the very same, Miss Braddock.” With a parting curtsy, Miss Smith turned and disappeared inside the building.

Eleanor thought of the one book she hadn’t included in her father’s satchel. It was her book, but one they both loved and read from frequently. She would often quiz him about its contents, hoping the ritual would help sharpen his mind. She didn’t think he would miss the little volume but knew she would have if she’d left it with him.

She accepted Dr. Crawford’s assistance into the carriage, fighting the recurring sense of guilt.

“Miss Braddock . . .”

She looked back, surprised to find him smiling, something she couldn’t recall having seen him do before. The gesture erased years from his face. He seemed reluctant to release her hand.

“Once again, ma’am, please allow me to thank you for your trust. I assure you that I, along with my colleagues, will do everything we can for your father. So please”—he gave her hand a gentle squeeze—“try not to worry.”

With a doctorly, almost fatherly, nod, he relinquished his hold.

“Thank you, Doctor. While I can’t promise I won’t worry about my father, I can tell you that I trust your judgment. And I’ll do my best to think positively about the outcome of my father’s treatment.”

“Well spoken, Miss Braddock. Honest and straightforward too.” Dr. Crawford nodded and took a step back. “Much like your esteemed aunt, I dare say.”

Eleanor felt a twinge of annoyance at his parting comment, but the
hint of amusement in his eyes told her he’d intended it as a compliment. She managed a smile and sat back as Armstead climbed atop the carriage and gave the horses a command, but she couldn’t help reflecting on her years at the Nashville Female Academy and how that same comparison by professors had plagued her there.
“Your aunt also earned
exemplary marks in arithmetic, Miss Braddock, as well as French
and German, as have you. Your skills in recitation aren
’t quite on par with hers, but there’s time
. She was, however, exceptionally gifted.”

As Armstead maneuvered the carriage about the turnaround, Eleanor sighed and closed her eyes, pushing that memory away, and choosing instead to concentrate on gathering her scattered wits and mentally preparing for the next hurdle—her
esteemed
aunt
.

She hadn’t seen Adelicia Acklen—Cheatham now, she reminded herself, her aunt having remarried the previous year—since the fall of 1860. Before the war and all it had brought, and taken. Before Joseph, Aunt Adelicia’s second husband and Papa’s closest cousin, had died.

Eleanor glanced down, hoping again that what she was wearing—her finest ensemble, albeit in her
least
favorite color, pink—would be nice enough. She hadn’t purchased anything but day dresses since the war. She hadn’t needed to, until now.

Frowning at the gaudy brightness of the material, she recalled her exchange with the seamstress back home. . . .

“A woman such as yourself, Miss Braddock, needs to wear more color. It helps”—the older woman had fluttered her hands—“enhance one’s features. And dear, if I might say . . . you could do with a little enhancing.”

Mrs. Hodges . . . always honest. But that was all right. Eleanor was too. “While that may be, Mrs. Hodges, I’ve never been fond of pink. I much prefer sienna, or perhaps a rich brown. Those colors are far more practical. And suitable, considering so many of our friends and family are still in mourning clothes.”

“Yes, yes . . .” Mrs. Hodges heaved a sigh, her lips pinching. “We all lost someone in the war. Or several someones,” she said softly, looking away. “I’ve sewn enough black dresses to last me a lifetime, Miss Braddock. But it’s been
three years
, and part of moving on with our lives, and in our hearts”—she inhaled deeply—“lies in choosing how we dress. And as I’ve always said, the plainer-looking the woman, the more color she should—”

Eleanor held up a hand. “Sienna,
please
, Mrs. Hodges. Or a rich brown.”

Mrs. Hodges, a longtime family friend, simply stared, tight-lipped, then whispered something beneath her breath. Eleanor paid no mind at the time, but when she’d returned to the dressmaker’s days ago for the fitting of the skirt and jacket, she wished she had.

“I didn’t have enough of the sienna or brown, Miss Braddock. So I’m only charging you half the quoted price. And see now,” Mrs. Hodges had said, once Eleanor stepped from behind the dressing curtain, “doesn’t that look
pretty
! And it makes you look years younger, my dear. Just as I knew it would! Surely you’ll attract
some
man’s attention.”

The rumble of the carriage jostled Eleanor back to the moment, and she glanced again at her skirt and jacket. Feeling like strawberry icing splashed atop a cake, she knew she had a better chance of the carriage sprouting wings and
flying
the five miles back to town than she did of attracting a man’s interest.

But she had to admit . . . though she was still irritated over Mrs. Hodges’s intrusion, the discounted price had helped to compensate, given her precarious finances.

But what bothered her even more, at the moment, was that she was worrying over such a thing as clothing. How frivolous so many of the niceties had seemed in the years following the war.

And yet . . .

She needed her aunt’s assistance and, therefore, her approval—which, if past experience still held true, wouldn’t be easily garnered. How a person dressed mattered greatly to her aunt, so it mattered greatly to her too.
Today
.

Her jitters getting the best of her, Eleanor shifted on the seat as Armstead urged the horses to a faster clip down the drive. Her thoughts turned to the business proposal she’d devised that would surely win Aunt Adelicia over. The plan had
nothing
to do with the war, or death and dying. It would enable her and her father to live independently again, once he was well.

Thinking about the agreement she’d made with the building owner, she hoped her strong convictions hadn’t prompted her to make a costly misstep she would regret.

Eleanor leaned her head back on the cushioned velvet seat. So much had happened since she’d last seen her aunt. She felt like a different person on the inside. Yet outwardly . . .

She was still much the same. Plain and tall. No,
taller
.

And she expected Aunt Adelicia was still stunning, still incredibly wealthy, and still the ever-gracious hostess of Belmont, the most
exquisite estate in Tennessee—perhaps even in America, if a newspaper article Eleanor had recently read held true.

But one term the journalist had used to describe her aunt—American royalty
—
felt like too much.

She scoffed. She was grateful for her aunt’s kind generosity, but
royalty
? Hardly. But what if her aunt
had
become like one of those spoiled, puffed-up European dukes and duchesses she’d read about in
Harper’s Weekly
? The ones who considered themselves to be so much above and better than the rest of the common . . .
ordinary
people.