Beauty So Rare, A (A Belmont Mansion Novel Book #2) (46 page)

Marcus followed, somewhat familiar with the layout of the building from his meetings with Dr. Crawford. He trailed the gentleman’s path up the stairwell and down a hallway, the sound of their footfalls hollow on the tile and the scent of antiseptic heavy in the air.

Something about that smell had always put his senses on alert. The reminder of its purpose, perhaps—to prevent decay, to oppose the natural order of things. Just as fall, with its beauty, had brought brilliant color to trees and shrubs otherwise mutely green, it had also thieved the vibrancy of summer. Death, decay, was part of life. He’d been introduced to that truth as a young boy, then had learned it anew as a grown man.

But it hadn’t made it any easier to accept.

He checked his pocket watch. A little after nine thirty. He had less than an hour for his visit. The board of the women’s league convened at eleven to hear Eleanor’s decision. He was invited, of course, and wouldn’t miss it. He’d sent the financial reports to Belmont via courier Tuesday morning, as Eleanor had requested.

Lying awake last night, waiting for sleep to come, he’d replayed the scene in his mind from the garden Saturday afternoon. She was marrying Lawrence Hockley. She’d confirmed it. So why was it still so hard for him to accept?

In thinking about the upcoming meeting, he’d tried to calculate the odds of her choosing the old courthouse versus his design. Without question, the majority of the women’s league wanted the new construction, including Adelicia. And Eleanor knew how much a new construction project meant to him. Yet Marcus also knew she wasn’t a woman easily swayed by sentiment. Something he’d admired about her from the outset. Now, however, that attribute might not play in his favor.

The orderly paused. “This is Mr. Braddock’s room, Mr. Geoffrey. Have you . . . visited with him recently, sir?”

“A little over a week ago. I meant to return earlier, but with work and other responsibilities . . .”

“I understand, sir. But you need to be aware that the disease is progressing rather rapidly.”

He stared. “The disease.”

“That’s impacting his memory.”

Marcus nodded, the news of failing memory not coming as a shock. But the term
rapidly
gave him pause, especially as he thought of Eleanor. “I see.”

“He’s having increasing difficulty remembering people, sir. And even when he does remember, it can trigger an emotional and sometimes violent reaction.”

Marcus recalled the times Theodore had grown frustrated with him. He’d seen firsthand how the man’s mood could alter without warning. “I understand and will tread carefully.”

Hand on the latch, Marcus couldn’t deny he was a little nervous, wondering if his visit would help or harm. And also wondering what Eleanor would think if she knew he was visiting her father. But a promise was a promise. . . .

He pushed open the door and saw her father standing by the window, one hand pressed flat against the glass pane.

“Theodore?” Marcus said quietly, finding it difficult to use the man’s given name now that he knew who he was
.

Mr. Braddock didn’t turn. Didn’t move. Simply stared out the window as though in a trance.

Mindful of the orderly’s warning and remembering the strength of the man’s grip, Marcus chanced a step closer. “Theodore . . . I’m returning your book.”

Still nothing.

Finally, Marcus cleared his throat and spoke in full voice. “Excuse me, sir, but I’m returning your copy of Tennyson.”

As though the spell had been broken, Mr. Braddock slowly turned, blinked. His gaze went first to the books Marcus held, then to Marcus himself.

Mr. Braddock’s countenance crumpled with emotion. “I knew you would come,” he whispered. “She thinks you stole my book, I can tell. But I knew you didn’t.” His face split into a grin. “Because I know you.” In three long strides, he brooked the distance between them and gripped Marcus by the hand. “How are you, Marcus!”

So much for lapses in the man’s memory. “I’m well, sir. And how are you?”

Mr. Braddock frowned. “What is this
sir
business? We are friends, you and I. Are we not?”

“Of course we are . . . Theodore.”

“Come, come . . .” Mr. Braddock motioned. “Sit and let us speak to one another.”

The older man reached for his book, and Marcus surrendered it.

Mr. Braddock held the volume tenderly, then pressed it to his chest, closing his eyes. “Welcome home, my dear, old friend.” In a quick turn, his eyes popped open. “Did you read it?”

Smiling, Marcus held out one of the other two books he’d brought. “I have that exact volume in my collection. I know many of the poems by heart.”

Mr. Braddock’s eyes lit with challenge. “ ‘Come, my friends,’ ” he said in a deeply resonant voice. “ ‘’Tis not too late to seek a newer world. . . .’ ”

Marcus leaned forward in his chair. “ ‘Push off, and sitting well in order,
smite
the sounding furrows, for my purpose holds . . . ’ ”

“ ‘To sail beyond the sunset’ ”—Mr. Braddock jumped in, his expression softening, as did his voice—“ ‘and the baths of all the western stars . . . until I die,’ ” he finished in a whisper.

Marcus applauded. “Well done, Theodore.”

The man took a mock bow from his chair. “Now you take a turn!”

Marcus didn’t have to think long. “ ‘Half a league, half a league, half a league onward . . .’”

“Mmmm . . .” Mr. Braddock’s eyes glistened. “ ‘All in the valley of Death rode the six hundred. Forward, the Light Brigade!’ ” his rich baritone boomed.

“ ‘Was there a man dismayed?’ ” Marcus quoted, seeing his grandfather’s face even as he watched Mr. Braddock.

“ ‘Not though the soldier knew someone had blundered.’ ” Mr. Braddock raised a forefinger in feigned warning. “ ‘Theirs not to make reply . . .’”

“ ‘Theirs not to reason why,’ ” Marcus said.

“ ‘Theirs but to do . . . and die.’ ”

“ ‘Into the valley of Death rode the six hundred,’ ” they finished in unison.

Mr. Braddock clapped, his laughter full and deep. “Oh, how I miss that. My son, Teddy, and I used to read verse together.” Eyebrows shooting up, he glanced toward the door. “He was here just a while earlier. You might have seen him on his way out?”

Marcus stared, then shook his head.

“Ah, well . . . perhaps next time.”

Marcus listened as the man spoke about his son, remembering only too well Eleanor telling him that her brother—her
only
brother—had died in the war.

“He’s such a good boy, Marcus. A fine young man. Kind, generous. I couldn’t ask for a better son.”

“I’m certain, Theodore, that your son . . . feels the same about you.”

Marcus’s thoughts turned to his father’s recent letter, and he wished he hadn’t relayed to the baroness what he was doing in Nashville. Because she’d gone directly to his father. Marcus had read the letter several times. Especially his father’s closing paragraph. Words that, he knew, were intended as
royal
counsel. When in reality, each was a knife gouging a lifetime’s old wound.

In closing, your absence has served the crown well, Gerhard. The unfortunate incident of last summer has been all but erased from the people’s minds. But take heed . . . You must be done with the foolishness about which the baroness informed me. Your mother, God rest her soul, indulged your childhood fantasies. As did her father. And they did so
to your detriment. Upon your return, you will wed, then assume your new commission with the royal army. I am yet determined to see you become the son I still believe you can be.

Never once in his letters had his father said that he missed him. But truthfully, it had been a long, long time since Marcus had
missed
his father. It was hard to miss someone who constantly reminded you that you weren’t what they wanted you to be.

And when he compared his father’s comments—
and
their relationship—to the praise, so heartfelt and tender, from Mr. Braddock for his deceased son, he was cut to the quick.

Sadness shadowed Mr. Braddock’s slow-coming smile. “I only wish Teddy came to visit more often than he does. But . . . that
woman
is to blame. I know she is.” His pleasant countenance faded. “She tells him not to come. Keeps him away from me. She’s selfish that way.”

“That woman?” Marcus asked gently, aware of the man’s change in mood.

“The tall one. The one that put me in here.” Mr. Braddock leaned closer, his gaze conspiratorial. “She comes sometimes,” he whispered. “Creates trouble. Tries to take me outside when it’s not time, takes my things when she thinks I’m not looking. She thinks you stole my book, you know. But don’t you worry, no one here thinks you did. I’ve told them about her.” He gave an assuring look. “They know the truth.”

Marcus nodded, not so much in agreement as to avoid a potential conflict. It didn’t take any guessing to know who Mr. Braddock was referring to. What he couldn’t reconcile was the woman he knew with the woman the older man described.

A knock sounded on the door, and a nurse entered, tray in hand. “Good morning, Theodore. I’ve got your medication.” She paused. “Mr. Geoffrey! How nice to see you again, sir.”

Marcus rose from his chair, not remembering having met the woman. “Good morning, madam.”

She smiled. “My apologies, Mr. Geoffrey, for assuming an acquaintance. We haven’t been introduced before, sir. I’m Nurse Smith. But I—along with everyone else here—am so grateful for the work you and your men did on the garden. It’s making such a difference in the lives of the patients. And the employees.”

“It was our pleasure, madam. But we merely designed and installed it. It was Mrs. Adelicia Cheatham who commissioned it.” He gestured
to Mr. Braddock. “And I couldn’t have done it without my faithful friend here. Theodore assisted me in installing the statue.”

“It’s quite true.” Mr. Braddock nodded. “I did.”

Nurse Smith grinned. “Well, I’m grateful to you both, then.” She set the tray on a table. “Now, Theodore, it’s almost time for lunch, which means you need to take your next medications.”

Lunch?
Marcus pulled out his pocket watch.
Five after eleven?
The meeting! It had already started.

He took hold of Mr. Braddock’s hand. “Theodore, I have thoroughly enjoyed our time together. But I’m sorry . . . I must take my leave. I’m late for an appointment.”

“You have to go?” The man’s face fell. “Now?”

“I do.” Marcus knelt beside Mr. Braddock’s chair. “But I
will
be back. I promise.”

Mr. Braddock looked at him as though weighing whether to believe him or not. Then finally, he nodded. “I know you will.” He held up the book. “Because you keep your promises.”

“Yes, I do. Speaking of which . . .” He held out the third book he’d brought, one he’d ordered through the mercantile, his own copy being in German. “It’s a favorite of mine. And a gift for you, if you’d like to read it.”

Mr. Braddock took the book, gently lifted the cover, and drew in a breath. “ ‘Nor, what may count itself as blest . . . the heart that never plighted troth. But stagnates in the weeds of sloth, nor any want-begotten rest.’ ” He looked at Marcus, hopeful.

Feeling the seconds tick past, Marcus smiled. “ ‘I hold it true, whate’er befall. I
feel
it, when I sorrow most.’ ” The next verse in the stanza had gained new meaning in recent weeks—painfully so—even as her face came clearly in his mind. “ ‘’Tis better to have loved and lost . . . than never to have loved at all.’ ”

Mr. Braddock’s eyes filled. “Truer words never penned,” he whispered. “But oh . . . how cruel when made to live out day by day.”

Marcus reached over and gripped his hand. “Until next time . . . Mr. Braddock.”

The older man’s smile trembled. “Until next time . . . my young friend.”

Faithful to the thoroughbred heritage pumping through the horse’s veins, Regal thundered over the dusty roads to town, and Marcus gave
the animal its head. The horse’s hooves seemed to barely graze the earth as the miles disappeared behind them.

Upon reaching the outskirts of town, Marcus slowed the horse to a canter, then reined in sharply in front of the league building, sending rocks and pebbles flying.

Breath coming heavy, Marcus checked the time. Almost a quarter ’til twelve. He grimaced. He’d wanted to hear the announcement himself, instead of being told.

He reached the door and heard a flurry of conversation coming from the other side. The meeting was already over. Sighing, he knocked twice for the sake of politeness, then walked in.

The first face he saw from across the room was Mrs. Bennett’s, and judging by her teary countenance, he knew which choice Eleanor had made.

 37 

S
he had chosen to build. Marcus felt a weight lift from his shoulders that he hadn’t even known was there. Time slowed to a crawl as he looked about the room.

Although he regretted Mrs. Bennett’s disappointment and understood her and her husband’s attachment to the old courthouse, he couldn’t deny his own sense of exhilaration. It was finally happening. A building constructed with the goal of blending nature and architectural design.
His
design. Something accomplished on his own. Without the Habsburg name or influence.

His father and uncle would scoff. Such petty nonsense to them. Because why would the man second in line to the throne of the Hungarian-Austrian Empire want to embark on such an inconsequential undertaking? But it wasn’t inconsequential. Not to him. Not to Eleanor. And certainly not to the women and children she was helping.

They
were helping.

Several of the league board members glanced in Marcus’s direction, then quickly averted their gazes. Understandable, considering the circumstances. Now wasn’t the time to celebrate. They were hurting for their friend.

Eleanor, apparently not having seen him yet, approached Mrs. Bennett and whispered something to her. The woman bowed her head and nodded.

As the pair embraced, Marcus made his way toward them, nodding to some of the other ladies. He wanted to express his gratitude to Mrs. Bennett and her husband for the land, to assure her he would build something worthy of their generosity. He even planned on salvaging what stair rails and mantels were serviceable and then incorporating them into the new building in honor of the woman’s late father-in-law.

He didn’t like to think about his life after leaving America. Just like he didn’t want to think about Eleanor being with Lawrence Hockley—or any other man, for that matter. Yet she
would
marry. As would he. But in the time he had remaining in Nashville, he planned to do everything he could to build the best widows’ and children’s home for her that he could. And with a kitchen beyond the woman’s wildest imagination, which was well within his power.

Eleanor patted the woman’s shoulder, then looked up. Her gaze connected with his. Her expression was joyful, and Marcus responded in kind. Then—in a blink—her smile fell away. Her hands, formerly at her sides, were now knotted at her waist. And in the swing of a pendulum, the mood in the room shifted. Or more rightly, came into clearer focus for him. And he realized . . .

The women weren’t seeking to console Mrs. Bennett. They were celebrating with her.

Eleanor closed the drawing room door behind her, knowing she was responsible for Marcus’s disappointment. Yet also knowing there was nothing she could do to change it.

Marcus stood before the cold, unlit hearth, his back to her.

A single oil lamp illuminated the room, the shadows in the corners in no danger of being overtaken. Muffled conversation and laughter from the women outside in the hallway drifted into the room, forming a dissonant backdrop for this conversation. But this was the only place Eleanor could find where they could speak privately.

“Marcus, I want you to know that I—”

“You made your decision, Eleanor. And I respect that.”

He turned, that confident expression she knew so well back in place. But for a moment, outside, she’d seen what constructing the new building had truly meant to him. She’d thought she understood. But she hadn’t. How much more difficult would her decision have been if she had.

“My crews are ready to begin immediately. So tomorrow morning we’ll start early, and—”

“Marcus,” she said softly. “Please, can we talk about this?”

“Certainly, if you’d like. But . . . what else is there to talk about?”

His voice—though even-toned and friendly—didn’t sound like him.

“Well, for instance, all the reasons I outlined at the meeting earlier
supporting my decision to renovate instead of build. A meeting I
thought
you were planning to attend.”

“I was. But . . . I was delayed.”

“We waited for ten minutes before we finally commenced.”

He looked at her. “I’m sorry, Eleanor. As I said . . . I was delayed.”

She heard a definite abruptness in his tone, so moved on. “Would you like to know my reasons for renovating?”

“Honestly?”

He smiled but it wasn’t the easy gesture she was accustomed to. Still, she nodded.

“No. I wouldn’t. Because right now, in this moment, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is the decision you made.”

The glimmer of hurt and disappointment she’d seen before returned, and he looked away.

“Would it help, Marcus, to know I believe, with all my heart, that this is the decision God was leading me to make?”

His smile was disarmingly handsome, yet without a trace of humor in it. “Actually, no,” he said quietly. “That’s the one thing you could say to me now that would make this choice even more difficult to accept.”