Beauty So Rare, A (A Belmont Mansion Novel Book #2) (5 page)

Eleanor shook her head. Heaven forbid. . . .

As the carriage bounced along the long, narrow drive, Eleanor stared at the empty bench opposite her and could almost hear guilt’s silent scolding. How long had it been since she’d left her father for any length of time, much less in the manner she just had? A part of her still couldn’t believe she’d done it.

Almost without thinking, she slipped a hand into her skirt pocket and pulled out the handkerchief, the one she’d carried all these years. The material was silky soft between her thumb and forefinger, its familiarity—and history—an inexplicable comfort.

She traced a finger over the embroidered flowers now faded with time and from repeated washings. Despite her best attempts at the outset to remove the bloodstain, a ghost of it remained. She’d tried to find her. The soldier’s
Mary girl.

For two years after the war, she had searched. But her efforts had been like trying to drain the ocean one thimble at a time. Everywhere she looked another wave rose in an endless sea of widows and fatherless children awash in grief. Why she’d ever thought she would find the woman, she couldn’t imagine.

No, that wasn’t true. She knew from where her hope had issued.

At one time, she’d thought it had been God’s design for her to find the woman, to tell her that her husband hadn’t died alone, that he’d loved her to the end. Then to tell her what he’d said, and maybe learn what he’d meant. But what a silly, romantic notion that had proven to be.

There was wisdom in knowing when to let go of a dream, and even more, in knowing when it had let go of you.

It was strange, maybe even wrong in a way—Eleanor wasn’t sure—but she still carried within her a seed of the love that had poured from the soldier’s lips before he died. It lived inside her, its heart still beating. Faintly at times. More steadily at others.

But it wasn’t a comforting thing. Quite the contrary. It made her
grateful she’d never had opportunity to give her heart to a man. She was one of the fortunate ones, she’d concluded. She’d been spared the grief of loving and losing. After speaking to widow after widow, hearing their all-too-familiar and heart-wrenching stories, she’d decided that, contrary to Tennyson’s requiem—a favorite of her father’s to quote—it
was
truly better to have never loved at all.

As the carriage neared the main road, she leaned closer to the window for a breath of fresh air and spotted the sign at the entrance.
Tennessee Asylum for the Insane
. She flinched. The letters were carved so grandly into a slab of native limestone, the rock edifice upon which it rested, so proud looking. The irony wasn’t lost on her. Neither was the fact that the wisest, wittiest, kindest, and most
practical
man she’d ever known was now at home within the asylum’s walls.

A sinking feeling started somewhere around the center of her chest, threatening to pull her under. She sat up straighter, reminding herself of what she’d told Dr. Crawford about determining to think positively about the outcome of her father’s treatment.

Hoping for any sign at all, she looked out the window and searched the branches, hoping to see the cardinal again.

But the leafless branches were empty.

Marcus met the man’s timid stare with challenge, sensing he was hiding something. No doubt, at the instruction of the employee’s superior, the illustrious mayor of Nashville, Augustus E. Adler—a man Marcus was loath to depend upon, much less give answer to someday.

Mr. Barrett, the mayor’s nervous little assistant, leaned forward, his hands tightly knotted atop the secretary’s desk—a Napoleon-style replica, and a poor one at that. “If you’ll allow me to explain, H-Herr . . . Geoffrey.”

Barrett stumbled over the title, his Southern way of speech stretching the word into two oddly paired syllables instead of one, and Marcus’s already-tried patience further thinned. Whenever certain people—like Mr. Barrett—heard the “European” in his voice, as they called it, it seemed to bring out their “Southern German.”

“Mr. Geoffrey will suffice, Mr. Barrett,” Marcus said, his tone managing a hint of cordial. “Please continue.”

“Oh . . . thank you,
Mr.
Geoffrey. That is most generous of you, sir.”

The pounding at the back of Marcus’s head ratcheted up another notch at the man’s gushing smile.

“May I say, Mr. Geoffrey”—again, that smile—“your English is superb. I wonder, sir, how you manage to speak our language with such a—”

“Mr. Barrett . . .” Marcus leaned forward in his chair and, at the same time, heard the inaudible echo of a warning he’d received often in his childhood—
“The
English language isn’t spoken
with the same guttural force of our language, Your Excellency
. Your manner could be . . . misconstrued, if you do. Now, again
, please. And this time, with a measure of gentility.”
Marcus breathed in, then out. “All I require from you, Mr. Barrett, is that you tell me whether or not Mayor Adler has reached a decision on this project. Last week he gave his word—to me and the other three contractors—that he would decide by today.”

For a few seconds, Barrett’s mouth moved but no words came. “I . . . I can explain, sir.” His face flushed. “It
was
the mayor’s intent to award the contract for the project today. But, unfortunately . . .” Barrett took a breath, as though desperately needing one. “Mayor Adler is still reviewing the various designs, including”—he winced—“a
fifth
bid that was submitted to his office at the last moment.”

“A fifth bid?” Marcus frowned, and even from four feet away, he heard Barrett swallow. “Submitted by whom?”

“A . . . local company, sir.”

Marcus leveled his gaze, the throb in his head kicking to a steady thrum. If this man only knew to whom he was speaking. “And does this
local company
possess a name, Mr. Barrett?”

“It does, I’m sure.” Barrett looked anywhere but across the desk. “But I’m not privy to that information, sir. I give you my word, Mr. Geoffrey.”

The silence lengthened, and Marcus let it.

He hadn’t trusted Mayor Adler since he’d caught the man in a barefaced lie on their first meeting. He’d called him on it and had been paying the price ever since. Adler had made it clear he “didn’t much care for Europeans.” Which Marcus found humorous, given the origin of most of America’s citizens.

Marcus glanced at the side door leading to the mayor’s office, wondering if Adler truly was out of town. He was tempted to barge in and prove the statement false—or true—but taking such action would bring him no closer to building the finest opera house that Nashville, or possibly all of America, had ever seen. Nor would it bring him closer to making a name for himself—a name that didn’t rest on a family dynasty, or his father’s or uncle’s accomplishments, but rather on his own hard work and ingenuity. He could never have achieved
that in Europe. But with time and circumstance working against him as they were, it was appearing less and less likely he would achieve success in Nashville either.

A knock on the door drew their attention, and a woman entered.

“Mr. Barrett, I have tea for you,” she said, a coyness in her tone. The diminutive brunette shot Marcus a look that lingered. Then she glanced at Barrett and quickly added, “For both of you.”

“Thank you, Miss Thornton.” Barrett gestured, seeming somewhat relieved by the interruption.

The young woman set the tea service on the desk corner closest to Marcus and poured slowly. Too slowly in Marcus’s estimation. But her continued stare in his direction let him know that swiftness wasn’t her intention.

She was petite. And pretty. And most of all, she knew it.

He doubted—with his having inherited his parents’ tall stature—whether the young woman would reach him midchest, even standing on tiptoe. She was fragile and delicate-looking, much like the fine china she held out to him. And much too much like Baroness Maria Elizabeth Albrecht von Haas.

His mood darkened at the accompanying memory of the baroness and their . . . relationship, if one could call it that, and at the fate awaiting him upon his return to Austria. Extending an empire through marriage had been a long-standing Habsburg family tradition, and he could already hear his uncle redrawing the boundary lines.

Marcus lifted the cup and drank, wishing it were something much stronger than tea—even stout coffee would do.

From a young age, he’d grown accustomed to this kind of attention from women. At first, it had fascinated him, the way they flocked to him. And with little to no effort on his part. As he grew older, that fascination turned into an amusement, even a sport. “The challenge of the quest,” as one of his friends used to say.

But after what happened with Rutger—

Marcus saw his brother’s face so clearly in his mind, and he swallowed hard, strong-arming emotions to keep them at bay. The way he’d lived his life before
the
incident
seemed almost foreign to him now. Yet he couldn’t forget. And God help him—if God was still listening, if God gave second chances to men like him. . . .

Keeping his gaze to himself, he did nothing to encourage the attention of the young woman beside him.

Finally she crossed to the door and closed it quietly behind her.

“I feel certain,” Barrett continued, “that the mayor will announce his decision no later than this time next week.”

“I wish I shared your certainty, Mr. Barrett.”

Marcus returned his empty cup to the tray and stood, frustrated with the mayor’s delay and eager to be on his way. “When is Mayor Adler scheduled to return?”

“Monday at the latest, sir.” A flicker of relief sparked Barrett’s expression as he gained his feet. “I’ll tell him you stopped by the moment he disembarks the train. And I’ll relay your inquiry regarding the status of your company’s bid as well.”

Marcus crossed to the door. “If you’d also be so kind as to inform the mayor that I, along with the other three firms who placed bids on time and in proper order, will be expecting confirmation that this . . .
anonymous
fifth bidder did the same.”

Barrett blinked. “Yes, sir, of course. I’ll relay that request to Mayor Adler as well. And may I say with utmost sincerity, Mr. Geoffrey, the mayor would want me to assure you that his office desires to be of assistance in any—”

“Good day to you, Mr. Barrett.”

Marcus closed the office door behind him, not caring to hear Barrett’s parting insincerities.

Minutes later, as he passed the post office on his way out to Belmont, he wished again that his colleague from Boston, Luther Burbank, would mail the package as promised. He didn’t think Burbank was holding out on him.

But given the subject of their collaboration, there was always that possibility.

“Is you sure you want me to drop you off
here
, Miss Braddock? Long way up to the main house, ma’am. And most of it be uphill.”

“Yes, I’m certain, Armstead. Thank you.”

Eleanor accepted his assistance from the carriage. Having already checked her watch, she knew she was early, despite the tour of the city and countryside Armstead had given her. She’d intended to stay at the asylum to help her father get settled, but since those plans hadn’t come to fruition . . . “Mrs. Cheatham isn’t expecting me for a while yet. And after all the riding today, I welcome the chance to walk.”

She wasn’t about to arrive so early for an appointment with her
aunt, especially her first in years. She knew how important punctuality was to Adelicia Acklen Cheatham, even if Armstead wasn’t aware. Although, seeing Armstead’s thoughtful look, she got the inkling he might fully understand.

“Walkin’, it’s good for a body,” he said, a smile lingering in the depths of his voice.

On a playful whim, she glanced from side to side as though worried someone might overhear. “Though I haven’t been here in years, I haven’t been gone so long that I’ve forgotten my aunt’s
high
regard for punctuality. I no more want to arrive an hour early at Belmont than I would a minute late.”

“Yes, ma’am.” A knowing grin creased his face. “The Lady likes ever’thing runnin’ on time. That’s for sure. She got her schedule, and we best keep to it.”