Beauty So Rare, A (A Belmont Mansion Novel Book #2) (53 page)

 44 

E
leanor usually considered the rhythmic ticking of a clock rather soothing. But right now, seated in the
tête
-
à
-
tête
room—waiting for Lawrence Hockley and Dr. Cheatham to finish their
discussion
about her dowry in the library—the constant back-and-forth, back-and-forth of the pendulum made her want to scream. And having Aunt Adelicia staring at her didn’t help.

She didn’t want to think about how much this wedding would cost her aunt. Not the ceremony,
per
se
, but the union. How much was Aunt Adelicia
paying
Lawrence Hockley
,
in effect, to marry her? And was there anything Eleanor could pay—or do—to change her mind?

“Are you certain you’re all right, Eleanor? You’ve seemed . . . tense recently.”

“I’m fine, Aunt. Thank you for asking.”

“The Christmas dinner at the home went well?”

“Very well . . . as I’ve said before.”
At least four times
.

Tick . . . tock.

Tick . . . tock.

Tick . . . tock.

“And the renovation, my dear. That is coming along well, too, I take it?”

“Yes, Aunt. Everything is moving along very nicely.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful to hear.”

Eleanor looked down at her fingers knotted in her lap, then thought of the portrait of Henrietta Hockley and quickly pressed her palms flat on the arms of the chair. Outside, the workmen constructing the billiard hall provided ambient noise, the ring of their hammers a cacophonous companion to the ticking clock—and to the pounding in her head.

The door opened, and Eleanor started to rise. Then she saw it was Mrs. Routh, not the men, and settled back.

The housekeeper stepped inside and closed the door behind her. “Mrs. Cheatham,” she whispered, then glanced at Eleanor. “Mr. Geoffrey is here, ma’am. For . . . Miss Braddock.”

Eleanor shot a look at her aunt, determined to keep her none the wiser about what had happened Christmas Day. She didn’t need Aunt Adelicia telling her “I told you so,” and certainly didn’t welcome her silent scolding. Or her pity, which would be even worse.

“Mrs. Routh,” she began, trying not to imagine Marcus standing on the other side of the wall, just feet away. “Please tell Mr. Geoffrey I’m not available for guests at this time.”

Mrs. Routh, usually a stickler for decorum, hesitated, and Eleanor felt her precariously stacked house of cards about to crumble.

“But . . . Miss Braddock, this is the third time he’s called on you in as many days.”

From her peripheral vision, Eleanor saw her aunt look her way and briefly closed her eyes. “Eleanor, my dear, what if it’s about the home? The renovation? You need to—”

“It’s not about the renovation, Aunt.”

“But how do you—”

“Because I
know
,” Eleanor said, turning to her.

Just as she’d predicted, understanding filtered into her aunt’s expression, followed by a look that made the words “I told you so” seem almost syrupy sweet.

But it was the nearly imperceptible shake of her aunt’s head that stung Eleanor most.

Mrs. Routh nodded and left the room, closing the door behind her.

The noise of the carpenters next door nearly drowned out the opening and closing of the front door, and Eleanor forced herself not to look toward the front window.

Then, counting the seconds, she waited . . . and waited for it to come. Though not for the
ticktock
of the clock this time.

“I see you have discovered I was correct,” Aunt Adelicia said softly.

Fifty-two seconds
. Eleanor nearly smiled. She’d wagered under a minute. “I would rather not discuss it. Please, Aunt Adelicia.”

“Wisdom always comes at—”

“A price. Yes, I know, Aunt. But please . . . suffice it to say I have paid the price in full this time, and”—she took a needed breath—“I am all the wiser for it.”

Swallowing back tears, Eleanor knew she could never explain the course of events to her aunt. It had taken her three days to sort out her
own feelings. Learning Marcus was engaged wasn’t what bothered her most. She hadn’t lost
her man
. He’d never been hers, in that way, to lose.

Although, she had to admit, it hadn’t felt good learning about his engagement in such a way.

It was more that she’d thought she’d known him. And that he’d known her. That they were friends. Good friends.
Dear
friends.

Archduke of the
House of Habsburg.
Part of her was still inclined to laugh, while the greater part couldn’t.

She and Naomi had agreed not to tell anyone what had happened. It was best for the sake of the renovation of the home if things continued as they had, at least until the project was completed. If word got out that Marcus was an archduke, it would create a spectacle and shift the focus from where it needed to remain—on helping the widows and children.

Naomi assured her that Caleb could keep a secret, and Eleanor had no reason to doubt that.

Eleanor again pictured herself standing before the baroness in that filthy apron, and her face heated with shame as she relived the scene. She’d felt so out of place and more than a little foolish. But what had wounded her most was that she’d felt so very, very common, and plain by comparison.

Not only to Marcus’s
fiancée
, but to
him
. In every way.

It had felt like looking at herself through the eyes of Dr. Adonis all over again. And she was certain she’d read the same—was it contempt?—in Marcus’s eyes.

The door opened, and this time it was Dr. Cheatham and Lawrence. Eleanor rose, feeling the knot within her twist a little tighter.

“We have finished our negotiations,” Lawrence announced. “And they are quite amiable for all involved. But especially . . . for me.” He laughed as if he’d told a joke, though no one else did. “The only detail you need trouble yourself with, Miss Braddock, is that I have decided we will formally announce our engagement in April, one month earlier than planned. All other necessities, you may rest assured, are under my control.”

As they walked around the corner to the front entrance hall, Eleanor caught the swift but severe look Aunt Adelicia gave Dr. Cheatham. But it was the raised eyebrow he directed back to her aunt that most earned Eleanor’s curiosity. Yet when it came to saying good-byes, the couple was all smiles and graciousness.

Eleanor accompanied Lawrence outside and down the steps, welcoming the cold and chill. As his carriage drove away, she pulled the
air into her lungs, then expelled it—in and out, in and out—until her lungs burned. Perhaps marrying someone you weren’t in love with wasn’t all bad. . . .

She thought of Naomi and Rebecca, and so many other widows who still mourned their men. Men they’d loved.
Still
loved, even in death.

Eleanor pulled her shawl closer about her shoulders. If the
loss
she felt over Marcus hurt—and it did—she couldn’t imagine the pain of losing a man you’d shared your heart, life, body, and soul with. Her breath puffed white about her face as she watched the carriage maneuver the final curve. Yes, maybe this arrangement was for the best, after all.

Turning to go back inside, movement down the hill, near the conservatory, drew her attention, and as soon as she looked, she knew she shouldn’t have.

Marcus. Standing there. Watching her.

She retraced her steps to the front porch, feeling his gaze on her back. She needed to talk to him, and would. Eventually. It would be easy enough, after their conversation, to limit their time together. She simply wouldn’t go to the home as frequently. She opened the front door and stepped inside.

Then come summer, the renovation would be done, Marcus would be gone, and she would be married. As would he, apparently. It was quite simple, really. Although, at the moment it felt anything but.

She turned to close the door behind her—
Do not look back at him
.
Do
not
look back
—and, head bowed, gave it a firm push.

The next evening brought gray skies and spitting snow, and Eleanor, along with Naomi and the others, hurried to put finishing touches on the corn chowder, stewed cinnamon apples, and corn bread.

After hosting the Christmas dinner in the new home, its gathering area so large and spacious, the front room in Mr. Stover’s building felt especially cramped. But it would do—it would
have
to—until May. As Marcus had said early on,
“children and construction do not mix.”

Marcus . . .
The more she determined not to think about him, the more she did.

Naomi set the crock of butter on the end of the serving table. “Have you spoken to him yet?” she whispered.

Eleanor shook her head. “He’s tried, but . . .” She shrugged, a little embarrassed.

It had been awkward enough explaining their
friendship
to Naomi that day in the dress shop, when she’d told her about Lawrence Hockley. Eleanor had sensed then, and still did, that Naomi knew her feelings for Marcus stretched beyond friendship. And knowing who Marcus really was made his friendship with someone like her seem even more unlikely. Almost like charity, in a sense, and she hated feeling that way.

Naomi looked as though she might say something else, but she didn’t.

Eleanor gave each of the seven pots of corn chowder a last stir and tasting, then added salt to them all. Earlier that morning, she’d
discreetly
borrowed a book about European history from Aunt Adelicia’s library. The House of Habsburg had a colorful, and tragic, past. As much as she tried to imagine the Marcus she knew coming from that lineage, she couldn’t. He seemed so different.

She returned her attention to the present and, noticing the crowd of people gathered outside, opened the doors. The snow was falling harder, and she and Naomi encouraged the women and children to come inside.

“Please fill up the benches first,” Eleanor instructed. Naomi repeated the instructions in German. “When those are full, please find seats on the floor. Those of you who can climb stairs, go on up to the second floor and have a seat in one of the empty rooms. You’ll be served dinner just like everyone else.
No one
will go away hungry.”

When Eleanor said the last phrase, she glanced over at Naomi to find her smiling. Prayerfully, their days of watering down soup to next to nothing were over.

To Eleanor’s delight, she looked up to see Belle Birch and her son, Elijah, walk through the doorway. She directed them to a table near the front window. With every face she met, Eleanor half expected to look up and see Marcus standing there, smiling like he always did. But he wasn’t there.

And neither was Mr. Stover, which was odd. He rarely missed a night.

Even filling the building to capacity, Eleanor knew there wouldn’t be enough room. At least four dozen women and children would have to wait outside while the first shift ate. The group was accustomed to this routine, but not in the freezing snow.