Beauty So Rare, A (A Belmont Mansion Novel Book #2) (6 page)

Eleanor smiled, feeling an unexpected kinship with the man, especially considering what he’d witnessed earlier today. “I’ll explore the conservatory for a while, then make my way on to the house.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And, Armstead . . .”

He turned back.

“Thank you for understanding about what happened with my father. And for your . . . discretion.”

He nodded, taking his time to answer. “We all got our roads to walk, ma’am. Ain’t none of ’em pretty all the time.”

“No, they’re not.”

He tipped his hat to leave, then hesitated again. “How ’bout I wait ’til you come up to the house ’fore I tote your luggage in. Make it all proper like.”

“That would be much appreciated, Armstead.” She smiled in gratitude.

As the carriage pulled away, Eleanor let her focus wander the vast grounds and gardens of the estate, until it finally came to rest on the mansion atop the hill.

The afternoon sun bathed the enormous Italianate-style villa in a warm glow, giving it a ruddy pinkish hue from this distance. Her aunt had appropriately named it Belmont,
Belle Monte
in French.
Beautiful mountain
 . . .

Moving her gaze downhill, Eleanor studied the lavish formal gardens in front of the mansion. The gardens were circular in formation—the largest of the three situated nearest the home, its counterparts descending downhill, diminishing in size.

Marble statuary spaced at random intervals—sometimes beside a cast-iron gazebo, other times set apart—stood like silent sentinels watchful over their domain. Flowers bordered endless beds, the fading summer palette of crimsons and saffrons, purples and pinks clinging to their petals—the pink looking far better on them than it did on her.

She scanned the rows of shrubbery, looking for a certain plant, one they’d had in their garden back home. But it was nowhere to be seen. Its flowers, being more common in appearance, were probably not elegant enough for Belmont, but she enjoyed their fragrance.

In the distance, to the west of the mansion, lay an empty plot of ground where she would’ve sworn another building had stood years earlier. An art gallery, if she remembered correctly. But for whatever reason, it was gone now.

On the east side of the mansion, a new building was being erected—the brick building twice as long as it was wide, and every bit as stunning as the rest of Belmont.

The estate was more impressive than she remembered.

Feeling very small—and out of place—she sighed and turned to look behind her. The glass-walled conservatory, complete with domed cupola, that housed Aunt Adelicia’s prized collections of flowers and trees, shrubs and herbs, appeared to be at least twice the size of the family home Eleanor had recently sold. There was no telling the variety of plants contained within, or their cost.

She followed the walkway leading to the main door of the conservatory but, before entering, paused and lifted her gaze to the nearby water tower.

The brick structure, well over one hundred feet tall, she estimated, reached skyward to the ethereal blue. Her focus trailed to the top, where a windmill turned in the breeze.

As beautiful as Belmont was, she hoped her stay would be brief.

Thinking of the proposal she had for her aunt—the acceptance of which would enable her to make a way, however humble a one, for herself and her father—spawned a thread of anxiousness that worked a stranglehold around her confidence. An odd emotion, since ordinarily she wasn’t easily intimidated.

But there was nothing
ordinary
about Adelicia Acklen Cheatham. Or about Belmont.

When visiting in the past, Eleanor had never felt at home. But considering the surroundings, who would? The place was like make-believe—at least in comparison to the world in which she lived.

She opened the door to the conservatory, and a warm
whoosh
of air greeted her. Not surprising in view of the glass ceiling and a full September sun overhead. Within seconds, the heady scent of roses enveloped her and—unprepared for what she saw—she let the door close behind her with a soft thud.

Roses
. Pots and pots of roses. Table after table, row after row. Some of them quite tall, obstructing her view to the next aisle, and blossoms in every shade imaginable—from deepest crimson to snowiest white, from golden yellow to palest pink. Some varieties, lower growing and shrubby, huddled together like friendly neighbors over a fence. While others seemed to raise lofty heads in unabashed pride, as if believing themselves more regal.

Hundreds of blooms, perhaps thousands, filled this section of the conservatory. Surely this collection rivaled the very storehouses of heaven.

And yet . . . while she appreciated nature and enjoyed the outdoors, and had even helped her father tend a vegetable garden years earlier, she’d never cared much for flowers. They were beautiful, to be sure, but also frivolous and extravagant. What use had they other than to just look pretty?

She breathed the perfumed air. As much as she hated to admit it, however, the scent was nothing less than enchanting.

Reaching the end of the first aisle, she turned the corner to start down the next when she heard voices and stilled. She cocked her head to listen, but . . . nothing.

Certain she’d heard something, she took a step back and looked down the aisle from whence she’d come.

But again . . . no one.

She made a quick tour of the remaining rose collection, finally skipping the last two aisles, and moved through an open doorway into another section of the greenhouse. This section was filled with tropical plants, but a small grouping of plants in a corner, on a table all their own, immediately caught her attention.

They were some of the ugliest plants she’d ever seen.

Of the cacti family, if her guess was correct, they were tubular and gangly, without a single bloom. She saw a card tacked to the side of the table and leaned down.
Selenicereus
grandiflorus.

Her limited study of Latin combined with her almost nonexistent use of the language since leaving school enabled her to easily pronounce the words, but that was all. She had no idea of their translation, or of the plant’s common name.

She did, however, remember her Latin professor. Quite well.

Dr. Carlton Adessa.

Oh, how the girls in school had fawned over him. They’d called him Dr. Adonis behind his back, after the mortal god of beauty in Greek mythology. It still seemed unfair that a man could be so . . . beautiful. Dark-eyed and swarthy, with an air of confidence that both preceded him and followed in his wake. Everything about the man had been attractive. At first.

With painful clarity, she remembered the day Dr. Adessa had passed her in the hallway. She’d just returned from a windy walk and stopped at a mirror to fix her hair. He smiled as he approached, and she nervously wondered if he would remember her name, since she’d earned the highest mark on the last exam.

Eagerly shoving wayward strands of hair into place, she managed a smile. And as he passed, he said, “One cannot make a silk purse from a sow’s ear, Miss Braddock. Hurry now, class is beginning.”

Eleanor exhaled a humorless laugh at the memory, and recalled how his attractiveness had changed in her eyes. And how the incident had framed how she saw herself too.

Growing up, she’d been called strong, sturdy, even handsome on one occasion. But
pretty
was a word that had never been used to describe her. Taken individually, her features weren’t completely without merit. Her eyes were a deeper brown than most. Her blond hair was long but thin, so she braided it into a bun at the base of her neck. Her nose was probably her best feature—similar to that of the
Venus de Milo
, she’d been told.

Of course, she was nearly as tall as the statue of Venus, which more than offset whatever positive there was in the comparison.

She sighed. She hadn’t possessed the courage to offer Dr. Adessa a swift rebuttal back then. As a young woman, she’d been far too eager to please others, to earn affirmation. But somewhere through the years, that had changed. Perhaps because she’d finally learned how impossible a goal it was to earn everyone’s approval, especially when the world’s criteria for judging stood so widely separate from her own.

She turned her attention back to the cacti and considered the reasons her aunt would have such plants in her collection.

Knowing better but unable to resist, she gently touched a spine on the cactus, then drew her hand back, frowning. It was sharper than she’d imagined. Bringing the tip of her forefinger to her mouth, she soothed the sting, her admiration for the plant edging up a notch.
What it lacked in beauty, it made up for in strength, and in its ability to protect itself.

She checked the time again. There was still plenty of time before she was due at the house, so she turned her attention to the tropical plants. Trees that would take many men to move, if they could be moved, stood directly beneath the cupola. As she continued, she passed a cast-iron fountain topped with an equally cast-iron cobra coiled and ready to strike.

A doorway to her left with stairs leading down intrigued her. But it was dark, so she continued on. While the prospect of exploring underground was appealing, the possibility of appearing before Aunt Adelicia with six inches of mud on her hem was not.

Gazing ahead, she glimpsed yet another room and sighed, shaking her head. The conservatory went on
forever
, much like the mansion did, as she remembered. Such lavishness . . .

By comparison, she pictured her father’s former vegetable garden. He’d found such enjoyment and relaxation in tending that small patch of land. She fingered the waxy leaf of a shrub, contemplating. Perhaps the asylum would let him plant some tomato and squash plants. And maybe green beans. He loved those.

She checked the watch hooked to her bodice. A few minutes, and she would need to make her way up to the mansion.

Catching the hint of a familiar scent, she paused. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, and was carried back to warm summer nights as a little girl, when her bedroom window was open and the heady perfume of lilacs enveloped her room—and her dreams.

A simpler time. One she missed.

When she opened her eyes, the memory faded. Left in its place was a loneliness, keen and sharp-edged, and not at all unfamiliar. Whenever she thought about her father, about what his future—
their
future—might hold, she questioned if this sense of being adrift, orphaned, in a sense, would ever leave.

Knowing what her father would say if he were there, she instinctively straightened, squaring her shoulders. “Be practical,” she whispered. “Sensible. Focus on what is before you, Eleanor. Not on what your imagination attempts to convince you is there.”

Working like a talisman, the spoken words helped to push the emptiness away. Not banished forever, she knew, but cordoned off . . . for now.

She turned to leave, but her focus fell on a doorway—or more rightly, on something through the doorway.

She stepped closer, listening for movement beyond the threshold, and then knocked. The glass door squeaked open an inch or two more.

“Hello?” Her voice sounded overloud in the silence, her gaze fixed on what appeared to be a surgeon’s scalpel on the edge of the table.

She waited. . . .

No answer.

Concerned, but mostly curious, she nudged the door open farther and stepped inside. And quickly wondered whether Aunt Adelicia’s gardeners were practicing horticulture . . . or medicine.

Plants that appeared to be . . . bandaged, their roots wrapped in gauzy strips, lined a series of tables on the far wall. Pots of dirt sat behind them, as though someone had left recently and would return soon. Likewise, rows of corked glass bottles, each filled with liquid and labeled in Latin, stood shoulder to shoulder on shelves. Shiny scalpels, even syringes, lay neatly arranged on a cloth.

She frowned. What kind of
gardener
needed all of—

“I asked you to moisten the root base
if
it was required, not
drown
them!”

Eleanor nearly jumped out of her skin at the voice. Turning, she glimpsed two men striding down the aisle toward her. Her first instinct was to hide. But where? She wasn’t about to hide in this . . . infirmary. And if she crossed directly in front of them, they would see her.

“The plants will be fine, Mr. Geoffrey, I’m certain. I did as I thought best. After all, I am the head—”

The taller man, still several yards away, stopped abruptly and turned, his back to her. “I know who you are, Mr. Gray. And I’m well aware of your position here.” He blew out a breath.

Feeling like a naughty child in danger of being caught, Eleanor did her best to blend in with the greenery, wishing she’d worn anything but pink. She didn’t dare move lest the rustle of her skirts give her away.

“Next time,” the taller man continued, a foreign accent giving the words an even harsher edge, “do as I instruct, not as you think best. And try it without the bottle. That will help.” The man uttered something unintelligible. “Never mind. There won’t be a next time. I don’t want you touching any of the plants in the—”

The man facing her suddenly raised his hand. And with a shudder Eleanor realized he was looking directly at her.

 4 

T
he taller man turned to fully face her and cocked his head as though trying to remember whether they’d met before, which, of course, they hadn’t. As if time were bending back upon itself—cruelly so—Eleanor felt herself standing again in the hallway of the Nashville Female Academy, with “Dr. Adonis” staring down.

Only, this man made her former professor look like a pudgy second cousin, twice removed. To say he was handsome was like saying that . . .

She blinked, not meaning to stare but staring all the same. Try as she might, she couldn’t think of a comparison that would do him justice. But one thing she swiftly gathered—not only from the way he spoke to Mr. Gray, but from the way he looked down at her—was that he and Dr. Adessa had been cut from the same arrogant cloth.

His gaze briefly moved past her to the open door and then returned, possession in his glance. “May we be of assistance to you, madam?”

His tone, so formal, so measured, answered her question about whose workroom she was standing in, as well as confirming her impression of him. His accent—German, she thought—accounted for his aloof manner, at least in part. They weren’t a people known for their warmth and vivacity.

“Yes . . .” Eleanor nodded, hoping her features didn’t reveal her thoughts. “I would greatly appreciate that, sir. Thank you.” She included the other man with an acknowledging glance. “I need to exit the conservatory, and this door”—she gestured behind her, pleased at how confident she sounded—“obviously did not meet that need.”

The man’s blue eyes narrowed the slightest bit. The scarcest hint of a smile showed on his mouth. He clearly knew she’d been snooping. “My apologies, madam, that your . . . needs failed to be met in a
manner so inconvenient to you. The door you seek would be one of
seven
along the north wall.” He gestured, his gaze never leaving hers.

This time, without question, underlying amusement and insinuation colored his tone. If she hadn’t been guilty as silently charged, she might have been offended. But as it was, she—

“Oh, for the love of . . .” With a huffing laugh, the second man threw the first a dismissive glance and maneuvered around him, smiling, his own demeanor a marked contrast. “Henry Gray at your service, ma’am,” he said, his congeniality making up for the other’s lack. “Head gardener here at the Belmont estate. And you must be Miss Braddock.”

Eleanor hesitated. “Why . . . yes, that is correct, sir. But how did you—”

“Mrs. Cheatham informed us that a favorite niece would be arriving today, which means we’re all to be on our best behavior.”

Mr. Gray stood a little straighter and gave his jacket lapels a smart tug. “May I welcome you to Belmont, Miss Braddock. And please . . .” He cast a look over his shoulder. “You must forgive our Mr. Geoffrey here.” He winked. “He’s out of sorts today. Gets that way when someone interferes with his experiments. Well, actually . . . he’s out of sorts most days. So best you simply ignore him altogether.”

The mischief in Mr. Gray’s voice said he was teasing. Still, a frown flitted across Mr. Geoffrey’s features. Seeing it prompted Eleanor to smile. She looked between the two men, still trying to figure them out. Mr. Gray was the head gardener, yet the tone Mr. Geoffrey had taken with him was anything but deferential. Odd behavior for an under gardener.

Despite her lack of enthusiasm for Mr. Geoffrey, she most definitely liked Mr. Gray. Even if she did have to lower her gaze considerably in order to look him in the eye.

“I understand your father has been delayed in joining you, Miss Braddock.”

Mr. Gray’s question caught her off guard, and she grappled for an answer. “Ah . . . yes. You’re correct yet again, Mr. Gray.” How to respond to such an observation without revealing the truth? Or lying outright. “My father . . . He is—”

“Seeing to family matters, I understand,” Mr. Gray supplied, his features innocent of further meaning, hidden or otherwise.

She breathed a little easier. Apparently, Aunt Adelicia had anticipated—and circumvented—the topic of her father, and Eleanor felt a special endearment for the woman. “Yes. That’s it precisely.” She
sensed Mr. Geoffrey watching her but kept her focus on his superior. “My father will be joining me as soon as he’s able.”

Understandably, some of Belmont’s servants would remember the distinguished Attorney Garrison Braddock from years previous. It would be naive on her part to assume that no one in Nashville had gotten wind of their financial predicament, or of them losing their home. News of an unfortunate nature always seemed to travel faster than news of good fortune.

Still, she would be prepared the next time someone inquired after her father.

“Mr. Gray, sir!”

Hurried footsteps sounded behind her, and Eleanor turned to see a young Negro boy running full out down the aisle. He skidded to a halt two feet in front of her, breathless and holding his side.

“Mr. Gray”—the boy gulped air by the lungfuls—“Mr. Thatcher . . . needs to speak with you, sir. Right quick too. Up at the”—another deep breath—“new billiard hall. Somethin’ ’bout . . . them long windows you all be puttin’ in.”

Frowning, Henry Gray exchanged a look with Mr. Geoffrey, whose expression altered little.

“Thank you, Zeke.” Mr. Gray gave him a nod. “Tell him I’m coming.”

Zeke dipped his head and then, to Eleanor’s surprise, grinned up at her as he took backward steps. “You Miss Braddock, the Lady’s niece.”

Eleanor smiled at the certainty in his voice. “That’s right, I am. And you must be Zeke.”

His brown eyes lit. “Yes, ma’am! If you be needin’ a horse, or a pony, or a carriage”—he glanced behind him, then back—“or if you need anythin’ at Belmont, you just let me know, ma’am. I know most everythin’, and I’s here to help.”

Eleanor laughed, then quickly realized how foreign the response felt. “Thank you, Zeke. I’ll remember.”

Eleanor dared glance in Mr. Geoffrey’s direction, only to find “Adonis” staring directly at her, his eyes like pieces of blue glass with the sun behind them. The man was absurdly handsome. But she sensed he knew that, which only served to detract from the fact. At least a little.

“It’s certainly a pleasure to meet you, Miss Braddock,” Mr. Gray said. “And while I apologize for leaving so abruptly, please let me extend an invitation to visit the conservatory anytime. Mr. Geoffrey here will be most happy to escort you outside. And on to the mansion, I’m sure, should you wish.”

“Oh no,” Eleanor said quickly, seeing Mr. Geoffrey look at his superior, then back at her again. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Nonsense, Miss Braddock. It would be my pleasure.” Mr. Geoffrey’s deep voice sounded something akin to velvet, but in his eyes Eleanor read only duty and accommodation. Neither of which she invited.

“Oh, and Mr. Geoffrey . . .” Already halfway down the aisle, Mr. Gray turned back, his tone bordering on patronizing. “Don’t forget, Mrs. Cheatham would like to be apprised of the progress on your . . . collaboration.”

Mr. Geoffrey frowned. “I have already been quite—”

“First thing in the morning, please, Mr. Geoffrey. She was adamant about it.” With raised eyebrows, Mr. Gray looked at the man as though he should have known better than to argue, then hurried on.

Wishing to leave in equal haste, Eleanor was dismayed to find Mr. Geoffrey, long arm extended, gesturing in the opposite direction.

“I’m quite capable, Mr. Geoffrey, of finding my own way. But your
generous
offer is appreciated all the same.”

She swept past him, feeling somewhat avenged in the act—until he fell into step behind her.

More than a little irritated, she determined not to acknowledge him and walked on, hastening her steps. Her crinoline underskirts swirled as she swept past table after table, trying not to think of him directly behind her. But to no avail.

“You needn’t see me out, Mr. Geoffrey.”

“But it’s my pleasure to do so, Miss Braddock. After all, I dare not lose Mrs. Cheatham’s favorite niece in the conservatory on her first day. I shiver to think what consequences such an outcome would set in motion.”

Eleanor barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

Seeing the cast-iron fountain beneath the cupola ahead, she mentally retraced the path she’d taken on her way in.

“You’ll turn left up there,” he said, “then a right down the third—”

“I
know
where I’m going, Mr. Geoffrey.”

“Oh . . . forgive me, madam. I was under the impression you had lost your way.”

Eleanor firmed her lips. She would
not
further engage this man. He obviously thought quite highly of himself. And he was purposefully trying to bait her—that much was clear.

She’d done nothing wrong by exploring the “plant infirmary.” She hadn’t touched anything or moved anything from its place. She’d simply
been curious, and curiosity was an excellent catalyst for improving one’s intellect. Never mind that it had also landed her in trouble on numerous occasions.

“If you
were
to get lost in here, however,” he continued, apparently enjoying the sound of his voice more than she did, “either somewhere amidst the Norfolk pines or the tropical palms . . . or perhaps, let’s say, you were lured in by a bunch of carnivorous camellias, rest assured we’d organize a search party straightaway.”

She blew out a breath. “Equipped with flares, I trust.” As soon as she said it, she regretted it, and quickened her pace.

He did likewise. “Actually, no. Shooting flares in a structure such as this is somewhat discouraged, as you might guess. Unless of course, you are looking for a way to annihilate every living thing within its glass walls, as well as destroy the structure itself. If that were your purpose, I imagine shooting a flare would rank high at the top of that list.”

Hearing the touch of a smile in his voice, she knew—even only having met the man—that he wouldn’t be wearing that smile if she were to look back. Which she didn’t.

But wait . . .

She slowed, looking around, then stopped. Where was the aisle with the—

“You missed your turn, your ladyship,” he whispered from behind, sounding closer than she’d expected him to be. “About fifteen feet back. Perhaps you didn’t know your way as well as you thought. . . .”

Her body flushed hot, then cold with embarrassment. His deep voice—and that accent, she admitted, though not wanting to—could have had something to do with it as well. She’d always admired men with accents. But she knew better in this instance. Because even knowing what little she did about him, she knew enough.

And that was exactly what she’d had of him.
Enough
.

She took a step forward before turning, then leveled a stare. “You have made your point, Mr. Geoffrey. Resoundingly so. I admit, you caught me snooping earlier, and . . .”

How could a person’s eyes be so
blue
? And—could it be more
unfair
?—thick, dark lashes framed them. Trying not to think of her own pale, blond ones, she refocused.

“I offer you an apology. I don’t know why I felt the need to cover my earlier actions. I didn’t disturb anything in the room. I give you my word. I was merely curious about something I saw. So . . .” She nodded once. “There we are.”

Slowly, as though he were trying the gesture out for the first time, his mouth curved into a smile. His entire countenance changed, and the effect was heady. Much like the scent of roses had been.

“Apology accepted.”

She nodded. “Thank y—”

“On one condition.”

She frowned. “One cannot accept an apology and then set a condition. If you desired terms of acceptance, you should have stated those conditions at the outset.”

He eyed her. “Then I rescind my acceptance.”

“One cannot rescind a verbal agreement once it’s been adjudicated. By
adjudicated
, I mean—”

“I know what the word means, Miss Braddock.” His eyes narrowed a touch. “Let me guess . . . Your father is an attorney.”

“He was.” She lifted her chin. “One of the most honored and respected in the State of Tennessee. At least . . . at one time,” she added, instantly wishing she hadn’t.