Beauty So Rare, A (A Belmont Mansion Novel Book #2) (60 page)

“I do
not
believe Miss Braddock is well suited for this position! And furthermore, she most certainly is
not
garnering my vote.”

Eleanor didn’t have to look up to know who had spoken.

“Mrs. Hightower,” Mrs. Holcomb said, her tone having shed a layer of warmth, “would you care to elaborate on your concerns? And please, madam,” she added, leaving Mrs. Hightower’s mouth half engaged in a reply, “remember to do so with kindness and gentility.”

Mrs. Hightower huffed. “I am always genteel in my speech, Madam President. But I am also forthright. And I take severe umbrage at the notion that one of
our
members, albeit one of lesser standing due to certain
familial
connections”—she glared in Eleanor’s direction—“would think it acceptable to hire herself out like some commoner.”

Eleanor froze.
My father
. How had this woman found out about him? Only a handful of people knew.

“There is a fine line,” Mrs. Hightower continued, “between philanthropy and publicly disgracing oneself, and I believe she is crossing that line. I
also
believe—”

Eleanor felt the heat rising to her face. She couldn’t bear to look up. What Aunt Adelicia must be thinking right now . . .

“—that we, as an organization, should not continue to sanction behavior that falls outside the realm of what is acceptable for a woman.
We should embrace the womanly virtues given to us by God, instead of conducting business as though we wear trousers rather than skirts, as some in our number do. Not to mention how this person
traipsed
about the country unescorted in the middle of a war, consorting with the enemy and selling cotton in backroom deals in which no respectable woman would ever have engaged.”

Eleanor slowly lifted her head, her thoughts skidding to a halt in the sudden silence, and slamming one into the other. She looked first at Mrs. Hightower, whose face was beet red, and then to Aunt Adelicia, whose countenance was as smooth and serene as glass.

 50 

T
he room was in an uproar. Women talking over one another. And not in “proper league” voices.

Two sat wide-eyed, handkerchiefs clutched against their mouths, while another three huddled together, whispering behind their hands. The pounding of a gavel rang out.

“Order!” Mrs. Holcomb practically screamed to be heard over the ruckus. “The board will come to order!”

Stunned, Eleanor watched the mayhem, grateful she’d sat off to the side. It appeared that the issue with the Hightowers hadn’t been about her at all. Although something told her they didn’t consider her their favorite person, it wasn’t so much that they disliked her. They disliked Aunt Adelicia.

Finally, Mrs. Holcomb regained control of the meeting. “Everyone will sit down, please. Immediately!” She gave a quick tug on her jacket sleeves. “I believe,” she said, reaching for an air of propriety set at naught moments earlier, “that we have heard enough discussion on this topic. So I will call for a vote.”

A hand shot up.

“Please, Mrs. Pate, I said
no
more discussion,” Mrs. Holcomb warned.

The woman lowered her hand.

“Now . . .” Mrs. Holcomb smoothed the sides of her hair. “I will call roll, and you will simply state
yay
, indicating you approve Miss Braddock to serve as director, or
nay
, indicating you do not.” She cleared her throat. “Mrs. Matilda Bennett.”

“Yay.”

“Mrs. Loretta Brown.”

“Nay.”

“Mrs. Adelicia Cheatham.”

“I abstain”—Eleanor’s hope sank. Her own aunt wasn’t even voting for her—“on the grounds that Miss Braddock is my niece.”

Mrs. Holcomb nodded before continuing. “Mrs. Laura Hall.”

“Yay.”

“Mrs. Agnetta Hightower.”

“
Nay!
”

“Mrs. Sandra Lundy.”

“Yay.”

“Mrs. Ramona Nolen.”

“Yay.”

“Mrs. Nadine Pate.”

“Nay.”

“Mrs. Clara Nell Petree.”

“Yay.”

Mrs. Holcomb called for votes from three more members. One
yay
. Two
nay
s. Which placed
yay
s in the lead, six to five.

Hands slick, Eleanor could scarcely breathe. If Mrs. Holcomb voted
yay
, she would be the director. If
nay
, it would be a tie. Then what would they do?

She looked over at her aunt. If only she hadn’t abstained. Then again, how would her aunt have voted?

“And now to cast my ballot.” Mrs. Holcomb looked at Eleanor, then back to the board. “I vote . . .”

All eyes on Mrs. Holcomb. No one moved.

“Nay.”

Eleanor’s lungs emptied. Mrs. Holcomb’s lack of confidence hurt more than all the others combined.

“Which now brings the vote,” Mrs. Holcomb continued, “to a tie. According to the bylaws of the Nashville Women’s League, in the event of a tie vote, any member present who has chosen to abstain
must
cast their ballot. Which means the board strikes Mrs. Cheatham’s abstaining vote from the record”—she nodded to the board’s secretary taking notes—“and requires that she vote either
yay
or
nay
.”

Eleanor looked one last time at her aunt, whose gaze never left Mrs. Holcomb’s.

“Mrs. Adelicia Cheatham, would you please cast your ballot?”

Eleanor bowed her head, already knowing what her aunt’s response was going to be. Once again, trying to follow where she thought God was leading in her life, she’d been so certain the position of director was something she was supposed to—

“Yay.”

The word ringing in the silence, Eleanor looked up, uncertain she’d heard correctly. Aunt Adelicia’s smooth countenance revealed nothing. But Mrs. Hightower’s stormy frown did.

“The
yay
s have it,” Mrs. Holcomb said quickly. “Congratulations, Miss Braddock. You are the first director of the Nashville Widows’ and Children’s Home, and this meeting is now adjourned.” Fast as lightning, she brought the gavel down.

Eleanor rose and responded to repeated congratulations with thanks, some of the members seeming more enthusiastic than others. But when Aunt Adelicia approached, she felt a special weight of gratitude. And also uncertainty.

“Well done, Eleanor,” her aunt said, the picture of composure. “I’m certain you’ll fulfill your duties as director with the same excellence with which you’ve met the challenges of facilitating the renovation.”

“Thank you, Aunt Adelicia,” she said, aware of others listening. “I appreciate your confidence.”

A moment later, to Eleanor’s surprise, she saw Mrs. Holcomb discreetly motioning her into the hallway.

“Miss Braddock,” the league president whispered, out of earshot of others. “Very quickly—” She peered over Eleanor’s shoulder back into the meeting room. “Please realize that when I voted ‘nay’ just now, I wasn’t truly voting
against
you. You see . . . Mrs. Hightower is a very influential—and wealthy—member of this community.”

Eleanor nodded. “I think I understand, Mrs. Holcomb.”

“No, I don’t believe you do.”

Eleanor waited.

“If Mrs. Hightower were to perceive that the majority of the board—and the league
president
—was against her, she might well withdraw her membership, and all the philanthropic good she does in this city.”

Women began to exit the room behind them, and Mrs. Holcomb gave her hand a quick squeeze.

“Suffice it to say, Miss Braddock, one thing I’ve learned in my life is that it’s best to keep on amiable terms with those who oppose you, rather than fight at all costs to win every battle.” She winked, then stepped away.

Pondering what she’d said, Eleanor spoke with a few other members, then hurried outside in time to see Armstead assisting Aunt Adelicia into the carriage. Eleanor cut a path across the street.

“Aunt Adelicia?”

Her aunt turned, her expression showing a tad more wear than it had a moment earlier. “Would you like to share the carriage home, Eleanor?”

“Oh no. Thank you. I still have work to do here in town. I simply wanted to say that . . . I’m sorry for what happened in there, with Mrs. Hightower.”

“You did nothing to provoke that.” Her aunt glanced toward the league house. “That’s a very old wound, to which I have become accustomed. For the most part.”

“I had no idea she felt that way about you.”

Aunt Adelicia looked at her askance. “Truly?” She sighed. “And all this time, I thought it was so obvious to anyone looking on.” She arranged the folds of her skirt just so-so. “Don’t ever let anyone dissuade you from doing what you believe you’ve been called to do, Eleanor.” The natural keenness in her eyes sharpened. “There’s nothing more satisfying than knowing you’ve done all you can to reach a goal set before you.” Her gaze dulled. “And nothing more heartbreaking than looking back on an opportunity lost. One that will never return.”

Eleanor nodded and started to step back, then paused. “Aunt, I’m wondering . . .” She wanted her question to have a casual air but knew before asking that it wouldn’t. “Would you still have voted for me . . . if the situation had been different?”

Aunt Adelicia briefly covered Eleanor’s hand on the door, her smile taking on an almost motherly quality. “I guess we’ll never know now, will we?”

A few mornings later, Eleanor arrived very early at the home, and as though the quiet beckoned with a voice unheard, she answered, and took a few moments to walk the main floor before starting to work.

She peeked inside the rooms, taking inventory of the spaces ready to welcome the women and children. She closed her eyes in the long hallway and easily imagined the rowdy laughter of boys, the soft whispers of conversation among the mothers, and the giggles of little girls.

All sounds she heard—and cherished—every evening they hosted a dinner.

The wooden floors, newly sanded and refinished smelled of promise and possibility, and she vowed never to complain once the scuff of little feet had worn away the sheen. Because that would mean the
building was being used and well loved. And what was the good in having something if you weren’t going to use it?

She climbed the stairs to the second floor, running her hand along the woodwork, and then paused—hearing the sound of footsteps. She tilted her head to one side, certain she’d heard something. But whatever it was, was gone.

After a moment, she continued on.

Marcus and his men had done a remarkable job thus far. She’d seen potential in the building the first time she’d viewed it. But this . . .

The building exuded warmth she doubted it ever possessed before. Not with lawyers and attorneys—and Mayor Adler—residing in it.

Mayor Adler.
She still felt badly over questioning Marcus about the solvency of his company. She should have known better. But it hadn’t seemed to bother him. At least not for long. In fact, the more time that passed, the happier he seemed.

Perhaps it was because he would be returning to Austria soon, which she didn’t even want to think about. They saw each other every day—several times, some days—mainly because he came by the kitchen.

In addition to the bowl he’d given her, he’d left a set of spoons she’d admired at the mercantile on a worktable. It was almost as if he was trying to make certain she would miss him once he was gone. The man had absolutely nothing to worry about.

In the same breath, she recognized she had the life she’d always known, somehow, that she would have. Only, far richer. No children of her own—regret struck a familiar chord at the thought—and yet a houseful of children. No husband, but a life full of purpose. And one without the all-but-guaranteed loss and grief upon which this home had been founded.

Yes
 . . . She sighed, smoothing the front of her skirt. She was grateful. And determined to be more so.

She walked the second floor, seeing touches of work still needing to be finished, then continued to the third, praying as she walked up the staircase for the families who would live there one day soon, and also for herself, that she would oversee the home with fairness and efficiency.

Furniture for the bedrooms, including her quarters, was set to arrive at the end of April, scarcely six weeks away. So much to be done before then.

No sooner had her foot touched the third story landing, than she heard footsteps again. She stopped, peered down the hallway, first one way, then another, certain she’d heard them.

“Hello?” Her voice was overloud in the silence, and she wished the hair on the back of her neck wasn’t standing on end. Not one usually given to such silliness, she almost turned and went back downstairs.

But this was her building. Her
home
. And it was likely just a member of one of the crews arriving early to work, same as her. Still, she grabbed the remnant end of a plank-wood board from nearby. Not exactly a Winchester, but it would inflict damage if the situation warranted.

She investigated—more than toured—the third floor, watchful. At the end of the hallway, she turned back, then heard a distinct
clunk
.

Right above her head.
On the roof.