Beauty So Rare, A (A Belmont Mansion Novel Book #2) (62 page)

“Can I choose your dress?” Maggie piped up.

Eleanor placed a kiss on Maggie’s head. “You certainly may. You and Mrs. Malloy together.” She winked in Rebecca’s direction.

“Is everything all right?” she asked Marcus, seeing an emotion in his expression she couldn’t define.

“Would you walk outside with me?”

“Of course.”

He led her through the kitchen and out back, and she got excited.

“Are you going to show me the building?”

He laughed softly. “Yes, at the open house, like I’ve always said.”

She threw him a playful frown. Less than a month until the open house. In one sense, it felt like a blink, there was so much left to do. But in terms of finally seeing what was inside his secret building, it felt like an eternity.

“I need to go away for a few days,” he said quietly. “And I need to ask you a special favor.”

Her frown came genuinely this time. “Where are you going?”

“That’s not the point.” He smiled. “The point is . . . I need you to water the potato plants while I’m gone. Every day, just like I showed you.”

“Oh, Marcus, what if I—”

“I don’t want Gray or any of the other gardeners doing it. They always overwater. And I don’t want to take any chances.”

She nodded. “I’ll do it, but please don’t blame me if anything happens to them.”

“Nothing’s going to happen. Other than in the next two weeks you and I are going to be digging up some potatoes. And no peeking at either the potatoes or the building while I’m gone.”

“You know I wouldn’t.”

“I know. Or . . . I think I do.”

He drew her into an embrace, and she slipped her arms about his waist, loving the solid feel of his chest and the strong, steady drum of his heart.

He kissed the crown of her head. “I love you, Eleanor.”

She tightened her hold on him, the words
I love you too
on the tip of her tongue, begging to be said. But if she said them, that would take her one step closer to losing her heart to him completely.

And she couldn’t go there. Not yet. If ever.

Eleanor picked up the card lying by the half dozen purple peonies in a vase in the kitchen of the home.

“
Dearest Eleanor,

Though you have all of my love, there
are only half a dozen peonies, because I only know
you half as well as I’d like. Marcus.”

Her heart melting a little more, she glanced out the window toward the building, so grateful to discover he was back. She smelled the peonies. Her favorite. But the new apron beside the flowers made her suspicious.

She looked over at Naomi, remembering her comment to Naomi last week about needing a new one. “How did Marcus know to get me an apron?”

Naomi never looked up from scrubbing potatoes. “Austrian men. Very insightful.”

Eleanor heard the faintest grin in her friend’s voice. “You’re supposed to be on
my
side.”

Naomi lifted her gaze, a smile ghosting her face. “And who says I am not?”

Looking out the window, Eleanor saw Marcus come from the building and hurried to meet him.

“Welcome home!” she said and hugged him.

He didn’t let her go. “I missed you,” he whispered against her hair.

“I missed you too.” She drew back slightly. “Where did you say you went again?”

He shook his head. “Nice try, Madam Director.”

He kissed her on the mouth—a sweet, chaste kiss—and she sensed his restraint, which only served to stir up whatever it was that had already been stirring inside her in his absence. She also sensed something else in him. Hesitance? Or disappointment, maybe?

“Will you come by the propagating room later?”

She nodded, eager to check the potatoes, but right now, trying to sort out his kiss, and his mood. “I need to stop by Mrs. Malloy’s first, but I’ll come by right afterward. Are you still hopeful about what we’ll find?”

“Hope is such a tenuous word.” His gaze held hers. “But yes, I still am.”

A short while later, Eleanor welcomed the opportunity to walk, the smell of spring in the air, the flowers and trees having awakened from their slumber. Yet her emotions still felt tender when she opened the door to the dress shop, the bell jingling overhead.

She
did
love Marcus. That wasn’t it. And she wanted to be with him. But the thought of giving herself so completely to him frightened her more than she could put into words. But the way he’d kissed her upon his return . . .

She closed her eyes, feeling the sting of tears. He hadn’t kissed her the way he’d wanted to, which—for some reason she couldn’t fathom—had made her desire him all the more.

While he’d been gone, she’d imagined her life without him, and had never felt so empty and alone.

“Miss Braddock, I heard the bell. I’m so glad you’re—” Rebecca Malloy paused in the curtained doorway. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

Eleanor nodded, brushing her cheeks. “I’m fine. Just . . . emotional today, I think.”

Embarrassed, she attempted to set aside the turmoil within her. But when Rebecca placed a hand on her shoulder, the caring gesture only encouraged Eleanor’s tears.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Malloy.” Eleanor pulled the handkerchief from her pocket. “I suppose I have more on my mind than I thought.” She dabbed her cheeks, then refolded the handkerchief. “What with all the goings on at the home and then—”

Rebecca drew in a quick breath. “W-wh—” Her voice faltered. Her face went pale. “Where did you get that?” she whispered.

Eleanor looked at the handkerchief clutched in her own hand, then back at her friend. “From a soldier,” she whispered. “In the war.”

Rebecca reached for it, her hand shaking. “This was mine”—she ran her fingers over the embroidered flowers—“another lifetime ago.”

 52 

W
atching Rebecca’s expression, seeing her fingers tremble as she held the handkerchief, Eleanor felt the weight of years—from that one in the field hospital so long ago, to this—fall away. She couldn’t stem the tears, and didn’t even try.

“I gave this to Patrick,” Rebecca cried, “before he left for the war.”

Eleanor covered her hand. “And he carried it with him . . . until the day he died.”

“You were
there
?” she asked in a broken whisper.

Eleanor nodded, seeing the soldier—
Patrick
—so clearly in her memory. “I worked in a surgical tent. Your husband was brave, Rebecca, up to the very end.”

Rebecca took a shuttered breath. “All I’ve ever known is that he died . . . at the Battle of Nashville.”

Eleanor told her about seeing her husband for the first time and how he’d been wounded. “There was nothing the doctor could do, Rebecca. I . . .” She hesitated, remembering what she’d done in the absence of medicine. “I made him as comfortable as I could, and then stayed with him. He spoke of you.”

Rebecca smiled through her tears.

“He told me he’d been carrying the handkerchief just like you’d asked him to. And he said he couldn’t believe you were his or that you’d said yes ‘to the likes of him.’ ”

“Oh . . .” Rebecca held the handkerchief to her chest. “That sounds just like him. He always used to say that to me.”

“Close to the end,” Eleanor continued, her voice shaky, “as I held his hand, I knew it wasn’t me he was seeing anymore. He was seeing you, Rebecca. He thought he was talking to you.”

Rebecca squeezed her hand tight.

“So I leaned down, and I told him . . .” Eleanor closed her eyes, and she was back in that tent, cannon fire blasting, the earth shaking beneath her feet. “I said ‘I’m proud to be yours and always have been.’ ”

Rebecca’s sobs came softly. “So many times I’ve wished I could have told him that, just once more. That I was so grateful he chose
me
.”

They hugged each other, Eleanor just letting her cry. Finally, Rebecca straightened and wiped her face.

“There’s one more thing,” Eleanor said, hoping this wouldn’t bring Rebecca pain. “He kept repeating how he wished he’d done something for you. Before he left. He said he knew it was too late, but if he’d had another chance, he would have done it. But . . . he never said what it was.”

A smile so sweet and tender bloomed in Rebecca’s expression. “Come with me.”

Eleanor followed her through the curtained doorway to her sewing room, then beyond to the private quarters in the back, and then outside, to a tiny patch of yard shaded by a dogwood tree. But there, in the sliver of sun-drenched earth off to the side, was a flower bed—full of gorgeous red roses.

“Patrick always promised he would plant me roses where I could see them from the kitchen window.” Rebecca pointed behind her to an open window. “It’s just as he promised.”

Minutes later, as they walked back inside, Rebecca paused. “Miss Braddock, would you like a cup of tea?”

“I would love one.” Eleanor smiled. “But please, no more Miss Braddock. Call me Eleanor.”

They talked for the next hour, Rebecca sharing memories of her husband and their seven years of marriage, and Eleanor telling her about all the times she’d gained strength from carrying the handkerchief with her, and of what she’d done to try and find the soldier’s widow through the years.

“But Patrick kept calling you his Mary girl. So for all these years, I’ve been looking for a woman named Mary.”

Memory warmed Rebecca’s expression. “Patrick was from Ireland. His family came over when he was just a boy. When he first started courting me, he called me his American girl.” She touched a picture of him in a frame on the table for two in the tiny kitchen. “Over the years, it simply became Mary girl.”

When they rose from the table, Eleanor looked again at the picture of Patrick—so handsome and full of health—and felt such grief.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Rebecca. And for all you’ve endured.”
She sighed. “Sometimes I wonder. . . . Might it be better never to have loved at all.”

Rebecca’s expression turned pain-stricken. “If I’ve given you the impression, Eleanor, that if I could I would turn back the clock and never have met Patrick, then please forgive me. That could not be more wrong. Yes, I miss him dearly. Not a day goes by that I don’t want him back with me. But the years we had together were the happiest of my life. And even now the memory of that happiness—what I learned from Patrick, the way his love changed me, changed how I look at life, at how I’ve lived my life since then—all of those things sustain me. The memories give me strength I’d
never
have had without him.”

Tears Eleanor thought she’d put away threatened to return.

Rebecca studied her. “Is there someone in your life? Someone you love? And . . . who loves you?”

Eleanor looked away, then nodded.

“Take my advice for what it is, Eleanor.
My
advice only. Don’t let fear rob you of life. If my sweet Patrick were here, he wou—” Her voice caught. “He would tell you that’s partly what he fought for. For you—and me—to have the freedom to live life to its fullest. Patrick didn’t let his fear keep him from fighting. So I determined, after his death, not to let fear keep me from living.”

If Rebecca had dropped a pin in that moment, Eleanor was certain she would have heard it.

Feeling aptly put in her place and by someone who had the right to speak from the place of pain, she nodded in acknowledgment. “I’m sorry if I said anything to offend you, Rebecca.”

“Not at all.” Rebecca gave a tiny shrug. “Patrick always said I was too outspoken for my own good.”

Eleanor laughed softly. “I can relate.”

“Oh, before you go,” Rebecca said as they passed through the sewing shop. “Let me show you your ensemble. Since you’re the director, I thought a skirt and jacket would be more appropriate. They’re in the closet right here. You may not have time to try them on now—after we’ve spent so much time talking. But you can come back any day this week, and I can make the needed adjustments in plenty of time.”

Eleanor waited.

A minute later, Rebecca rounded the corner. “I hope you like it.” She paused and held it up, draping the full skirt off to one side. “Maggie chose the color, but I think it will be lovely on you. She said it’s her favorite.
Rosa!
”

Eleanor took one look at the ensemble and almost laughed. At first she wondered if it was a joke instigated by Marcus. But reading sincerity in Rebecca’s expression, she guessed it wasn’t. “It’s beautiful, Rebecca. Simply beautiful.”

Rosa
, she thought. German . . . for pink.

Eleanor entered the conservatory, a warm rush of air greeting her. As she passed by the
Selenicereus grandiflorus
, she looked upon the cactus quite differently than she had the first time she’d seen it, and even paused to offer a brief curtsy, knowing Marcus would have been amused had he been there.

What Rebecca Malloy had said played over and over in her mind, both gently scolding her while also shining a light into shadows in her heart left unchallenged for far too long.

She still had trouble believing that, after so many years, God had placed her and the soldier’s Mary girl together, and she hadn’t even seen it. There were other things she’d missed as well. She knew that now.

A table full of pink roses in every imaginable shade caught her eye—Marcus’s repeated attempts to meet her aunt’s always exacting expectations. He’d told her he had another batch of grafts set to bloom any day. Hopefully one of those would prove worthy.

She paused briefly to finger one of the flowers, and her focus slipped down the stem to the scar marking the place where Marcus had originally grafted the two flowers together. She knew that, with time, and as the plant grew stronger, the slight
imperfection
would become less noticeable. All of the grafted plants bore scars—evidence of the cutting, and also of the healing around it. But what beauty had come from both.

The door to Marcus’s
haven
stood open, so she walked on through to the propagating room—but stopped in the doorway when she saw him.

“Marcus Geoffrey! Are you starting without me?”

His head came up, his arm buried halfway in the dirt by one of the potato plants. He frowned at her. “I
am
waiting on you, Eleanor. I was simply loosening the soil for you. That’s all.”

Studying his expression just to be sure, Eleanor didn’t see any potatoes in sight, so guessed he’d been waiting on her after all. But she sensed he was still in that
mood
. Which was disappointing, considering she’d wanted to tell him about her visit with Rebecca. Later would definitely be best.

She joined him by the trough.

“Ladies first.” He gestured with a bow.

She rolled up her sleeves. “Did you notice I
hilled
the plants like you taught me to?”

“I did. And you did a very nice job. Now start digging.”

She paused, sensing his impatience. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. I’m simply . . . eager to see what the seedball produced.”

Knowing which potato plant he wanted her to start with—the one where he’d
loosened
the soil—she intentionally started on the one two down. And ignored the dark look he gave her.

Familiar with what to do, she reached into the soil, fingers splayed, and felt for the little tubers. Her hand closed around one. She looked up at Marcus and seeing the
tenuous
hope in his eyes, she twisted and pulled. . . .

And up came a blackened and pocked potato.

“One down,” he said solemnly, making a note in his notebook. “Twenty-two to go.”

She worked her way down the row, through the next ten plants. All the same. “Do you want to pull some?”

He shook his head. “Unless you’ve had enough, then I will.”

Feeling for him, especially after how excited he’d been upon finding the seedball, she knew her disappointment was nothing compared to his.

She moved to the next trough, praying as she groped through the soil, then as she pulled. Another seven plants produced the same blemished potatoes.

He was so quiet beside her. She looked over at him and found him watching her.

“What?” she whispered. “Do I have dirt on my face?”

“You’re so beautiful, Eleanor. And the best thing about it is . . . you don’t even realize it.”

She paused, having difficulty believing he’d said that . . . to her. And yet, the truth of it shone in his eyes, and she knew she’d never forget this moment. Feeling her face grow warm, she smiled. “Are you just saying that so I’ll continue digging?”

A slow grin tipped one side of his mouth. “Is it working?”

“Absolutely!” She plunged her hand into the dirt again. Then felt something . . . different. Larger. And . . . harder to pull up. She twisted and . . .

Up came an oversized potato, along with a spray of dirt. “It’s huge,” she said, turning it over in her hand. But on closer inspection, no matter how impressive the size, it bore the same characteristics as the others.