Beauty So Rare, A (A Belmont Mansion Novel Book #2) (63 page)

She laid it aside. Four plants to go. Two in each of the troughs.

Giving him a
here’s to hoping
look, she harvested the tubers from the next three plants, saving the first plant—the one he’d wanted her to start with—for last. All three plants produced all the same—tiny little blackened potatoes.

“The last one,” he said, sounding more hopeful than she would have expected.

“Just remember,” she said, “even if this one isn’t it, we can try again.”

He nodded.

As the cool soil closed around her hand, then her arm, Eleanor prayed that God would give this man the desire of his heart. He’d worked so hard and so long on grafting. And creating a new potato, one more resistant to rot, would do so much for—

Her knuckles brushed against something. She frowned. It didn’t feel round. It felt . . . square. Her hand closed around the object, and she pulled it up.

When she opened her palm, she could only stare. First at the little box, then at Marcus, who had put his notebook aside.

“Eleanor . . . I have been your friend”—he cradled the curve of her cheek—“your confidant, your business associate”—he arched a regal brow—“and your partner in late-night conservatory crime.”

She laughed softly.

“But I want to be more than that. I want to be your husband,” he whispered, taking the box, “your lover, the one you reach for in the middle of the night, and the one who will reach for you whenever you’re near.”

He opened the box and held out a beautiful band of gold, just what she would have chosen for herself.

“It’s perfect,” she whispered, seeing the promise of her answer reflected in his eyes.

“I took the liberty of engraving something on the inside.” He turned it in the light so she could read it. “
Beste Freunde machen die
besten Liebhaber,
” he whispered.

She warmed at his tone and at the meaning of the phrase.
Best friends make
the best lovers.
Naomi had been right.

Eleanor peered up at him. “You knew if I saw you loosening the dirt on that plant that I’d start with another one, didn’t you?”

He smiled that smile, then he kissed her. “Yes, I know you, Eleanor,” he whispered against her lips. “Now, will you marry me?”

She kissed him again, just because she could. “
Ja,
” she whispered.
“
Mein
Herz ist deins.
”
My heart is yours.
Then she giggled. “I’ve been practicing.”

“I can tell.” His voice had taken on a dreamy quality.

He started to put the ring on her finger.

“Not with all this dirt. Let me go wash up.” Halfway to the door, she turned back. “I almost forgot to finish.”

She walked back to the potato plant where Marcus had hidden the ring, and she plunged her hand deep—and felt a fairly good-sized potato. And at least two others. She looked over at Marcus, whose expression turned keen.

She pulled the first tuber to the surface and handed it to him, watching his expression instead of looking at the potato.

“I don’t believe it,” he whispered, turning the potato in his hand, looking at it from all angles. He rubbed it gently with a cloth, and then a smile broke across his face. “It’s . . .” He looked up at her. “It has a blemish here and there.” He showed to her. “But when compared to the others . . . it’s
perfekt
.”

She pulled a second and a third. Then a fourth. All
perfekt,
just like he’d said. Just like he was for her.

 53 

W
hen I first received Miss Eleanor Braddock’s invitation to join the city of Nashville on this momentous occasion, I must admit, I was skeptical regarding what I would find upon my arrival—”

Miss Dorothea Dix was exactly as Eleanor had imagined from having read her book—the epitome of strength, integrity, and grit all wrapped in a tenacity that warned a person, even upon first meeting the woman, that one should oppose her, and her initiatives, at their own peril.

Eleanor adored her instantly.

“—but when I toured the Nashville Widows’ and Children’s Home yesterday, then had the inestimable pleasure of taking a meal with the tenants of the home last night, every one of my doubts”—Miss Dix paused, gazing at the overflowing crowd—“based, of course, upon past experience of being told one thing only to find another being true, were proved false. This establishment is without question
precisely
as Miss Braddock described. With one enormous and most glaring exception.”

Miss Dix turned to look at Eleanor, as did Aunt Adelicia and other league board members standing close by, and Eleanor felt her chest tighten with uncertainty.

“What Miss Braddock failed to tell me,” Miss Dix continued, “is how
her
depth of love, dedication, and hard work have forever changed the lives—and futures—of these brave widows and their children.”

Spontaneous applause rose from the crowd, and Eleanor, uncomfortable beneath the praise, was tempted to duck her head. But the honest admiration and womanly courage in Miss Dix’s gaze—and in Aunt Adelicia’s—wouldn’t allow it.

Eleanor placed a hand over her heart and mouthed
“Thank you
”
to Miss Dix and those around her, wishing Marcus were there to share the moment. She couldn’t have done this without him.

Miss Dix continued just as Eleanor felt the tickle of a whisper in her ear. . . .

“Add my hearty
amen
to Miss Dix’s last comment.”

She turned to see Marcus beside her, feeling the warmth of his hand on the small of her back.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said softly. “The discussion ran longer than I anticipated.”

She leaned close, eager to discover the outcome of his meeting with Sutton Monroe, Aunt Adelicia’s attorney. “Did he have an answer for you?”

Marcus nodded. “It will all work out in the end,” he whispered, then glanced down at her ensemble. “You look lovely . . . in
rosa
.”

Sensing evasion in his initial response, Eleanor smiled her thanks, knowing they’d have time to discuss his meeting with Mr. Monroe later. And though she still disliked wearing pink, she’d discovered something of a saving grace about the color an hour earlier. . . .

Maggie and several other little girls had requested that the dresses Rebecca Malloy made them be the exact same color as hers, saying they wanted “to be just like Miss Braddock.” Learning that had meant so much. And even softened her animosity toward the color. At least a little.

As Miss Dix spoke, Eleanor looked over the crowd, recognizing far more faces than those she didn’t. But wishing one special face was there that wasn’t.

She’d wanted her father to be able to attend, but Dr. Crawford dissuaded it.
“So much
noise and the size of the gathering might overstimulate him
, Miss Braddock. I wouldn’t wish to ruin the day
for you just as I don’t wish to subject
your father to the emotional upheaval a setting such as
that could cause him. Not when he’s been doing
so well in recent weeks.”

She understood, of course. But it didn’t lessen her desire to share her life with him. After all, she was her father’s daughter. And always would be. Whether or not he ever recognized her again.

“One final note on this memorable day, dear friends.” Miss Dix’s voice carried over the hushed crowd. “It is rare, indeed, for a community to unite for such a humble and often overlooked purpose, but to put such care into restoring a building that was once considered, by some, to have outlived its usefulness is also to be highly commended . . .
Mr.
Geoffrey
.”

Miss Dix looked at Marcus then, and he bowed, looking every bit the archduke he was. Or . . . used to be.

Eleanor saw no sign of Mayor Adler, nor did she expect to, not following the recent front-page articles boasting about the renovation of the home and the “forward-thinking” kitchen Marcus had designed. And that every woman on the women’s league board now wanted in their own home.

But it was the article scheduled to come out in
tomorrow’s
edition of the newspaper that had Eleanor most excited. She’d secretly promised the reporter an interview with the designer of a most intriguing invention in the still-secret building next door.

Applause erupted as Dorothea Dix left the stage and Mrs. Holcomb, the league president, took her place behind the podium. “Thank you again, Miss Dix, for traveling to be with us today. You honor us with your presence. And now, before I invite you all on a tour of the Nashville Widows’ and Children’s Home, followed by”—Mrs. Holcomb shot a look at Marcus—“the
special
unveiling of the building next door that so many of us have grown curious about . . .” She smiled. “It is my profound pleasure to introduce a woman whose generosity in our city is well noted. Mrs. Agnetta Hightower, who this very morning made a most generous donation that will provide every woman and child in the home with a pair of new shoes.”

As Mrs. Hightower strode to the stage, Eleanor caught Mrs. Holcomb’s look in her direction and remembered that day in the board meeting when Mrs. Holcomb had voted
against
her. The league president’s counsel had been exceedingly wise. It was better to remain peaceable with those who opposed you, rather than fight to win every battle at all costs.

Eleanor smiled. The next time Mayor Adler ran for office, he’d better take note of Mrs. Holcomb. With all the changes happening in the world, surely the women’s right to vote—and even a woman in politics—couldn’t be that far off.

Listening to Mrs. Hightower’s speech, or trying, Eleanor found her attention, and gaze, wandering. But she had to close her eyes and open them again when she saw Miss Hillary Hightower on the arm of . . . Mr.
Hockley
?

Possibly sensing her attention, Lawrence Hockley glanced her way and—in a most characteristic manner—touched the brim of his hat and nodded, then faced forward again, as though they’d never shared more than a casual acquaintance. Which was true, Eleanor guessed, in one sense.

Hillary Hightower chose that moment to look her way, and Eleanor
managed a smile even as the young woman lifted her chin and moved closer to Mr. Hockley’s side, as though staking her claim.

Eleanor felt Marcus’s fingers thread through her own and looked over at him, aware he’d been watching her.

“I couldn’t be happier for them both,” he whispered, his thumb drawing feather-soft circles on the underside of her wrist, making her wish for time alone with him, which they hadn’t had in the whirlwind of recent days.

At the conclusion of Mrs. Hightower’s
few words,
Eleanor started toward the front door of the home but felt a tug of her hand.

“Not just yet, Miss Braddock.” Smiling, Marcus glanced beyond her to where Naomi, Marta, Elena, Rebecca, and some other women stood waiting to greet the visitors. “You have another appointment first.”

Eleanor caught Naomi’s grin, as well as the girlish look between Marta and Elena, and knew the women had been plotting. And loved them for it. Rebecca Malloy simply smiled and slipped her hand into her pocket, and Eleanor knew what she was feeling, at least in one sense.

She’d given Rebecca the rose petals she’d saved for so many years. They were a little worse for wear, but the last time she was at the shop, Eleanor had seen them in a dish by Patrick’s picture. Just because a husband—or wife—passed on didn’t mean the love they’d shared had died. It lived on in the hearts of the people who still loved them. Good-byes were simply part of this life, as much as Eleanor wished they weren’t.

But someday, in Christ, there would be
no
more good-byes. Only
together forever
s. She clung to that promise and determined to view this life through the lens of that hope.

She accepted Marcus’s offered arm, then heard “
Mr
. Geoffrey
” in a familiar voice and turned to see her aunt approaching.

Aunt Adelicia’s gaze briefly dropped to where Eleanor’s hand was tucked in the crook of Marcus’s arm. Eleanor had told her about accepting his proposal and though her aunt hadn’t forbidden the union, by any means, neither had she been overly thrilled.
Accepting
had been a better description of her reaction.

Eleanor knew a way to win her aunt over instantly. Tell her the truth about who Marcus was. But that was Marcus’s decision to reveal his heritage,
if
he ever chose to. Personally, Eleanor was glad they’d decided to keep it to themselves for now. But oh . . . she could well imagine her aunt’s expression if she ever learned the truth.

“Mr. Geoffrey,” her aunt continued, “I’m so glad I caught you. The
newest blooms you showed me yesterday . . . I’ve been living with the colors since then, and—” She sighed. “I fear none of them are yet what I’d envisioned.”

Eleanor felt Marcus’s arm tense.

“But I thought you said you were pleased, Mrs. Cheatham.”

Her aunt held up a hand. “I said I was pleased with your repeated efforts, Mr. Geoffrey. And I am! I also stated I would have to see the roses in the right light to be absolutely certain. And . . .” Her sweet smile belied the gleam in her eyes. “Now that you’re going to be staying, and that you’re going to be . . .
family
”
—
she gave Eleanor’s shoulder a gentle squeeze—“I’d like to see us continue working together for that one
perfect
rose. Like that of first dawn, if you remember. But not—”

“—too light,” Marcus supplied. “And with the slightest hint of purple. But not overly orange. And not too overt. Yes, madam.” He smiled. “I remember quite well.”

Looking more than pleased, her aunt took her leave, and Marcus exhaled.

“I’ll be grafting roses for that woman for the next decade, won’t I?”

“And long after . . . your highness,” Eleanor said, laughing softly.

She allowed him to lead her around his building and to the door she’d wanted to enter for months now.

“Finally?” she said, looking up at him.

“I hope you consider this worth the wait.”

“Without even seeing it, I can already tell you that it is.”

He unlocked the door, then waited, watching her. With a feigned sigh of impatience, she closed her eyes. The click of a latch, and he opened the door, then guided her inside.

She heard the soft
whoosh
of water, like rainfall only . . . more so, and a cool breeze accompanied the fresh scent. “I feel as if we’ve walked into another world,” she whispered, her other senses heightened without benefit of sight.

His hand tightened over hers in the crook of his arm. “Only a few more steps. Almost there.”

The soft click of her heeled boots betrayed a stone flooring or path of some kind, and a momentary touch of warmth kissed her face—sunshine slanting through the windows, or roof lanterns, perhaps?

“All right.” Marcus stopped beside here. “You can look.”

Anticipation buzzing through her, she opened her eyes and, in a rush, felt her giddiness succumb to disbelief—and complete enchantment.

“
Oh
, Marcus . . .”

All around her, every place she looked—partially hidden behind trees and shrubs, peeking from behind flower beds—delight drew the eye and fascination waited to be discovered.

Adorning two of the walls, from floor to high ceiling, painted murals brought to life the characters from the stories she and the other women had read to the children in the evenings following dinner. She recognized Red Riding Hood, the young girl who fought the big bad wolf. And the awkward, ugly little duckling and the graceful swan he eventually became.
That
story had a special place in her own heart.