Beauty So Rare, A (A Belmont Mansion Novel Book #2) (7 page)

She glanced at her watch again and cringed to see the minute hand so closely approaching the twelve. If she was late for her aunt due to this foolishness . . .

“You must excuse me, Mr. Geoffrey. I truly need to be on my way.”

Gaining her bearings, she set off. And again, she heard him behind her.

“I’m grafting plants.”

She glanced back, not understanding.

“What you saw in the room. You said you were curious. That’s what I’m working on. I’m grafting plants to make them stronger, to create more beautiful flowers. And to introduce colors we’ve not seen before.”

“Ah . . . how interesting,” she said over her shoulder, then heard him laugh beneath his breath.

“Which is what someone says when they’re not really interested but want to appear as though they are.”

Spotting the door through which she’d first gained entrance, Eleanor paused and turned back. “Not to be rude, Mr. Geoffrey, but . . .” She glanced around. “I’ve never been overly fond of flowers. I simply don’t see the need.”

Disbelief filtered across his expression, and she offered a tiny shrug. “But I’m certain that, whatever it is you’re doing, my aunt must be most grateful for your services. And being an under gardener here at the Belmont estate . . . well, that’s quite an accomplishment in itself.”

“An under gardener,” he repeated, his eyes taking on a bemused cast. “Yes, being an under gardener is a very respectable position.”

“Indeed, it is.”

“You’re a person that prizes logic, aren’t you, Miss Braddock? And you’re quite straightforward. . . . for a woman, I mean.”

Eleanor squinted. “I beg your pardon?”

“No, no . . .” His brow furrowed. “I meant it as a compliment . . . your ladyship.”

She exhaled, not liking the silly title he’d assigned her. “Then your compliments need work, Mr. Geoffrey. Much like your
Selenicereus grandiflorus
.” Enjoying the surprise in his eyes, she gestured to the cactus she’d seen before, then continued toward the door, speaking over her shoulder. “If your determination is to make plants more beautiful, you might want to start there.”

She pushed the door open and glanced back to see him watching her. To her surprise, he bowed at the waist.

“It was, indeed, a pleasure, Miss Braddock.”

Suddenly all she could picture was him in a black cutaway with tails, complete with tailored vest and trousers that complimented his lean physique. It surprised her how at home he looked in the imaginary garb. And how affected she was by imagining him in it.

She blinked to clear the image, still trying to sort out the man. “Likewise, I’m sure, Mr. Geoffrey.” She let the door close behind her and all but ran the entire way to the mansion.

 5 

B
y the time Eleanor scaled the front steps and reached the door, she was winded and perspiring.

A stony-faced housekeeper offered her entrance, and Eleanor stepped inside and introduced herself. Mrs. Routh, the
head
—with strong emphasis—housekeeper, gave her a good looking over, and Eleanor swiftly deduced the woman’s opinion of pink.

She was, however, grateful when Mrs. Routh said nothing about her ensemble and gestured for her to follow.

The mansion’s interior was even more beautiful than Eleanor remembered. To her immediate left, beautiful in detail and so lifelike beneath a massive portrait of Adelicia and one of her daughters, was an exquisite statuary of two children sleeping. Eleanor didn’t remember having seen it before.

But—she slowed, her eyes widening—there was one piece of artwork that most definitely hadn’t been here on her last visit. She would have remembered it, for certain.

Situated in the middle of the entrance hall, in front of the marble fireplace, stood a most
evocative
statue issuing a rather bold greeting, and Eleanor couldn’t help staring as she passed it. The sculpture was of a woman kneeling down, sheaves of wheat draped across her arm. But it was the artist’s rendering of the subject’s clothing that drew her attention.

The woman’s dress had slipped from her shoulder to reveal—for all who entered the Belmont mansion to see—a rather shapely breast. An interesting choice for an artist to make, most certainly, but even more interesting that Aunt Adelicia chose to display the statue in the front entrance hall.

Eleanor’s gaze moved to the mantel clock, and she squeezed her eyes tight. She took a deep breath in an effort to calm a sudden flurry
of nerves, then smoothed the wrinkles from the front of her skirt. She never should have stopped by the conservatory.

What she wouldn’t have given right then to wring the muscular neck of a certain under gardener.

Spotting Mrs. Routh several paces ahead, Eleanor hurried on.

No matter where she looked—from the richly patterned wallpaper and lavish draperies, to the flowered English Wilton wall-to-wall carpet, to the magnificent bronze chandeliers illuminated by gas-fed flames—beauty reigned supreme. Paintings adorned nearly every inch of wall space. Eleanor wished for more time to view them.

But she had no choice but to hurry and catch up again.

Mrs. Routh rapped softly on the glass pane of the central parlor door, then turned the knob. “Your niece has arrived, Mrs. Cheatham.”

Choosing to ignore the punitive trace in Mrs. Routh’s tone, Eleanor gained her first glimpse of her aunt sitting poised on a settee. Aunt Adelicia’s dark hair—without any touches of gray as far as she could see—was swept up and gathered in wispy curls. No matter the passage of years, Adelicia Acklen Cheatham was still stunning. No less than Eleanor had expected.

Eleanor’s gaze met that of her aunt, and she felt an unexpected rush of emotion as she remembered the last time she’d visited Belmont—with her mother and father and Teddy. Now all of them, including Uncle Joseph, were gone.

Or . . . almost.

“Aunt Adelicia . . .” Eleanor curtsied. “How wonderful to see you again after all these years. Thank you for allowing me to come and live with you. Though, I hope it won’t be for too long. I don’t want to become a nuisance. I’ll work hard to make certain that’s not the case.”

Realizing she was talking too much, Eleanor literally bit the tip of her tongue.

Aunt Adelicia rose from the settee with beauty and grace, and with an elegance customarily ascribed to . . .
royalty
. Eleanor could not argue with the truth.

Her aunt was so petite, her movements delicate and graceful, couched in femininity yet with undeniable strength, and Eleanor found herself wishing she were more like that and less like . . . herself.

Aunt Adelicia inclined her head, her smile ever radiant. “Welcome to Belmont, Eleanor, my dear. You’re
late
.”

Still nursing the slight sting from Aunt Adelicia’s politely framed rebuke, Eleanor took another bite of creamed sweet potatoes, whipped lighter and fluffier than she’d ever tasted, and observed the family interaction around the Cheatham dinner table.

Six children, ranging in age from eight to eighteen, including Dr. Cheatham’s teenage daughter and son, chattered away, while Dr. Cheatham and Aunt Adelicia contributed as well. Laughter abounded, as did the variety of topics and tasteful cuisine, and as Eleanor watched her four younger cousins, who appeared enamored with their new sister and brother, it was obvious that the blending of families with Aunt Adelicia’s third marriage was a success.

But despite the warmth and gaiety of the setting, including the fine scalloped china and crystal goblets filled to the brim with ice and freshly squeezed lemonade—such a luxury—Eleanor couldn’t dispel the loneliness in the pit of her stomach.

The scene caused her to miss her father even more.

She wondered how he was, if he was adjusting. Had he eaten dinner? Sometimes it took some coaxing for him to eat.
Please, Lord
—she squeezed her eyes tight—
let
him get better.

She was grateful for the time she and Aunt Adelicia had spent together earlier. Although she hadn’t had an abundance of her own
pleasantries
to exchange, she’d enjoyed learning what was happening in the Cheatham family.

For all that might be said about her aunt, Adelicia Cheatham was a devoted mother.

Eleanor had hoped the right moment would come to present her idea to her aunt, but it never had. So when dinner drew to a close, she determined to try again.

She accompanied her aunt and Dr. Cheatham into the small study, and was more than a little surprised when Pauline—who’d proudly announced at dinner that she would turn nine soon—snuggled up beside her on the settee.

Eleanor hadn’t seen Pauline since the girl was a tiny thing, perhaps a year old. And that had been in Alabama at an Acklen family gathering, after her own mother had died but before the war.

She remembered holding Pauline as a baby and struggling with the desire to have a child of her own. She’d relinquished that hope years ago, or liked to think she had. In moments like this, however, the distant heartbeat of the mother she might have been crept ever closer, pulsing with renewed warmth beneath the surface of her skin.

Pauline looked up and linked her arm through Eleanor’s. “Where are
your
children?”

“Pauline!” Aunt Adelicia softly scolded. “That is not a proper question to ask a woman . . . of
any
age.”

Scowling, Pauline lowered her head, but Eleanor had to smile. In features and coloring, Pauline was the spitting image of Aunt Adelicia, and had the makings of her mother’s boldness as well—though perhaps without the acquired decorum just yet.

“That’s all right, Aunt Adelicia. I take no offense.” Eleanor looked down and smoothed Pauline’s dark hair. “You asked that because it seems as though I’m old enough to be a mother. Is that correct?”

Pauline shot Aunt Adelicia a guarded look, then nodded.

“Well, you’re right,” Eleanor continued. “I am old enough to have children. But the reason I don’t is because I’ve never married.”

Already seeing another question forming in the girl’s mind, Eleanor hoped it was one she could answer in mixed company.

“Why
aren’t
you married?”

“Pauline Acklen!” This time embarrassment tinged Aunt Adelicia’s scolding.

But Eleanor, seeing the question for what it was—innocent curiosity—couldn’t blame the child. Not when she possessed the same trait herself. She quietly considered where her own curiosity—albeit, far less innocent—had landed her earlier that very day.

She aimed a look at her aunt and Dr. Cheatham, silently requesting their permission to proceed. Dr. Cheatham, who was swiftly losing his battle to contain a smile, glanced at his wife, who nodded, her scowl quite pronounced.

“The reason I’m not married, Pauline, is because . . . I’ve never met a man I’ve wanted to marry.” Even though that was the truth, an underlying and more pronounced truth lingered beneath it, around it. And filled every inch of space in the room. “And it’s also due, in part, to the fact that . . .” Eleanor was surprised at the warmth rising to her cheeks, and at how difficult the next words were to say aloud. “I’ve never had a man ask for my hand in marriage.”

Pauline’s dark brows pinched together, and Eleanor tried to imagine what question was coming next.

“So . . .” The girl pursed her lips. “The man has to do the asking?”

Grateful for the reprieve from the personal questions, Eleanor gave her cousin’s little arm a squeeze. “It’s customary, yes. But it’s also something that most couples will have discussed, at least to some degree,
before the gentleman takes it upon himself to ask the lady. So when it comes your time”—she brushed a kiss to Pauline’s brow, tossing a wink in her aunt’s direction—“and a young man you love very much asks for your hand in marriage, it shouldn’t come as a surprise.”

Even as she said it, Eleanor knew she was perpetuating the promise of a reality that didn’t come true for every girl, especially in the aftermath of the war, with marriageable men so scarce. But it would come true for Pauline Acklen—pretty, vivacious, and from an enormously wealthy family. Someday Pauline would have her pick of suitors.

Apparently satisfied with the response, Pauline jumped up from the settee, darted for the door, and then turned. “When I grow up,” she announced, hand on hip, “and I meet a man I want to marry, if he doesn’t ask me first, I’m going to ask
him
.”

She closed the door with a thud, her youthful declaration hanging in the stunned silence.

Dr. Cheatham’s quiet laughter dispelled it. “Your daughter grows more like you every day, my dear.”

Eleanor smiled, especially seeing the droll look Aunt Adelicia shot him.

“You know very well, Dr. Cheatham, that I am a woman who believes most strongly in the traditional and . . .”

Still listening to the conversation, Eleanor’s attention was drawn to the open window. Though dusk cast its purplish spell, it was still light outside, and she spotted Mr. Gray and a man she didn’t recognize walking in the front gardens. It wasn’t until she found herself scanning the remainder of the grounds that she realized who she was looking for—

And quickly stopped.

A brief knock sounded, and Cordina, Belmont’s head cook, entered the small study carrying a silver service.

Eleanor remembered the woman’s name because she could hardly wait to ask her about the dishes they’d enjoyed at dinner—the smooth-as-silk sweet potatoes, the butter beans so tender without being mushy, and the roasted pork. The meat had practically melted in her mouth.

“Brought you all your evenin’ coffee, Mrs. Cheatham. With some of my teacakes, o’ course.”

“Thank you, Cordina.” Aunt Adelicia moved a book from the table. “And again, dinner tonight was delicious.”

“Yes,” Eleanor added. “It certainly was. When you have time, Cordina, I’d love to know how you get your pork roast so tender.”