A Beauty So Rare

by Tamera Alexander

  Aunt Adelicia sat straighter. “Enough of this remembering. A little makes one more grateful. An overabundance sows bitterness.” She reached for something on the table behind her. “Now . . . I’m especially thrilled at your arrival today, because there’s the dearest group of women I want you to meet. We gather once a week for coffee and to chitchat, and do something special. And tomorrow we’re meeting here! I’ve already told them all about you. You’ll adore them, and I know they’ll adore you.”

  Eleanor tried to appear enlivened at the prospect, but seeing what was in Aunt Adelicia’s hand made that difficult. That, and the fact she’d never enjoyed making small talk. Especially with people she didn’t know.

  “Tomorrow we have someone coming to teach us how to make these floral sachets.” Aunt Adelicia sniffed the perfumed bag in her hand, then held it out for Eleanor to do the same. The pungent scent caused Eleanor’s eyes to water.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” Aunt Adelicia beamed. “They’re made using crushed flower petals. Two weeks hence, a woman from England will be here to teach us how to make paper flowers. She sent me a sample in the mail sometime back.”

  Her aunt handed her the sachet, then retrieved a long, thin box from the desk drawer and withdrew a flower—a chrysanthemum, Eleanor thought—and handed it to her as well, proudly looking on.

  Holding the sachet in one hand and the flower in the other, Eleanor rotated the stem between her thumb and forefinger, not understanding why anyone would go to such great lengths to make something from paper when the real thing could be plucked not twenty feet away outside.

  Her aunt moved to stand beside her. “Isn’t the detail delightful?”

  “Yes. It’s . . . quite something.”

  Aunt Adelicia fingered the trailing scarlet ribbon cinching the top of the sachet. “The ribbons are hand-spun silk from France.”

  Considering the prospect of a life where hour upon hour would be spent making perfumed sachets, paper flowers, and chitchat, Eleanor found herself wishing for enough silk ribbon to loop around her own neck a few times—before pulling taut.

  “Of course, our ladies’ group takes part in other pursuits as well. We attend concerts, and the opera. Oh, and the ballet on occasion. So splendid. We also have a contingent—the Nashville Women’s League—that meets in town. There are a few women closer to your age in that group, so you would find that beneficial. They participate in . . .”

  Listening to the endless activities engaged in by Aunt Adelicia and her friends, not to mention the league, Eleanor felt a wall being erected around her at a rapid rate. Her aunt’s friends were all married women, and wealthy, judging from their apparent plentitude of leisure time and how they spent it. So very different from her own circumstances.

  The term royalty came to mind again, and she had to concede . . . the journalist who’d written that article did have a point. Her aunt and her aunt’s friends lived a charmed life, one her aunt was inviting her to live along with her. But Eleanor couldn’t.

  Between the perfumed sachet tainting the oxygen around her and already knowing how adamant her aunt could be once her mind was set, she found it impossible to breathe. It felt as if someone had cinched her corset too tight.

  “. . . and then last year, I conveyed all the ladies to New Orleans, where we took part in the festivities in the city before continuing on to my—”

  Eleanor stood abruptly, her thoughts colliding. She deposited the items on the coffee table. “Forgive me for interrupting, Aunt Adelicia. And I know you mean well, but . . .” She took a fortifying breath. How to speak her mind without causing hurt feelings? “But this . . .” She motioned to the sachet and the flower. “I’m sorry, but . . . this isn’t me.”

  The surprise in Aunt Adelicia’s face slowly melted to compassion. “Oh, my dear . . . I understand.” She gave Eleanor’s arm a squeeze. “With all you’ve had to bear, you simply haven’t had the same opportunities in life. But don’t be intimidated by—”

  “No.” Eleanor shook her head. “That’s not it. I . . .”

  She’d been waiting for the right moment, rehearsing it, and now that the moment had arrived, it wasn’t unfolding at all the way she’d hoped. Gone was the well-rehearsed speech. Seeing the uncertainty in her aunt’s expression, she prayed for the right words.

  “I appreciate what you’re attempting to do, Aunt Adelicia. Honestly. But the truth is . . . none of those activities appeals to me.” Oh, where were the words that would make her aunt understand? “I want to do something useful with my life, Aunt. Something that matters, that helps others. And if you’ll allow me, I have a plan I’d like to—”

  A single dark eyebrow rose, and Eleanor realized—too late—how her words must have sounded. A cloud moved over Aunt Adelicia’s features, and Eleanor braced herself for the storm.

  6

  Please forgive me, Aunt Adelicia. That did not come out at all in the way I intended. The meaning I proposed to convey was—”

  “I believe you’ve already conveyed what you meant, Eleanor.” Aunt Adelicia stared. “Whether or not it came out as intended.”

  Eleanor felt as though she’d taken something fragile and precious and had carelessly shattered it into a thousand pieces. And she had only herself to blame. “Aunt Adelicia . . .” She sighed and lowered her gaze, that same wave of weariness from earlier in the day sapping her strength. She wanted to sit again but didn’t dare while her aunt remained standing.

  Keenly aware of her situation and of how truly at the mercy of her aunt she was—but more so because she truly regretted hurting her—Eleanor lifted her head and met Adelicia’s leveled stare.

  “Please accept my apologies, Aunt. I did not intend to offend. Nor was it my intent to belittle you or your friends.” Thinking again of what she’d said, her face heated. “I’ve never been good at speaking around issues, Aunt Adelicia. Just as I’ve never been gifted at pretending I feel one thing when I feel another. It’s always seemed easier to simply speak my mind. Though, typically”—her laughter came out flat—“I’ve managed to communicate with more grace and reserve than was demonstrated just now.”

  Her aunt regarded her, and Eleanor knew whatever was coming, she likely deserved. Finally Aunt Adelicia sat and folded her hands neatly in her lap.

  With a look, she indicated for Eleanor to sit as well. “I, too, Eleanor, have always found that speaking the truth is the shortest route to a resolution.”

  Hearing that gave Eleanor reason to hope. She opened her mouth to respond, but her aunt raised a single slender forefinger. That tiniest of gestures carried a weight of meaning Eleanor understood completely.

  “However,” her aunt continued, “that particular route does not always ensure a peaceful end. Nor a satisfying end for either party.”

  As swiftly as hope had come, it retreated, and Eleanor waited, knowing better than to try to take the lead again.

  “A moment ago, you said you had a plan. And I believe you were about to share that plan with me.”

  Eleanor nodded but discovered her carefully practiced speech was now a jumble in her mind. Perhaps straightforward was best, after all. “I would . . . like a job.”

  The comment drew another raised eyebrow.

  “A job that would eventually allow me to earn enough money to live independently. With my father, of course. Assuming his . . . health improves. All my life, I’ve . . .” She stopped, realizing she’d misspoken. “For what feels like all my life, I’ve lived by another’s by-your-leave. I’m almost thirty years old. I have no prospects of marriage, nor any hope of such on the horizon. And I’ve accepted that. After all, I’m”—she sighed—“not the kind of woman that men generally consider beautiful.”

  Generally was a generous term. No man had ever told her she was beautiful. Sensing her aunt’s response, she rushed on.

  “But I am talented . . . and intelligent. I have abilities, and I welcome them being challenged so that I might continue to learn and grow.” Eleanor glanced down
at her hands. “Even as I hear myself saying this, I realize there’s a great chance you may perceive me as being unappreciative. But that isn’t the case. I shudder to think about where I, and my father, would be right now”—she looked up, an uncomfortable tightness in her chest—“without your kindness.”

  For the longest time, Aunt Adelicia said nothing.

  Seconds ticked past, and from somewhere outside, the low coo of a mourning dove drifted in through the open window.

  “I would like to offer you a position, Eleanor, and would if there were anything available . . . and suitable. But I’m afraid I already have a liaison . . . an assistant. We employ a tutor for our children, and I have a personal attorney as well as an entire law firm at my disposal. Dr. Cheatham manages the plantations in Louisiana at present. And as long as I have breath in my body, you will not be a servant in this home.” She started to say something, hesitated, and then smiled. “To be honest, you don’t want to work for me. I can sometimes be quite demanding.”

  Eleanor looked at her aunt seated across from her, and admired her more than she ever had. “Thank you for that, Aunt. But . . .” She chanced a slight wince, trying to signal that what she was about to say was likely not what her aunt expected. “I’m not asking for a job here at Belmont. In fact, I’ve paid for three months’ rent on a building in town. And signed a contract too. I . . . want to start a restaurant. I want to cook.”

  Aunt Adelicia blinked. Several times. “You . . . want to cook?”

  Eleanor nodded. “I want to be a chef, actually. I’ve been cooking for years, and I’m quite good. Women are starting cafés and restaurants all across the country in cities like New York, Philadelphia, and Atlanta. And they’re having great success. The world is changing, and those changes are bringing new opportunities for women.”

  Catching the faintest flicker of what she felt certain was interest in her aunt’s eyes, Eleanor’s courage rose. And the spark nudged a memory of something she’d planned to say. “The fourteenth amendment was recently ratified, granting black freedmen the right to vote. Everyone said it would never happen. But it has! And people are already talking about women being granted that right as well. Surely that won’t be far off, and there’s no telling what doors will be open to us then.”

  Still staring at her, her aunt frowned. “You want to be a cook. In a restaurant. In town.”

  It wasn’t a question. But again, Eleanor nodded. “The building used to be a small boardinghouse, but with a little renovation, I think it will meet my needs.”

  She hesitated, not wanting to admit the next part. Even though she’d prayed about her decision before acting on it, she dreaded her aunt’s reaction. “I haven’t actually seen the building yet. But the advertisement in the paper described it in detail, and the proprietor and I have exchanged letters. I reviewed his references and have every reason to believe he’s trustworthy.”

  For a moment, nothing. Then Aunt Adelicia gave a single nod. “Go on.” Her voice held neither approval nor disapproval—only command.

  “My agreement is only for three months. That’s all the money I could comfortably put down after arranging for Father’s care. The proprietor wasn’t keen on that time frame. He wanted a lengthier agreement and would still like to sell the building. But I convinced him to rent it to me. For the time being, at least.”

  Eleanor dared to smile, hoping to lighten the moment. But the moment won out, and her smile died.

  “What I want to speak to you about, Aunt Adelicia, is . . . I was thinking . . . actually, I was hoping that you, being a business-minded woman—and considering how you sometimes invest in businesses—would be willing to loan me the money to establish my own business and make my way. Of course, I’d pay you back, Aunt. Every penny. With interest.”

  Eleanor started to say more, but instinct told her she had said enough. From somewhere in the house, a clock chimed. Eight times. And each stroke seemed to last an eternity.

  Wordlessly, her aunt rose and crossed to the window. The sun had nearly set, and a breeze ruffled the lace tiering her skirt, bringing with it the sweet scent of late-blooming lavender.

  Her aunt stared out into the dusk. “I appreciate your enterprising spirit, Eleanor. I admire it, and even share it to a certain extent. It is . . . intoxicating to think of all that might lie ahead.”

  Feeling the flutter of what could only be described as her dream being given life, Eleanor sat straighter.

  “Eleanor . . . Elaine . . . Braddock,” her aunt said thoughtfully, turning back. The trace of a smile touched her mouth. “You’re a Braddock, but your grandmother was an Acklen. Having traced both of those lineages, I know you share the blood of strong, driven people, people who were pioneers and leaders. You hail from a family tree that is revered and that still commands honor and respect in the finest social circles, no matter your present circumstances.”

  Eleanor could scarcely believe this was happening. After all the planning, the dreaming, the daring to hope. After so much disappointment . . .

  “But as you were Joseph’s niece before his death, you are therefore . . . my niece. And no niece of mine is going to serve as a cook. And certainly not at some . . . common establishment in town. It would be disgraceful, void of propriety . . . for someone of our place in society.”

  “But . . . you said you admired my spirit. You said—”

  “I’ll do everything I can to help you make your way, Eleanor. But it will be in a proper manner worthy of the woman you are and the family from which you hail. I cannot sanction a path so contrary to one I believe you should be pursuing. Nor would I, being a business-minded woman, as you stated, ever choose to invest in a venture so fraught with risk and uncertainty.”

  She exhaled and moved from the window back to the settee but remained standing. “You invested money—even if short term—in a building you’ve never seen? Trusted the word of a man you’ve never met?” Aunt Adelicia gave a humorless laugh. “I dare to wonder if the building even exists. More than likely, the man with whom you dealt has long departed from Nashville, taking your contract—and your money—with him.”

  Eleanor bowed her head, because she couldn’t bear to sustain her aunt’s gaze, but also because she didn’t want Adelicia Acklen Cheatham to see her struggle to contain her emotions.

  “Eleanor . . . my dear . . .” Her aunt’s tone softened. “I can see how much this prospect means to you. And though I do not wish to argue about it further, I would like to suggest another possibility for your future.”

  Slowly Eleanor lifted her gaze.

  “As you know,” her aunt continued, “bonds are forged between families all the time—marriages built on mutual respect, a shared vision for the future, and the security of inherited wealth.”

  Eleanor listened, not quite following. What did this have to do with her restaurant? Then a sinking feeling formed in the pit of her stomach.

  “These unions aren’t accidental, of course. This is how posterity is assured and how upstanding families such as ours propagate their wealth.” Aunt Adelicia paused, her smile ever radiant. “I trust you’re following my thread of thought, Eleanor.”

  Eleanor rose from the settee, the very act feeling like one of defiance, considering her aunt’s height was so much less than her own. “Aunt Adelicia, I’m not interested in . . . propagating wealth. Nor do I wish to marry a man simply for his money. Even if such a man existed who would be interested in me now that the bloom is off the rose.”

  Adelicia lifted her chin and glared. “Of course you wouldn’t marry a man only for his money. I would be ashamed of such a choice on your part if you did. However”—her expression softened—“friendships develop from acquaintances, and over time, those often lead to . . . something more.”

  Aunt Adelicia smoothed a hand over her skirt, briefly looking away as she did. “Understanding this . . . in recent weeks I have exercised the liberty of making discreet inquiries of a number of our widowed or single gentlemen friends about the
ir . . . personal plans for the future.”

  Eleanor stifled a groan. “You didn’t . . .” But seeing her aunt’s nod, she closed her eyes. It took every bit of willpower for her not to grab the silk ribbon from the potpourri and end it all right then.

  “I’m sorry to report, however,” her aunt continued, “I haven’t found a suitable match as of yet. But I haven’t exhausted my search, by any means, so I’m confident I will be successful.”

  Eleanor let out the breath she’d been holding. “I wouldn’t cling too closely to that confidence, Aunt Adelicia.” Feeling more beaten and bruised by the minute, she tried not to show it. “I gave up on the possibility of my marrying a long time ago.”

  “Well, I haven’t. You’re a bright young woman, Eleanor, with much to offer. We simply have to find the right man.”

  Eleanor couldn’t bring herself to respond but noted her aunt’s chin lifting ever so slightly. “I take no pleasure in disappointing you this evening, Eleanor, as I so obviously have done. But your request is simply out of the question. I am quite adamant on the matter.” Her aunt’s voice—steel in velvet—came softly in the silence. “Furthermore, I am not accustomed to having my wishes questioned, nor defied, especially by my own family. So please, my dear . . . do not broach this subject with me again.”

  Later, in the finest guest quarters of the mansion—or so the young servant girl had said—Eleanor changed into her nightgown. She’d been a little surprised at the location of the suite—located in the east wing, directly off the hallway from the formal and family dining rooms. The views of the estate from her windows were exceptional, even draped in moonlight, and Eleanor was grateful.

  She climbed into bed, the sheets cool against her legs, her aunt’s warning still echoing in the silence. Wanting the feel of something familiar, she reached for the dog-eared volume on the bedside table, one from which she’d derived much pleasure through the years. The title—Conversations on Common Things—was barely legible, and she thumbed to the place marked by the ribbon, then began reading. But the words by Dorothea Dix fell uncommonly flat.