A Beauty So Rare

by Tamera Alexander

  Eleanor followed the woman for almost two blocks, trying to work up the nerve to approach her. Her stomach churned. Her thoughts did too. In her mind, she kept hearing the elderly woman’s harsh rebuke and didn’t wish to repeat that.

  She’d helped people before, had volunteered during the war, for heaven’s sake. But this was different. This wasn’t like binding up a wound or tying a tourniquet. This kind of wound wasn’t visible, but it was real, nonetheless.

  She saw it in the frail set of the woman’s thin shoulders and in the worn dress that hung a little too loosely in all the wrong places.

  The woman slowed her pace, and Eleanor did likewise, watching as she paused briefly in front of the fruit stand at the mercantile before continuing on.

  Determined, Eleanor maneuvered around passersby, silently rehearsing what she would say. She wanted the words to come out right, not to sound as though her desire to help stemmed from pity. She knew what it was like to receive a gift from someone who felt sorry for her, and it wasn’t an experience she was eager to cause.

  Closing the distance, she inhaled, trying to calm her nerves, surprised at how jittery she was when she simply wanted to offer—

  Just then the woman did an about-face. Eleanor sucked in a breath, and barely managed to keep from plowing right into her.

  “May I help you, ma’am?” The woman’s voice was soft but direct, and bore a distinct—and familiar—accent.

  Feeling off-kilter, Eleanor took a hasty step back, uncertain how to respond. “I . . . I was following you just now.”

  “Yes, I know. I saw you.” The woman didn’t appear angry so much as cautiously curious. “First, back at Foster’s Mill for the work call. Then”—she gestured with a nod—“in the reflection in the window back there.”

  Frowning, Eleanor glanced behind her at the mercantile and, sure enough, saw the street mirrored back in the pristine plate glass. She exhaled, feeling more than a little foolish—and also impressed. “I’m sorry if I frightened you. That wasn’t my intent.”

  “You did not frighten me, ma’am. But I am . . . curious as to why you follow me.”

  “Well, when I saw you back at the mill, I . . .” Eleanor hesitated, trying to read the woman’s expression and failing. She finally decided to just state it outright, the words spilling out on top of each other. “I would like to help you, if I can. I don’t know what you need. Or if you need anything. But I’ve been in need before. I know what that feels like, and . . .” Her throat tightened with emotion. “It can be a very lonely time. And overwhelming.”

  The woman studied her for a moment. “Why me? Out of all those women?”

  Eleanor thought about it. “When I looked up, you were the only one walking away alone.” Her smile felt timid. “Everyone else I heard was complaining, and . . . I’d already tried to help an elderly woman, but”—she winced—“that attempt didn’t fare well.”

  A trace of humor touched the woman’s eyes. “Likely, that was Berta. She is not one to be meddled with. No matter how good your intentions.”

  “Yes . . .” Eleanor sighed. “I discovered that. But you . . . you didn’t seem angry. Or hostile. You seemed . . . resigned. ” She shook her head. “No. That’s not the right word.” Almost certain she’d felt the word whispered inside her, she finally said, “Reconciled—that’s what I sensed when I watched you walk away. And . . . as I’ve learned from experience, there’s a big difference between resigning yourself to something and being reconciled.”

  The woman bowed her head. When she looked up, her eyes were moist. “Yes, miss, there is. To be reconciled requires hope.” Her voice caught. Her smile trembled. “Even if that hope is thin.”

  More certain than ever that she’d done the right thing in following her instincts, Eleanor had an idea. She surveyed their surroundings and spotted a familiar sign not too far down the street. “This may seem somewhat forward, but . . . would you join me for a meal? I’d be obliged if you would allow me to treat you at the bakery.”

  The woman appeared to consider the offer, absently chewing the corner of her lip. Then she shook her head. “I am sorry . . . I cannot accept. But if you have work that needs to be done this afternoon, perhaps some washing or ironing. I could do that for you . . . in exchange.”

  Eleanor’s admiration for the woman deepened, and she didn’t have to think long about what she wanted to hire her for. “I’m afraid I don’t have any ironing or washing, but . . . how are you at cleaning?”

  The woman smiled. “I am very good at cleaning, ma’am. And I do not mind hard work.”

  “Fine, then. We’ll start first thing in the morning.” Eleanor gestured. “If you’ll join me at the bakery now, we can discuss the details.”

  The woman peered up at her. “I work first, ma’am. Then I get paid.”

  Eleanor needed to get back to Belmont. And she was on foot, which meant it would take even longer. She tried to think of something the woman could do to earn a little food for the evening meal, but nothing came to—

  She’d almost forgotten. She had one more errand to run.

  “There is something you can do for me today, if you don’t mind.” Eleanor unlatched her satchel. “And surely this is worth a loaf of bread and some cheese.”

  What could only be described as hope slipped into the woman’s eyes. But as Eleanor withdrew the letter she’d written to her father, she stilled when seeing the address on the front.

  G. Braddock. Tennessee Asylum for the Insane. Did she really want her father’s whereabouts revealed?

  Sensing the woman waiting, Eleanor realized the longer she hesitated, the more attention she drew. Grateful her thoughts were hidden, she found herself weighing the cost of others discovering where her father was against the probability that this woman would go hungry tonight.

  Aided by the weight of shame, the scales tipped. And Eleanor found she could breathe again.

  “I have a letter to be mailed,” she continued. “And the post office is several blocks away. I’d be so grateful if you’d see to it for me.”

  The woman took the envelope, her gaze never leaving Eleanor’s. “Thank you, ma’am,” she whispered, her chin quivering. “I will do this now.”

  Eleanor handed her a coin. “For the postage. I’ll be waiting for you at the bakery.”

  The woman nodded, a single tear slipping down her cheek. She turned to leave.

  “Oh, before you go!” Eleanor said, waiting for her to turn back. “My name is Eleanor. Eleanor Braddock.”

  “It is an honor to meet you, Miss Braddock. My name is Naomi.” The woman’s smile lit her face. “Naomi Lebenstein.”

  Nearly two hours later, Eleanor passed the outskirts of town, weary in body but with her spirits renewed. Naomi Lebenstein was a dear woman. And she was from Austria, as Eleanor had suspected. She had a son too, and when Naomi spoke about him, her countenance brightened with unabashed pride.

  Naomi hadn’t shared her full story. But she had said she was a recent widow, among the thousands of others in the city.

  The sun sank low on the horizon, and Eleanor increased her pace, eager to get back. Despite her fatigue, she marveled at the wash of color in the sky. Golden orange, pink, and purple, each hue distinct but melding into the others. The scene reminded her of a portrait hanging in the front entrance hall at Belmont entitled An American Versailles.

  Thinking of Belmont made her ponder what she would say if Aunt Adelicia asked her about being gone all day. Eleanor switched the satchel from one hand to the other, her shoulders tired. Surely she wouldn’t be expected to give account for every hour. She was a grown woman, after all.

  Hearing a carriage approach from behind, she moved to the edge of the dirt road and glanced over her shoulder, hopeful it would be Armstead, or at least a carriage from Belmont. But it was no one she recognized, and the carriage passed.

  She waited for the swirl of dust to clear, then continued on.

  A mile down the road, with a mile yet to go and
frustrated at being so tired, she debated whether to stop and rest. Her feet ached, as did her back. The cleaning had taken more out of her than she’d expected it to. But she refused to stop. When the day came that she couldn’t walk two miles, then—

  Hoofbeats sounded some distance behind her, and she moved again to the side for the rider to pass. But when the hoofbeats slowed from a gallop to a canter, then to a walk, she turned.

  Seeing who was astride the stallion, she instantly warmed but did her best to keep her pleasure from showing. Her lack of experience with men had, oddly enough, not left her without lessons learned. It was best a man not know what you thought of him until you were more familiar with the man.

  “Good evening, Mr. Geoffrey.”

  He reined in, the pleasure in his own expression going slack. “Mr. Geoffrey?” His dark brows drew together. “Please tell me we’ve not taken a backward step since our last meeting . . . Eleanor. And what are you doing walking all this way? Did you not arrange for a carriage? Or did your driver not return as planned?”

  Deciding to ignore his playful reprimand, she went straight to his questions. “Neither, actually. Armstead drove me into town, but I told him I preferred to return on foot.”

  He leaned forward. “On foot? All that way.”

  “As you see.” She made a sweeping gesture with her arm. “It’s only two miles . . . Marcus. It’s not that far.”

  His mouth tipped on one side. Not a smile really, at least not a full one. But it might as well have been for the effect it had on her.

  “You’re an interesting woman, Eleanor.”

  She cocked her head. “And again, I must say that your compliments, sir—if that is, indeed, what was intended—need work.”

  With a laugh, he swung down from his horse. “Duly noted, madam. Now, I ask that you allow me to give you a ride home”—he glanced at the stallion—“if you’re willing to brave Regal’s fierceness.”

  “Regal? Quite a name for quite a horse. The name is of your choosing, I suppose?”

  “Not at all. He was already named when I purchased him.” A glimmer of humor lit his eyes as he held out his hand. “But I admit the name drew me.”

  Eleanor stroked the thoroughbred’s sleek neck. “I love horses, actually. And he’s a beauty.” She studied Marcus’s outstretched hand, then looked back at him. “As much as I adore walking and would customarily decline your polite offer . . . today, I’m most grateful for it.”

  She set her satchel down, slipped her hand into his, and accepted his assistance onto the horse. Sitting sidesaddle, she arranged her skirts to cover her legs, impressed with his generosity.

  “Thank you, Marcus, for giving up your—”

  When he swung up behind her—very close behind her—Eleanor stiffened. She’d simply assumed that he would—

  “You don’t mind me riding along with you, do you?” Amusement peppered his deep voice as he handed her the satchel. He reached around her to adjust the reins. “Regal is well capable of carrying us both, and it seems a shame for me to walk when we can ride and . . . visit.”

  More than a little unnerved at their close proximity, and feeling the gleam in the man’s eyes, Eleanor determined to keep her focus on the road ahead—but his rolled-up shirtsleeves revealed sinewy forearms brown from the sun, arms now resting on well-muscled thighs.

  Having shied away from ever carrying a fancy lace fan—what with all the silly nonsense about signaling romantic cues to a man across the room—she had to admit . . .

  What she wouldn’t have done at that moment for a slight breeze.

  But she wasn’t about to let him get the best of her. Not when she knew he was doing this just to get a reaction from her.

  “Why, of course I don’t mind, Marcus.” She smoothed a hand over her skirt. “I simply didn’t realize Austrian men suffered from such weak constitutions.”

  His laughter was immediate, and his breath warmed her cheek, sending shivers skittering from the top of her spine to the tips of her toes. Eleanor took a steadying breath. So much for putting him in his place.

  He prodded Regal to a walk, and Eleanor tried in vain not to dwell on the solidness of Marcus’s chest, or on how his arms encircled her waist as he held the reins. She noticed everything about him, from the scent of his bay rum and spice cologne to his skill in handling the powerful thoroughbred.

  His hands were large, but not as rough and calloused as she’d expected. Nor was there dirt beneath his nails. His fingers were like those of a pianist, and she wondered whether he played. Then remembering his occupation, she realized he’d probably never had opportunity to learn. Though she shouldn’t be quick to judge. Aunt Adelicia took pride in hiring her gardeners from the finest garden houses and estates in Europe. Who knew what education the men received in their training?

  And based upon what she’d seen of this man’s skills, she wouldn’t be a bit surprised if Marcus Geoffrey executed a flawless sonata.

  “So tell me,” he said, peering around at her. “What lured you into town today? Anything I might need to know about?”

  Humor edged his voice, and she smiled at his feeble attempt to learn more about the building she’d rented. “Oh, this and that. Various errands. I went to the bakery again.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “I did.”

  “Without me?”

  She nodded, feeling his chin all but resting on the top of her head. “And the doughnuts were even better than the other day.”

  He laughed again, and she liked the sound of it up close. The resonant rumble in his chest.

  The sun wouldn’t set for another two hours. But already, to the east, the barest hint of a thumbnail moon graced the horizon, the pale sliver overeager to begin its nightly trek.

  Eleanor had to admit, this was much better than walking, and she liked that Marcus didn’t feel compelled to fill the silence.

  He guided the horse through the massive columns of chiseled limestone marking the entrance to Belmont, and the peacefulness and beauty of the setting made it feel as though they were entering another world. Which they were in a sense, when contrasted with what she’d seen today.

  She thought of Naomi and her son. It hadn’t occurred to her to ask how old he was. She hoped the bread and cheese would be enough until morning. And though she hadn’t mentioned anything to Naomi, she was already making plans for breakfast and lunch tomorrow.

  Marcus shifted behind her, and Eleanor glanced back.

  “Are you all right back there? Not about to fall off, are you?”

  “I’m fine, madam. I’m simply . . . enjoying the view.”

  She liked that he wasn’t addressing her as “your ladyship” anymore. It proved that, though the man was arrogant, he was teachable. That said a lot.

  “Oh!” she whispered, squeezing his arm. “Look!” She nodded toward a doe and two fawns grazing a short distance off the road. The doe raised its head, senses alert, as they passed but didn’t bolt. Neither did her young. Beautiful . . .

  “So,” she said, keeping her voice quiet. “What were you doing in town today? Another errand for Mrs. Cheatham?”

  “I . . . had business to tend to. But I’ve been eager to get back here. A special flower I grafted is due to bloom any day now. Three plants, actually. With several blooms.”

  “A flower . . .” She raised an eyebrow. “Grafted how?”

  “Your aunt requested a rose in a most . . . particular color. A blush pink, like that of first dawn,” he said, as though repeating instructions verbatim. “But not too light. And with the slightest hint of purple.”

  Eleanor laughed, knowing whom he was mimicking and able to imagine the inflections in her aunt’s voice. But she was also impressed. “You can do that? With flowers, I mean. Create such specific colors?”

  “And shapes and sizes of petals, and stems. We can determine whether the blossom will be of a more delicate variety, or heartier. But it follows . . . the heartier it is, typically the less aesthetical
ly pleasing.”

  Eleanor nodded, the familiar descriptions handsome and sturdy coming to mind. But what captured her attention most was the passion in his voice.

  “It’s been a challenge,” he continued, “creating a blossom that will be beautiful enough to satisfy Mrs. Cheatham’s taste, while also assuring it possesses the traits to endure the elements. She requested that it bloom in the front garden throughout the summer. So, in full sun.”

  “And how long does it take to . . . develop a flower like this?”

  “It’s taken years, of course, to acquire the knowledge we have thus far, which is considerable. So—”

  “So the more you’ve learned, the faster the process has become.”

  “You would think so. But that’s not necessarily the case. So many variables influence the outcome of each grafting.”

  He leaned closer as he spoke, his arms tightening around her. Eleanor guessed it was an unconscious gesture on his part, and couldn’t decide whether she was pleased or perturbed that the gesture wasn’t more intentional.

  “I’m collaborating with a botanist from Massachusetts. We’re grafting trees and other plants, and are sharing our findings, which is immensely helpful. Through experimentation, we select the plants that conform to our designs, and then destroy the others. We segregate the chosen ones so their qualities won’t be lost in breeding with the mass. The law of heredity—like produces like, if you will—is interwoven inextricably with the law of variation, which proposes that no two organisms are ever exactly alike. We’re very close, but we’ve yet to isolate . . .”

  Eleanor smiled, listening to him.

  He paused, then peered around at her. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Please continue.”

  “You’re laughing at me.”

  “I’m not laughing at you.”

  “You’re smiling.”

  Hearing the boyish accusation in his tone did tempt her to laugh, and then she couldn’t hold back.

  “I’m not laughing at you, Marcus. I’m simply moved by how much you seem to love what you do. And you do, don’t you?”

  His hands briefly tightened on the reins. “Yes . . . I do. Since childhood, I’ve been fascinated with nature. But grafting, or . . . gardening,” he said more pointedly, his tone growing more somber, “is actually only part of what I . . .”