A Beauty So Rare

by Tamera Alexander

  Having bet right, Marcus felt no victory at the win.

  “I appreciate your invitation, Aunt Adelicia. But, as we discussed . . . I believe it’s best I stay here. I have plenty to keep me busy.”

  Seeming hesitant, Mrs. Cheatham finally nodded. “Quite right, my dear, of course. But promise me you’ll write every day.”

  Eleanor narrowed her eyes playfully. “How about every other?”

  Mrs. Cheatham patted her hand in parting but turned when she reached the door. “Be sure, Eleanor, to wear your pink ensemble for your upcoming dinner with Mr. Hockley. He’s so looking forward to the two of you getting to know each other better. He said as much in a recent missive to Dr. Cheatham, in which he also shared how much he enjoyed receiving your letter. He said it was most . . . encouraging.”

  Marcus and Eleanor glanced at each other at the same time. Then just as quickly looked away.

  “Yes, Aunt, I’ll do that. Thank you.”

  “And please keep working on my rose, Mr. Geoffrey. I’m eager to see its culmination. Preferably before next summer, for obvious reasons.”

  Marcus tensed at the mention of next summer. In the course of their business dealings, he’d made Mrs. Cheatham aware of his scheduled return to Austria, but he hadn’t counted on her—

  “And please do check with the architect on the billiard hall,” Mrs. Cheatham continued. “He’s expecting your input, Mr. Geoffrey. I trust you’ll watch over the project in my absence. Any problems at all, and Mr. Monroe will know where to wire me.”

  Keenly aware of Eleanor’s scrutiny, Marcus managed an informal bow. “It will be my pleasure, Mrs. Cheatham. Safe journey, madam.”

  As Mrs. Cheatham’s footfalls receded, he felt Eleanor’s continued attention. No doubt, she was questioning the mention of next summer, and also why her aunt would ask an under gardener to oversee a building project. But he had his own questions, such as who this Hockley fellow might be, and exactly what the nature of the man’s interest in Eleanor was.

  He looked over at her, knowing he needed to offer explanations and hoping she wouldn’t be upset.

  But to his surprise . . . she looked as though she was trying not to laugh.

  21

  The architect is expecting your input?” Eleanor knew she shouldn’t laugh but she couldn’t help it. “The look on your face, Marcus, when she asked you to check with him . . .” She shook her head. “My aunt truly does think highly of her gardeners, doesn’t she?”

  She smiled up at him, then paused, noticing he wasn’t laughing. “What?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong. But . . . the reason she asked me to check with him is because . . .” His mouth slowly edged up on one side. Amusement lit his eyes. “I am an architect.”

  She stared, then gradually realized what he was up to and decided to play along.

  “And I’m an international chef who’s been invited to cook for the season in Paris.” She struck her best snobbish pose. “But not to worry. I’ll still allow you to eat my creations. On occasion.”

  He laughed, the sound rich and inviting, and the look in his eyes deepened, much like it had last evening in this very room.

  “No, Eleanor.” His deep voice was soft. “I’m serious. That’s what I was trying to tell you last night.”

  She searched his expression, her humor fading as she caught evidences of truth. “You’re not teasing?”

  He shook his head. “No, madam. I am not.”

  “But . . . you told me you were an under gardener.”

  He gave her a look. “When we first met, right out there”—he pointed—“you assumed I was an under gardener.” He shrugged. “I simply never bothered correcting you.”

  She thought back—remembering the look on his face at the moment in question, the way he had bowed—and she realized he was right. She had made that assumption.

  She stepped back and looked at him, trying to see him for the first time all over again. “You . . . are an architect?”

  He laughed again. “Is it that difficult to believe?”

  “No. And . . . yes. You just seem like a gardener.” She waved her arm. “Look at all of this. Look at what you’ve done.”

  He fingered the leaf of one of the many shunned roses. “I’m an architect who has a passion for botany. Everything I’ve told you is true, Eleanor.” He leaned in. “Except . . . for that day in the bakery, when I had to leave. I didn’t really have trees to plant and weeds to pull. I had to get back to the project we were working on at the time.”

  “We?”

  He nodded. “I own a construction company.”

  She laughed. “Of course you do.” But she meant it this time. “What were you working on then?”

  “A warehouse downtown. A renovation.”

  “And what are you working on now?”

  A shadow crossed his face. “Another renovation, actually.”

  “Is that what you like to do most? Renovations?”

  “No.” His laughter came out flat. “That’s merely where the work happens to be available right now. My preference is new construction. I recently submitted bids to design and build two other projects—a photography studio and a library. But I have yet to hear back from them.”

  “I predict you will. Very soon. And that you’ll be awarded the contracts.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Then I’ll choose to believe the same.” Yet his manner lacked his usual bravado.

  “Well . . .” Mindful of the time, Eleanor glanced at the chatelaine watch affixed to her shirtwaist. “I’d best be getting back.”

  He gestured. “Allow me to see you out.”

  “Why? Lest I cannot find one of the seven doors located along that north wall just there?” She attempted to mimic the same tone he had used with her upon their first meeting here in the conservatory, and was glad when it drew a smile.

  “You don’t forget much, do you, Miss Braddock?”

  “I believe I could say the same of you, Mr. Geoffrey.”

  She preceded him from the propagating room and back through his haven, grateful he hadn’t inquired about Mr. Hockley, and still not believing Aunt Adelicia had brought that subject up at such a time. And on purpose, Eleanor knew. The woman never did anything without thinking it through first.

  Still two rooms away from the nearest door, Eleanor caught the scent of roses. She glanced back at Marcus. “What would you build if you could build anything you wanted?”

  “Hmmm. . . . A building more beautiful, more awe-inspiring than anyone has ever dreamed or imagined, Eleanor Braddock. People will stop on the street just to stare at it.” His smile worked like a tonic, drawing her in. “They’ll admire the design, the way the structure blends seamlessly with nature. As though all that beauty—the building, the trees and hills surrounding it—had been created for that exact spot on earth. Together, from the very beginning.”

  The way he described it sparked something inside her, like the strike of a match setting flame to a wick. But it also brought to mind what she’d been contemplating last night . . . the extravagance of this estate, and others like it.

  She paused by the cast-iron cobra fountain. “But this more beautiful, more awe-inspiring building, Marcus . . . what would it be for?”

  His brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean . . . what would be the purpose behind building something”—she tried to smile but couldn’t sustain it—“so very beautiful. Surely your desire isn’t only to create something more beautiful so that people will stop to admire it.”

  He took a moment to answer. “Of course, that’s not the only reason. But there’s nothing wrong with wanting to create something beautiful.” His eyes narrowed the slightest bit. “When you cook, isn’t your goal to not only make the food taste good, but also to make it . . . pretty? As you said last night?”

  Eleanor had to think back. The slice of buttermilk pie, and how she’d apologized for having crushed it a little in the transport.
“Well . . . yes, of course, I do. But . . .” She exhaled. “You can’t compare a pie to a building.”

  “Ja . . .” He nodded. “Sure, I can. Because we’re discussing why to create something more beautiful instead of . . . simply functional. So the comparison is justified.”

  “The comparison is silly.”

  He eyed her. “Tell me you don’t do your best to make whatever food you cook look appealing.”

  She huffed. “Well, yes . . . I do. But that’s because part of the pleasure in eating is the presentation of the food.”

  “Ah!” He held up a finger. “But making it beautiful does nothing to actually enhance the flavor of the food, Eleanor. It’s strictly ästhetisch. Or . . . aesthetic, as you Americans say. Am I correct?”

  She pushed his finger aside. “The point I was trying to make is that cooking something with the mere purpose of it being beautiful is never my primary motivation. Nor, in my opinion, should it be yours when you’re designing a building.” Hearing the urgency in her tone, she attempted to soften it, not wanting to sound as perturbed by the discussion as she felt. “Beauty can be found in function, even in simplicity. And in the purpose for which a building is built and how it’s used.” She met his gaze with challenge. “Not everything has to be beautiful to be worthy of admiration, Marcus.”

  No sooner did the words leave her mouth than she wished she could recall them. Beneath his discerning gaze, she felt exposed. Knowing she wasn’t a beautiful woman was one thing. But the possibility of discovering that the man she cared about—far more than she should—held a similar opinion, was more than her heart could take.

  She cleared her throat, doing her best to sound normal and more confident than she felt. “I hope you get the chance to build your building someday, Marcus.”

  He looked at her for a long moment, as though weighing his response. “Thank you, Eleanor. I do too.”

  Again, she heard that thinnest sliver of doubt in his voice. And with uncustomary boldness, she briefly pressed a hand to his chest, thinking of what he’d told her only hours earlier. “Don’t give up. Keep trying, regardless of the risk. Because how else will you ever know, if you don’t try?”

  The blue of his eyes deepened as he moved closer. He slipped his thumb beneath her chin and lifted her face to his. Unable to move, much less form a thought, Eleanor could scarcely breathe.

  He pressed a slow, warm kiss to her forehead. “Danke,” he whispered, lingering, his breath warm on her skin. “Für die süße Erinnerung.”

  Eleanor closed her eyes, her pulse racing. Thank you . . . for the sweet reminder. The nights of reviewing her German textbook were proving helpful. She kept still, wanting to memorize the moment.

  Far too soon, he stepped back, looking at her with an intensity that made her face burn.

  “I’m sorry to have kept you so long this morning.” His voice sounded a little hoarse. “Especially after keeping you out so late last night.”

  “Yes . . . it was quite the inconvenience, Mr. Geoffrey. And not enjoyable in the least.”

  Surprised at the control in her own voice, she was even more so at the smirk that tipped his mouth. It was downright roguish, and tempted her thoughts down an enticing path they’d not traveled before.

  She didn’t know much about the ways of a man with a woman, and her instincts could well be leading her astray. But for the first time in her life, she thought maybe, just maybe, she might be about to learn.

  “Leave it to Mrs. Adelicia Cheatham to hire a European architect to design a garden at an asylum.”

  Marcus looked up from where he was measuring for the statue installation to see Dr. Crawford walking toward him. He quickly recorded the figures in his notebook, then extended his hand. “Good morning, Dr. Crawford. How are you, sir?”

  “I’m well, thank you, Mr. Geoffrey. And from the looks of things here, you are too.”

  Marcus surveyed the landscape along with him, proud of what he and his crew had accomplished. “It’s taken a little longer than I thought it would, but we’re nearing completion.”

  “Things often take longer than planned in my line of work too. But working on a Saturday, Mr. Geoffrey. That’s dedication.”

  All week long Marcus had intended to get out here, but with the problems he’d had on the job in town—men being out sick, supplies not being delivered on time, shoddy workmanship from three new hires, whom he’d just as swiftly fired—he hadn’t had the opportunity.

  Crawford looked over at him. “When Mrs. Cheatham told me she wished to install a simple garden”—he laughed under his breath—“this is hardly what I envisioned. What you’ve done here, Mr. Geoffrey, is nothing short of remarkable. I, along with the other board members, am most grateful to both you and Mrs. Cheatham for your contribution to the asylum.”

  “It’s my pleasure, sir. I’m grateful you’re pleased.” Marcus gestured. “I think the walking paths turned out especially well. As did the fountain. Unfortunately, the flowers probably won’t last much past the first of November. Not with the cooler temperatures we’re having now. But at least you can enjoy them throughout the month.”

  Dr. Crawford pointed. “Some of our patients are already enjoying them.”

  Marcus turned to see nearly every window on this side of the building filled with faces peering out. Something he’d grown accustomed to. An older woman on the second floor waved, and then the woman beside her did too. Though he felt silly doing it, Marcus waved back. It felt rude not to.

  One of the side doors on the building opened, and patients, accompanied by male and female staff, filed outside and into the garden area.

  “I hope you don’t mind us using this area while you’re here,” Dr. Crawford said, consulting his pocket watch. “These are patients from the second floor. Though on occasion, a few of them have exhibited aggressive behavior, generally, they’re quite docile. It’s important to maintain their schedule, and outdoor recreation on Saturday is always at ten o’clock sharp.”

  “I don’t mind at all, Doctor. I’ve got a little more work to do, and then I’ll be back next week with my men to finish.”

  Dr. Crawford shook his hand in parting, then approached an older gentleman already seated in one of several arbor swings. The patient’s expression was peaceful as he rocked back and forth, back and forth, face tilted toward the sun.

  Marcus watched him with a sense of satisfaction.

  The swings had been a last-minute addition, and his personal design and contribution. On more than one occasion while working here alone, he’d observed patients milling about, looking at the trees and flowers, or sitting on the occasional bench. But there was something special, something calming about a swing.

  He returned to his work, finalizing the measurements for the foundation that would serve as the base for a statue Mrs. Cheatham had purchased. He could have sent one of his workers to do the job, but it was a gorgeous fall morning, and he wanted to review the progress anyway.

  He had yet to see the sculpture Mrs. Cheatham had bought. It was still en route from New York City. But per her description, it would be “something special.”

  Kneeling in the dirt, he confirmed the measurements a third time, a tedious habit that had saved him countless hours of extra work through the years, not to mention expense. He’d told Caleb as much yesterday when the boy worked alongside him at the warehouse. The boy was proving to be a good worker. Conscientious. And bright. He caught on quickly.

  A few of the men on Marcus’s crew had jumped at the chance to earn some extra money. So he’d sent them to do the needed repairs on the building Caleb and his mother lived in, before winter set in.

  After measuring, Marcus marked the four outside corners using tongue depressors, inserting them into the soil as placeholders for the wooden stakes—and hearing Eleanor’s voice as he did. “It’s sweet and custardy, and you’re going to love it.”

  He smiled. He could almost taste that buttermilk pie.

  She’d surprised
him one night this past week by visiting the conservatory with yet another piece of pie. A different kind. Sweet potato, she’d said. It had practically melted in his mouth. Then she’d rolled up her sleeves and helped him repot camellias.

  “Next time,” she’d said, giving him a look that brooked no argument, “I want to watch you graft something.”

  She’d seemed especially happy in recent days, and while a part of him liked imagining he was somewhat responsible, a greater part didn’t. He kept thinking of next summer, and the life waiting for him back in Austria. At least Eleanor hadn’t questioned him about what Mrs. Cheatham had said in the conservatory last Saturday about having her rose ready by summer.

  He would tell her about his planned departure. Soon. But that moment hadn’t been the right one.

  An image rose in his mind. That of her with her eyes closed, and lips slightly parted . . .

  It had taken control he didn’t know he possessed to only kiss her on the forehead that day, instead of full on the mouth like he’d wanted to. In that moment, after what she’d said, when he leaned in, his control had wavered.

  But it would have been wrong . . . to truly kiss her.

  As it was, the kiss he’d given her felt a little like a betrayal. Chaste, yes—outwardly. But inwardly . . . his thoughts had been anything but innocent.

  “Not everything has to be beautiful to be worthy of admiration.”

  As long as he lived, he would never forget what she’d said. Or how she’d said it. Eleanor clearly didn’t think of herself as a beautiful woman. He exhaled. How he’d wanted to tell her she was wrong. Show her she was wrong. But this newer side of him—the man he’d been gradually becoming since his brother’s death—had held his old nature in check, keeping rein on his desire for her, which only seemed to increase with time.

  He thought about her only half of every waking hour. The other half was spent wondering if she was thinking about him. Marcus shook his head. He was acting like some love-struck schoolboy, when he was anything but.