A Beauty So Rare

by Tamera Alexander

  Gratitude softened Naomi’s gaze.

  “Excellent to know that, Miss Braddock. It’s wise to have a replacement trained and waiting in the wings.”

  Seeing Naomi look at her, Eleanor quickly moved to change the subject. “So what brings you into this part of town, Mr. Hockley?”

  “Business, of course. Yours, actually.”

  “Mine?” Eleanor didn’t even try to hide her surprise.

  “Yes, I was at the old courthouse visiting with your architect, Mr. Geoffrey.”

  “You . . . met with Mr. Geoffrey?”

  “Indeed. Nice fellow. Runs a tight ship. I like that.”

  “What were you meeting with him about?” Too late, she heard how insistent that had sounded. But apparently, Mr. Hockley hadn’t taken it as such.

  “The building beside the old courthouse. The one he purchased last week.”

  “Mr. Geoffrey purchased a building?” Eleanor realized she kept repeating what he’d said, but she couldn’t believe it. She knew the building. An old one of plank-wood construction. “For what purpose did he buy it?”

  “Frankly, I didn’t ask him. The building itself is worth very little. He told me it was the land he wanted. Something to do with the new home.”

  “I see.” But Eleanor didn’t see at all. Marcus hadn’t mentioned one word of this to her. If she went over budget because of this . . .

  Much to her relief, Mr. Hockley seemed as eager to be on his way as she was to send him, and she and Naomi continued to the dress shop around the corner.

  It was all Eleanor could do not to march over to the new home right that minute and ask Marcus what on earth he thought he was doing purchasing land. But she couldn’t leave all the errands to Naomi—who had sneaked more than one look in her direction in recent minutes.

  Hoping to avoid that conversation for as long as possible, Eleanor opened the door to the dress shop, the bell jangling overhead.

  “Miss Braddock, Mrs. Lebenstein . . .” Rebecca Malloy stepped from behind the counter, her smile communicating she was happy to see them. “Good day to you, ladies.”

  “Good day, Mrs. Malloy!” Eleanor withdrew the envelope from her reticule, doing her best to keep her frustration to herself. “We’ve stopped by to pick up the new order of dresses and”—she held out the payment—“to give you this.”

  Mrs. Malloy accepted the envelope, fingering it thoughtfully before looking back at Eleanor. “I can’t thank you enough, Miss Braddock, for bringing me this work. Business was so slow for a while, I was afraid I would have to close my shop. But, thanks to you, my days are full and productive again. And word is spreading among the women on this side of town.”

  Eleanor briefly touched her hand. “It’s we who are grateful to you, Mrs. Malloy.”

  “Yes,” Naomi chimed in, opening her coat to show off her new dress. “It is so many years since I have a dress so nice.”

  Mrs. Malloy beamed, then held up a hand. “I have your next order ready. Give me a moment to wrap it, and I’ll be right back.”

  As soon as Mrs. Malloy disappeared into the back room, Eleanor checked her chatelaine watch affixed to her waistband, hoping Marcus would still be at the old courthouse when she got there, and hearing Aunt Adelicia’s voice so clearly in her head. “The league has been most generous, Eleanor. Please be mindful of that generosity and do not exceed the allocated budget.”

  Eleanor let out a sigh.

  “If you want to go now and speak with him, Miss Braddock, I can manage the dresses on my own.”

  Seeing the knowing look on Naomi’s face, Eleanor knew better than to try to pretend. “No, I’m fine. I’ll stay and help. But if I go over budget on this building, Naomi . . .” She shook her head. “I can’t let that happen. I simply can’t.”

  “Mr. Geoffrey, he knows that. He is a man of business, ja?”

  “Ja,” Eleanor whispered. “Und ein sehr guter.” And a good one.

  Naomi raised an approving eyebrow. “Your accent is improving.”

  Eleanor managed a smile, while realizing Naomi didn’t understand how much Marcus had wanted to construct his own building instead of renovating the mayor’s old hand-me-downs, as he’d offhandedly commented the other day.

  “Mr. Geoffrey, he is also”—Naomi eyed her—“a friend to you, ja? A very . . . good friend.”

  Catching the lilt in Naomi’s voice, Eleanor read meaning in her eyes. “No, no.” She shook her head. “Mr. Geoffrey and I are simply friends, Naomi. Nothing more.”

  Naomi pursed her lips. “As my precious husband used to say, “Beste Freunde machen die besten Liebhaber.”

  It took Eleanor a moment to translate what Naomi had said, but when she did—Best friends make the best lovers—her face went warm even as color heightened Naomi’s cheeks. They both giggled, but Eleanor quickly sobered.

  In light of her rapidly approaching future, she needed to correct her friend’s misassumption. “It is not that way with Mr. Geoffrey and me. We are friends. Just friends.”

  Naomi’s eyes flashed. “For now, maybe. But someday . . .”

  “No,” Eleanor said softly. “It can never be that way between us.”

  The light in Naomi’s expression dimmed. “I am sorry to hear this. I have seen you together and thought . . . hoped”—she smiled—“that maybe there was . . . something more.”

  From nowhere, tears came, and Eleanor could do nothing to stop them.

  “Oh, Miss Braddock . . .” Naomi’s eyes widened. “Please forgive me. I have stepped over my place and—”

  Eleanor reached into her pocket for the handkerchief, but seeing it only increased the ache in her chest. She blotted her cheeks, then fingered the faded embroidered flowers. So much of what she’d thought her life would be like hadn’t turned out at all as she’d planned.

  “No, you haven’t stepped over your place,” she whispered, the phrase endearing Naomi to her even more. “You are my friend.” She needed to tell her the truth. But how? Eleanor glanced behind her toward the back room, making sure Mrs. Malloy wasn’t on her way out. “Mr. Geoffrey is leaving to go back to Austria in June. After he finishes the home. And as for me . . .” She glanced again at the handkerchief in her grip. “Come June . . . I will marry Mr. Hockley.”

  The humor drained from Naomi’s face. “Nein . . .” She looked out the window in the direction they’d come, then back at Eleanor. “The man we met? On the street? He is to be your—”

  “Yes,” Eleanor said, not wanting her to say the word aloud. “And after that time . . . I won’t be working directly with the—”

  Footsteps sounded behind them.

  Eleanor quickly dabbed her cheeks, slipped the damp handkerchief back in her pocket, and turned, asking God, again, to take her life and not just make something of it. But make it what He wanted it to be.

  Even if it wasn’t what she would have chosen.

  39

  Marcus saw her coming in the door and groaned, not wanting to face the woman right now. Or anytime in the near future.

  “Yoo-hoo, Mr. Geoffrey!” Miss Hillary Hightower waved a handkerchief in his direction, as though he were high on a mountaintop instead of standing ten feet in front of her.

  He excused himself from the workers he was speaking with and met her halfway. But only to prevent her from coming farther inside. “Miss Hightower . . . Good day to you, madam.” He held up a hand. “Forgive me, but I must insist you remain in this area. Only workers are allowed beyond this point. For safety reasons.” And also, in this particular instance, for his own sanity.

  “How kind of you, Mr. Geoffrey, to think of my well-being.”

  Smiling, she peered at him from the corner of her eye, then dipped her head and traced a forefinger along the lace trim of her gown, drawing attention to her décolletage. So demure. So coy. So very contrived . . .

  Marcus kept his eyes on hers. No telling how many times she’d stood before a mirror practicing that combination before adding it to her quiver.
r />   “How may I be of service, madam?”

  “I’m here on official business,” she said, her accent growing more pronounced. “I’ve been appointed by the league to be your . . . personal liaison.”

  He blinked slowly. “To be my what?”

  “Your liaison to the league. The board felt that with Miss Braddock being as busy as she is, you might benefit from having a more . . . intimate connection to the women of influence in this city.”

  “I see.” Which he did. He also saw Eleanor striding through the door at that very moment.

  He knew Eleanor well enough to know when she was upset, and judging by the displeasure in her expression, he gauged her to be right around . . . livid.

  “Here is my address.” Miss Hightower pressed a calling card into his palm, her hand lingering around his. “Mother would appreciate the opportunity to speak with you at your earliest convenience about the interior design themes planned for this building. Since the league’s name is associated with the project, we want to make certain the interior finishings reflect the splendor and taste of its benefactresses. And of course . . . I’ll be there for dinner that night as well. So I’m certain we’ll have time to—”

  The young woman glanced over at Eleanor, who stopped just feet away, off to the side, and Marcus was certain he heard a layer of Hillary Hightower’s Southern charm hit the floor with a splat.

  Eleanor, however, looked only at him. Or glared, was more like it.

  “Thank you, Miss Hightower,” he said, “for the kind invitation from both you and your mother. My schedule is quite full at present, as I’m certain you realize.” He indicated the building around them. “But I’ll contact you at my earliest convenience. And will certainly let you know,” he added when she started to speak again, “if I have any questions that a . . . league liaison might address.”

  “A league liaison?” Eleanor looked between them.

  Miss Hightower—several inches shorter than Eleanor—drew herself to her full height, which made little difference by comparison.

  “Yes, that’s right, Miss Braddock.” Miss Hightower twisted the handkerchief in her hands. “The board decided this morning that it would be of benefit to all for Mr. Geoffrey to have a designated go-between with the league board. Someone to not only answer questions he might have, but who will also lend counsel and approval for interior design plans.”

  Eleanor’s eyes narrowed the slightest bit. “He already has such a person, Miss Hightower,” she said evenly. “In me. If you’ll recall, I was named chair of this project.”

  Miss Hightower laughed softly. “Yes, that may be. But upon further reflection, Miss Braddock, the board felt that someone more . . . closely focused on the league’s purpose—someone who has a long-standing and distinguished family history in the city—should be appointed to assist as well. Especially since you seem quite consumed these days with the business of . . . cooking and such.”

  Marcus had never pictured Eleanor becoming physically violent, but the image of her and Miss Hightower having a good go of it wasn’t altogether impossible to imagine. Nor was it completely without appeal. And without question, he knew which woman he would put his money on.

  “Miss Hightower . . .” Eleanor’s voice, true and strong, was framed in politeness. “Lest there be any confusion on the matter, this building is going to be a comfortable and functional home for widows and children. Not a showplace. And certainly not an extension of the league building.”

  Miss Hightower’s smile thinned. “But we do want the building to be attractive. Not simply . . . plain and ordinary. After all, Miss Braddock, there’s nothing wrong with something being beautiful . . . is there?”

  The young woman smoothed the front of her gown and glanced in Marcus’s direction. But his attention was drawn to Eleanor, whose chin lifted the slightest bit. He smiled to himself, recognizing that look.

  “No, Miss Hightower, there’s nothing wrong with something being beautiful. Unless that is all the object has to recommend it. If that’s the case, then indeed, its beauty is rather diminished by the discovery, would you not agree?”

  Miss Hightower’s lips firmed. “Well, I must be going.” She curtsied in Marcus’s direction. “Good day to you both. Mr. Geoffrey, do be in touch.”

  Miss Hightower took her leave, and no sooner did the door close behind her than Eleanor stepped forward, the displeasure in her expression having deepened. He liked the color of her eyes when she was riled. They went the shade of burnt umber, and the gold flecks in them resembled sparks from a flame.

  “You purchased a building, Marcus? And land? Without speaking to me about it first?”

  Able to guess from whom she’d so quickly heard the news, he refused to be drawn in so easily. “Good afternoon, Eleanor. How are you today?”

  His desire to be in her company hadn’t diminished in the least since learning of her betrothal, so he had purposefully limited their time together. But it didn’t mean he didn’t still think about her. Constantly.

  She leveled a stare. “Good afternoon, Marcus. You’ve apparently purchased—”

  “No need to repeat yourself. I heard you the first time. And yes, I did.”

  “And did you purchase the building and land with the intention of it being part of the home?”

  “Absolutely, madam.”

  Her face went three shades of red. “But why?” She moved closer, her voice lowering. “When you know we can’t go over budget. Every penny is already allocated. Your decision to do this without speaking to me was impulsive and thoughtless and—”

  “I paid for the land myself, Eleanor.”

  She froze, mouth half open, her pretty little tongue loaded with words that had nowhere to go. She stared. Then blinked. Once, twice. “You . . . paid for it yourself? With your own money?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But . . .” She searched his eyes. “Why would you do that?”

  “Because I needed the land.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “One that I deem important. And when the time is right, I will tell you about it.”

  “But you said it’s for the home.”

  “It is.”

  She blew out a breath. “You’re purposefully being obtuse, Marcus.”

  He smiled. “Without question, Eleanor.”

  At that, the tiniest glimmer of remorse crept across her expression, even as a streak of stubborn pride—something he was well acquainted with himself—drew her shoulders back. “Please forgive my mistaken assumption. I was wrong. And what I said about you being—”

  “Thoughtless? Impulsive?”

  She grimaced. “That was mean, wasn’t it?”

  “It wounded me to the core.”

  Laughter bubbled up her throat. “Somehow, I doubt that.”

  He staggered back a step, feigning a dagger to the heart, which further encouraged her laughter. Oh, how he missed her.

  The flowers on the potato plants had started wilting two days ago. It was time to harvest them, to see if this latest graft had taken. But he hadn’t dug them up yet because he’d wanted her there with him. Yet it didn’t seem right to ask her now. And apparently, she’d forgotten about it anyway. Which was probably for the best.

  He gave her a quick tour of what his crews had accomplished that day, ran some ideas by her for the foyer—which, to his delight, she agreed with enthusiastically—and walked her back to the door.

  Hand on the latch, she turned. “I know you’re busy, Marcus, but . . . have you given any more thought to grafting potatoes? It would mean so much if you could just try. Even if it doesn’t work. I’ll do whatever I can to help you. Call you names . . . question your loyalty . . .” The smile she gave him shot straight through to the heart.

  Try as he might, he couldn’t imagine her with Lawrence Hockley. Even more, he couldn’t imagine returning to Austria . . . and never seeing her again.

  “Sunday afternoon,” he said quietly. “I’ll meet you in the
conservatory.”

  “I’ll bring a treat.”

  “I’ll bring a tongue depressor.”

  Standing at the window, he watched her until she turned the corner a couple of blocks down. He’d been right about her early on. She was going to be a good friend. The best friend he’d ever had.

  Early Friday morning, Marcus met Caleb in front of the bakery, as he did on occasion. The aroma of warm, yeasty dough and strong brewed coffee greeted them as they walked inside.

  “Guten Morgen, Marcus!” Fitch called from behind the counter. “Guten Morgen, Caleb!”

  “Guten Morgen, Fitch,” they answered in unison, then joined the queue.

  “What do you have there?” Marcus gestured to a notebook Caleb carried. It looked similar to one he used at work.

  “Miss Braddock asked my Mutter to write down the names of all the women and children who come for dinner. And where they live in town and their birthdays. But last night, Maggie spilled her drink on it.”

  Caleb opened the notebook and held it up. The pages inside appeared legible, for the most part, but crinkled.

  “I told Mutter I would copy it for her again before tonight.”

  Marcus gave the boy’s head a rub. “You’re a good son, Caleb.”

  The boy grinned.

  Marcus wondered how he’d managed all the day-to-day details involved in his job without Caleb. The boy knew the name of every man on each crew, and what his specialty was. He made note of inventory that was low or of tools that were worn or broken. He was a quick learner and a natural at reading design sketches. He could drive a nail straight as any man Marcus had ever worked with. Even though, with the boy’s slender build, it took a few more hits to get the job done.

  Marcus felt an unexpected tug of emotion and looked up at Fitch pouring coffee behind the counter. He would miss so much about this country. Never would he have guessed that people who were once strangers could become so important to him. So much a part of his life.

  It came their turn, and he placed his and Caleb’s standing order with Mrs. Fitch.

  She nodded. “As well as the order you pick up every Friday morning?”