If Rebecca had dropped a pin in that moment, Eleanor was certain she would have heard it.
Feeling aptly put in her place and by someone who had the right to speak from the place of pain, she nodded in acknowledgment. “I’m sorry if I said anything to offend you, Rebecca.”
“Not at all.” Rebecca gave a tiny shrug. “Patrick always said I was too outspoken for my own good.”
Eleanor laughed softly. “I can relate.”
“Oh, before you go,” Rebecca said as they passed through the sewing shop. “Let me show you your ensemble. Since you’re the director, I thought a skirt and jacket would be more appropriate. They’re in the closet right here. You may not have time to try them on now—after we’ve spent so much time talking. But you can come back any day this week, and I can make the needed adjustments in plenty of time.”
Eleanor waited.
A minute later, Rebecca rounded the corner. “I hope you like it.” She paused and held it up, draping the full skirt off to one side. “Maggie chose the color, but I think it will be lovely on you. She said it’s her favorite. Rosa!”
Eleanor took one look at the ensemble and almost laughed. At first she wondered if it was a joke instigated by Marcus. But reading sincerity in Rebecca’s expression, she guessed it wasn’t. “It’s beautiful, Rebecca. Simply beautiful.”
Rosa, she thought. German . . . for pink.
Eleanor entered the conservatory, a warm rush of air greeting her. As she passed by the Selenicereus grandiflorus, she looked upon the cactus quite differently than she had the first time she’d seen it, and even paused to offer a brief curtsy, knowing Marcus would have been amused had he been there.
What Rebecca Malloy had said played over and over in her mind, both gently scolding her while also shining a light into shadows in her heart left unchallenged for far too long.
She still had trouble believing that, after so many years, God had placed her and the soldier’s Mary girl together, and she hadn’t even seen it. There were other things she’d missed as well. She knew that now.
A table full of pink roses in every imaginable shade caught her eye—Marcus’s repeated attempts to meet her aunt’s always exacting expectations. He’d told her he had another batch of grafts set to bloom any day. Hopefully one of those would prove worthy.
She paused briefly to finger one of the flowers, and her focus slipped down the stem to the scar marking the place where Marcus had originally grafted the two flowers together. She knew that, with time, and as the plant grew stronger, the slight imperfection would become less noticeable. All of the grafted plants bore scars—evidence of the cutting, and also of the healing around it. But what beauty had come from both.
The door to Marcus’s haven stood open, so she walked on through to the propagating room—but stopped in the doorway when she saw him.
“Marcus Geoffrey! Are you starting without me?”
His head came up, his arm buried halfway in the dirt by one of the potato plants. He frowned at her. “I am waiting on you, Eleanor. I was simply loosening the soil for you. That’s all.”
Studying his expression just to be sure, Eleanor didn’t see any potatoes in sight, so guessed he’d been waiting on her after all. But she sensed he was still in that mood. Which was disappointing, considering she’d wanted to tell him about her visit with Rebecca. Later would definitely be best.
She joined him by the trough.
“Ladies first.” He gestured with a bow.
She rolled up her sleeves. “Did you notice I hilled the plants like you taught me to?”
“I did. And you did a very nice job. Now start digging.”
She paused, sensing his impatience. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. I’m simply . . . eager to see what the seedball produced.”
Knowing which potato plant he wanted her to start with—the one where he’d loosened the soil—she intentionally started on the one two down. And ignored the dark look he gave her.
Familiar with what to do, she reached into the soil, fingers splayed, and felt for the little tubers. Her hand closed around one. She looked up at Marcus and seeing the tenuous hope in his eyes, she twisted and pulled. . . .
And up came a blackened and pocked potato.
“One down,” he said solemnly, making a note in his notebook. “Twenty-two to go.”
She worked her way down the row, through the next ten plants. All the same. “Do you want to pull some?”
He shook his head. “Unless you’ve had enough, then I will.”
Feeling for him, especially after how excited he’d been upon finding the seedball, she knew her disappointment was nothing compared to his.
She moved to the next trough, praying as she groped through the soil, then as she pulled. Another seven plants produced the same blemished potatoes.
He was so quiet beside her. She looked over at him and found him watching her.
“What?” she whispered. “Do I have dirt on my face?”
“You’re so beautiful, Eleanor. And the best thing about it is . . . you don’t even realize it.”
She paused, having difficulty believing he’d said that . . . to her. And yet, the truth of it shone in his eyes, and she knew she’d never forget this moment. Feeling her face grow warm, she smiled. “Are you just saying that so I’ll continue digging?”
A slow grin tipped one side of his mouth. “Is it working?”
“Absolutely!” She plunged her hand into the dirt again. Then felt something . . . different. Larger. And . . . harder to pull up. She twisted and . . .
Up came an oversized potato, along with a spray of dirt. “It’s huge,” she said, turning it over in her hand. But on closer inspection, no matter how impressive the size, it bore the same characteristics as the others.
She laid it aside. Four plants to go. Two in each of the troughs.
Giving him a here’s to hoping look, she harvested the tubers from the next three plants, saving the first plant—the one he’d wanted her to start with—for last. All three plants produced all the same—tiny little blackened potatoes.
“The last one,” he said, sounding more hopeful than she would have expected.
“Just remember,” she said, “even if this one isn’t it, we can try again.”
He nodded.
As the cool soil closed around her hand, then her arm, Eleanor prayed that God would give this man the desire of his heart. He’d worked so hard and so long on grafting. And creating a new potato, one more resistant to rot, would do so much for—
Her knuckles brushed against something. She frowned. It didn’t feel round. It felt . . . square. Her hand closed around the object, and she pulled it up.
When she opened her palm, she could only stare. First at the little box, then at Marcus, who had put his notebook aside.
“Eleanor . . . I have been your friend”—he cradled the curve of her cheek—“your confidant, your business associate”—he arched a regal brow—“and your partner in late-night conservatory crime.”
She laughed softly.
“But I want to be more than that. I want to be your husband,” he whispered, taking the box, “your lover, the one you reach for in the middle of the night, and the one who will reach for you whenever you’re near.”
He opened the box and held out a beautiful band of gold, just what she would have chosen for herself.
“It’s perfect,” she whispered, seeing the promise of her answer reflected in his eyes.
“I took the liberty of engraving something on the inside.” He turned it in the light so she could read it. “Beste Freunde machen die besten Liebhaber,” he whispered.
She warmed at his tone and at the meaning of the phrase. Best friends make the best lovers. Naomi had been right.
Eleanor peered up at him. “You knew if I saw you loosening the dirt on that plant that I’d start with another one, didn’t you?”
He smiled that smile, then he kissed her. “Yes, I know you, Eleanor,” he
whispered against her lips. “Now, will you marry me?”
She kissed him again, just because she could. “Ja,” she whispered. “Mein Herz ist deins.” My heart is yours. Then she giggled. “I’ve been practicing.”
“I can tell.” His voice had taken on a dreamy quality.
He started to put the ring on her finger.
“Not with all this dirt. Let me go wash up.” Halfway to the door, she turned back. “I almost forgot to finish.”
She walked back to the potato plant where Marcus had hidden the ring, and she plunged her hand deep—and felt a fairly good-sized potato. And at least two others. She looked over at Marcus, whose expression turned keen.
She pulled the first tuber to the surface and handed it to him, watching his expression instead of looking at the potato.
“I don’t believe it,” he whispered, turning the potato in his hand, looking at it from all angles. He rubbed it gently with a cloth, and then a smile broke across his face. “It’s . . .” He looked up at her. “It has a blemish here and there.” He showed to her. “But when compared to the others . . . it’s perfekt.”
She pulled a second and a third. Then a fourth. All perfekt, just like he’d said. Just like he was for her.
53
When I first received Miss Eleanor Braddock’s invitation to join the city of Nashville on this momentous occasion, I must admit, I was skeptical regarding what I would find upon my arrival—”
Miss Dorothea Dix was exactly as Eleanor had imagined from having read her book—the epitome of strength, integrity, and grit all wrapped in a tenacity that warned a person, even upon first meeting the woman, that one should oppose her, and her initiatives, at their own peril.
Eleanor adored her instantly.
“—but when I toured the Nashville Widows’ and Children’s Home yesterday, then had the inestimable pleasure of taking a meal with the tenants of the home last night, every one of my doubts”—Miss Dix paused, gazing at the overflowing crowd—“based, of course, upon past experience of being told one thing only to find another being true, were proved false. This establishment is without question precisely as Miss Braddock described. With one enormous and most glaring exception.”
Miss Dix turned to look at Eleanor, as did Aunt Adelicia and other league board members standing close by, and Eleanor felt her chest tighten with uncertainty.
“What Miss Braddock failed to tell me,” Miss Dix continued, “is how her depth of love, dedication, and hard work have forever changed the lives—and futures—of these brave widows and their children.”
Spontaneous applause rose from the crowd, and Eleanor, uncomfortable beneath the praise, was tempted to duck her head. But the honest admiration and womanly courage in Miss Dix’s gaze—and in Aunt Adelicia’s—wouldn’t allow it.
Eleanor placed a hand over her heart and mouthed “Thank you” to Miss Dix and those around her, wishing Marcus were there to share the moment. She couldn’t have done this without him.
Miss Dix continued just as Eleanor felt the tickle of a whisper in her ear. . . .
“Add my hearty amen to Miss Dix’s last comment.”
She turned to see Marcus beside her, feeling the warmth of his hand on the small of her back.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said softly. “The discussion ran longer than I anticipated.”
She leaned close, eager to discover the outcome of his meeting with Sutton Monroe, Aunt Adelicia’s attorney. “Did he have an answer for you?”
Marcus nodded. “It will all work out in the end,” he whispered, then glanced down at her ensemble. “You look lovely . . . in rosa.”
Sensing evasion in his initial response, Eleanor smiled her thanks, knowing they’d have time to discuss his meeting with Mr. Monroe later. And though she still disliked wearing pink, she’d discovered something of a saving grace about the color an hour earlier. . . .
Maggie and several other little girls had requested that the dresses Rebecca Malloy made them be the exact same color as hers, saying they wanted “to be just like Miss Braddock.” Learning that had meant so much. And even softened her animosity toward the color. At least a little.
As Miss Dix spoke, Eleanor looked over the crowd, recognizing far more faces than those she didn’t. But wishing one special face was there that wasn’t.
She’d wanted her father to be able to attend, but Dr. Crawford dissuaded it. “So much noise and the size of the gathering might overstimulate him, Miss Braddock. I wouldn’t wish to ruin the day for you just as I don’t wish to subject your father to the emotional upheaval a setting such as that could cause him. Not when he’s been doing so well in recent weeks.”
She understood, of course. But it didn’t lessen her desire to share her life with him. After all, she was her father’s daughter. And always would be. Whether or not he ever recognized her again.
“One final note on this memorable day, dear friends.” Miss Dix’s voice carried over the hushed crowd. “It is rare, indeed, for a community to unite for such a humble and often overlooked purpose, but to put such care into restoring a building that was once considered, by some, to have outlived its usefulness is also to be highly commended . . . Mr. Geoffrey.”
Miss Dix looked at Marcus then, and he bowed, looking every bit the archduke he was. Or . . . used to be.
Eleanor saw no sign of Mayor Adler, nor did she expect to, not following the recent front-page articles boasting about the renovation of the home and the “forward-thinking” kitchen Marcus had designed. And that every woman on the women’s league board now wanted in their own home.
But it was the article scheduled to come out in tomorrow’s edition of the newspaper that had Eleanor most excited. She’d secretly promised the reporter an interview with the designer of a most intriguing invention in the still-secret building next door.
Applause erupted as Dorothea Dix left the stage and Mrs. Holcomb, the league president, took her place behind the podium. “Thank you again, Miss Dix, for traveling to be with us today. You honor us with your presence. And now, before I invite you all on a tour of the Nashville Widows’ and Children’s Home, followed by”—Mrs. Holcomb shot a look at Marcus—“the special unveiling of the building next door that so many of us have grown curious about . . .” She smiled. “It is my profound pleasure to introduce a woman whose generosity in our city is well noted. Mrs. Agnetta Hightower, who this very morning made a most generous donation that will provide every woman and child in the home with a pair of new shoes.”
As Mrs. Hightower strode to the stage, Eleanor caught Mrs. Holcomb’s look in her direction and remembered that day in the board meeting when Mrs. Holcomb had voted against her. The league president’s counsel had been exceedingly wise. It was better to remain peaceable with those who opposed you, rather than fight to win every battle at all costs.
Eleanor smiled. The next time Mayor Adler ran for office, he’d better take note of Mrs. Holcomb. With all the changes happening in the world, surely the women’s right to vote—and even a woman in politics—couldn’t be that far off.
Listening to Mrs. Hightower’s speech, or trying, Eleanor found her attention, and gaze, wandering. But she had to close her eyes and open them again when she saw Miss Hillary Hightower on the arm of . . . Mr. Hockley?
Possibly sensing her attention, Lawrence Hockley glanced her way and—in a most characteristic manner—touched the brim of his hat and nodded, then faced forward again, as though they’d never shared more than a casual acquaintance. Which was true, Eleanor guessed, in one sense.
Hillary Hightower chose that moment to look her way, and Eleanor managed a smile even as the young woman lifted her chin and moved closer to Mr. Hockley’s side, as though staking her claim.
Eleanor felt Marcus’s fingers thread through her own and looked over at him, aware he’d been watching her.
“I couldn’t be happier for them both,” he whispered, his thumb drawing feather-soft circles on the underside of her wrist, making her wish f
or time alone with him, which they hadn’t had in the whirlwind of recent days.
At the conclusion of Mrs. Hightower’s few words, Eleanor started toward the front door of the home but felt a tug of her hand.
“Not just yet, Miss Braddock.” Smiling, Marcus glanced beyond her to where Naomi, Marta, Elena, Rebecca, and some other women stood waiting to greet the visitors. “You have another appointment first.”
Eleanor caught Naomi’s grin, as well as the girlish look between Marta and Elena, and knew the women had been plotting. And loved them for it. Rebecca Malloy simply smiled and slipped her hand into her pocket, and Eleanor knew what she was feeling, at least in one sense.
She’d given Rebecca the rose petals she’d saved for so many years. They were a little worse for wear, but the last time she was at the shop, Eleanor had seen them in a dish by Patrick’s picture. Just because a husband—or wife—passed on didn’t mean the love they’d shared had died. It lived on in the hearts of the people who still loved them. Good-byes were simply part of this life, as much as Eleanor wished they weren’t.
But someday, in Christ, there would be no more good-byes. Only together forevers. She clung to that promise and determined to view this life through the lens of that hope.
She accepted Marcus’s offered arm, then heard “Mr. Geoffrey” in a familiar voice and turned to see her aunt approaching.
Aunt Adelicia’s gaze briefly dropped to where Eleanor’s hand was tucked in the crook of Marcus’s arm. Eleanor had told her about accepting his proposal and though her aunt hadn’t forbidden the union, by any means, neither had she been overly thrilled. Accepting had been a better description of her reaction.
Eleanor knew a way to win her aunt over instantly. Tell her the truth about who Marcus was. But that was Marcus’s decision to reveal his heritage, if he ever chose to. Personally, Eleanor was glad they’d decided to keep it to themselves for now. But oh . . . she could well imagine her aunt’s expression if she ever learned the truth.
A Beauty So Rare Page 54