Beauty So Rare, A (A Belmont Mansion Novel Book #2) (41 page)

Still, at the moment, the first discovery outweighed the second, and it fell to him to say something—anything—to encourage Mrs. Cheatham’s acceptance of doubt over the evidence at hand.

“Tomorrow I’ll begin drawing up preliminary designs of the building.” He directed the comment to them both. “Then we’ll meet again once the budget is approved.”

“Yes, I appreciate that.” Eleanor’s voice held only the slightest waver. “Thank you again for explaining everything in such detail just now.”

“It was my pleasure.” Unable to give Eleanor any type of communiqué
without her aunt witnessing, Marcus simply nodded to Adelicia as he took his leave. “Good night, Mrs. Cheatham.”

“Good night . . . Mr. Geoffrey.”

Throughout the day Sunday, then into Monday, as Marcus supervised his crew, all he could think about was Eleanor. He’d seen her at church yesterday but only from afar. He’d relived that moment with her in the library over and over and didn’t want to think about it as having been a mistake—because it certainly hadn’t felt like one. But how could it be anything else? Where did they go from here? Nowhere. Because in June, he was going back home. But what if . . .

What if he didn’t go back?

That thought kept pushing to the forefront of his mind, no matter how many times he dismissed it as ludicrous. Even treasonous, in a sense. At least that’s how his father and uncle would view it.

But . . .what if there was a way for him to stay in Nashville? Would he do it if he could? It was one thing to come to this country for a few months, to try his hand at living among the “common, everyday rustics.” But would he give up everything, including the security and wealth of the Habsburg dynasty?

He was more than happy to give up an arranged marriage he’d never wanted, in exchange for a chance at one he did. And for a woman who had a far greater hold on his heart, on him, than she likely knew.

Of course, that woman had a standing offer of marriage from another man—which he still didn’t know whether she’d accepted or not. But after that night in the library, how she’d responded to him. . . . A woman like Eleanor couldn’t kiss like that—wouldn’t kiss like that—unless it was genuine.

Oh, God, what am I to do?

Standing at his drafting table in the warehouse office, pencil in hand, he stilled, hearing that last thought return to him. Only, it wasn’t so much a thought, as it was . . . a prayer. He sighed. If only God
did
care about the tiny bits and pieces of lives. But He didn’t. Marcus knew the truth about kings and commoners. Neither Uncle Franz nor any of the past emperors took interest in the everyday lives of their subjects. They were
kings
, after all.

Likewise, the Almighty ruled from on high, from a distance, and Marcus had learned from youth not to bother Him with the petty,
inconsequential ramblings stemming from a young boy’s worries and wants. The Most High was busy enough reigning over the universe.

Marcus studied the drawings on the drafting table, the preliminary plans for the widows’ and children’s home. He’d worked on them every spare minute since Saturday night, and it was going to be magnificent. No doubt the women’s league would be generous, and he was ready to put their money to work. He would build a stunningly beautiful home for the widows and children. One worthy of the love Eleanor had for them.

“I’d prayed about what steps
to take next. I thought it was what the Lord
was leading me to do. I was certain of it
 . . .”

Eleanor’s comment returned as though she were standing there next to him. He could hear her voice so clearly in his mind. She obviously believed God concerned himself with the details of people’s lives—and look what was happening in her life now. And in
his.

Coincidence? He sighed. Or outcome?

A measurement he’d written caught his eye, and frowning, he looked more closely at the building plans, silently calculating. Then he reached for an eraser. The placement of one of the structural walls was correct, but the dimensions he’d written below it were off by a decimal place. How had he missed that? Miscalculate at the planning stage and pay for it double as you’re building.

He made the correction, then rubbed his tired eyes.

As his eyesight refocused, the sketch of the building moved from blurry to crisp again, the tiniest measurements and lines all in proper place, all with purpose, and all there . . . by design.

Marcus felt a tingling on the back of his neck and slowly straightened. As an architect, he cared about every inch of this design, every nook and cranny, because it was
his
. He would never build—or even associate his name with—something unless he knew it inside and out. Unless he’d guided every step of its development. So . . .

Could it be that God, the creator of heaven and earth—and of man and woman—thought the same?

Quietly, reverently, Marcus laid his pencil aside and looked about the small office, perfectly alone, yet feeling anything but. At odds with what he was about to do, he couldn’t deny the sense of rightness that accompanied it.

“All right, Lord,” he whispered, then bowed his head almost as an afterthought. “I’m listening.” He glanced up. “If you are too . . . then, please . . . tell me what it is I’m to do.”

 32 

T
he letter came Monday at noon, delivered during lunch. When Mrs. Routh handed it to her, Eleanor thought it might be from her father. Or perhaps, she hoped, from Marcus. But no.

She instantly recognized Lawrence Hockley’s distinctive script and could guess without reading it what the letter contained. She could only imagine what his reaction had been to reading the newspaper article upon his return from New York last evening.

She’d planned to speak to him about this weekend’s events during their dinner tonight. But if this letter contained what she thought it did, there would be no more dinners. No more proposal. And the decision—regardless of what
she’d
decided—would be made.

“Excuse me, please.” She rose from the table.

Dr. Cheatham and her aunt looked on in silence while the children chattered away.

Eleanor slipped through the library, briefly closing her eyes as she passed the spot where Marcus had drawn her to him and—

Oh, memory was both a blessing and a curse. Every time she thought about that kiss, she got a . . . She didn’t know quite what to call it. A feeling, perhaps, but it went deeper than that. It felt as if he’d awakened something inside her she hadn’t even known lay dormant. Yet having been stirred, it wasn’t eager to be buried and forgotten again.

She’d never dreamed a kiss could deliver such . . . pleasure. She couldn’t stop thinking about him, even though she knew she should. Because he was leaving.

It still angered her that he hadn’t told her before then. But even worse, she’d read the look in his eyes, just after he’d kissed her—that what-on-earth-have-I-done look that her own curiosity had led her to experience countless times.

He’d immediately regretted the impulsive act. But she hadn’t. Would
someone born deaf, after being given a brief chance to hear, ever wish to erase the memory of hearing that loved one’s voice, or the stringed crescendo of Mozart or Beethoven? Would they choose to wipe clean from their memory the laughter of children or nature’s symphony of wind through the trees? Never. At least not that she could imagine.

“I’ve
always known I must return to Vienna.”

Must
return, he’d said. As though something—or someone—awaited him there. A thousand possibilities rushed in to answer the question, but only one arrowed straight through her. A wife? A family? No . . . Marcus wasn’t that kind of man.

Which left her no closer to knowing . . . why had he kissed her?

Regardless of the reason—and despite the persuasive nature of his kiss—learning he was leaving had made her decision about Mr. Hockley easier to make. Though she still had moments of vacillation.

But at the present, she wasn’t sure her decision even mattered anymore.

She opened the door to the small study, then closed it behind her. A fire burned low and steady in the hearth, chasing away November’s chill. She perched on the edge of the settee, nerves growing more taut by the second.

She fingered the wax seal on the back of the envelope, unable to deny an immense sense of relief, while also experiencing a keen—and unexpected—sense of loss. The security and certainty that could have been hers was gone. Just like that. For her father too.

Her nerves twisted tighter as she withdrew a single sheet of stationery from the envelope. . . .

Dear Eleanor,

In light of your affinity for straightforwardness, imagine my surprise this morning upon opening Saturday’s paper only to see your name therein. As well as to learn about the circumstances that placed it there. Quite a shock, I can tell you. I assume you have reason as to why you have not shared this particular venture with me before now. I greatly anticipate your enlightening me as to those reasons this evening.

Yours most sincerely,
Lawrence D. Hockley

She stared. So . . . he
still
wanted to have dinner with her?

A soft knock sounded at the door.

“Come in.” Seeing her aunt, she held out the letter.

Aunt Adelicia read the note twice—judging by her patient perusal—then handed it back. A brightness shone in her aunt’s expression that not even her practiced reserve could disguise. “Well, it would seem Mr. Hockley is more forgiving than we thought.”

Eleanor heard the hopeful lilt in her tone, even as she felt her own sense of relief start to wane. “Yes, so it would seem.”

“You sound less than enthused, Eleanor.”

“Not at all, I . . .”

Knowing her aunt well, and the reciprocal being just as true, Eleanor knew better than to try to play this game. “As I’m certain you know, this decision regarding Mr. Hockley is not one of the heart for me.”

“Not in the romantic sense, perhaps.” Aunt Adelicia studied her closely. “But don’t fool yourself, Eleanor. Your heart is influencing your decision. Or trying to.” Her aunt’s expression grew discerning. “I see it in your eyes now. And I saw it in your face . . . the other night, in the library.”

Eleanor bowed her head. She’d sensed her aunt waiting for the right moment to broach the subject of finding her and Marcus in the library, and it appeared that moment had arrived.

“Following your heart, Eleanor, is a brave thing to do.”

Eleanor lifted her gaze, surprised at the comment.

“But doing so leaves you vulnerable, and often comes at a steep cost. Mr. Geoffrey, who seems to be a decent man—what little we know of him—will be leaving in a matter of months. I know men, Eleanor. And he is not the right kind of man for you, my dear.”

“I know that,” Eleanor whispered.

“Do you?” Aunt Adelicia moved closer.

Eleanor nodded, forcing a courageous smile.

Aunt Adelicia’s eyes softened, and with a wistful expression, she brushed the hair back from Eleanor’s temple, much like Eleanor’s own mother had done another lifetime ago.

“Men like Marcus Geoffrey”—her aunt’s sigh came softly—“handsome, charming . . .
foreign
.” She smiled. “They’re wonderfully exciting creatures. But take heed, dearest. . . . They are ever so fickle. It’s rare for such a man to recognize the truest, most precious kind of beauty, and rarer still when such a man chooses to pursue it.”

On the verge of tears, yet knowing what her aunt said was true, Eleanor grew eager to move off the subject. “I’m curious, Aunt Adelicia.” She cleared her throat. “Why are you so supportive of me facilitating
this building project when you’re obviously set on my marrying Mr. Hockley?”

“I don’t believe the two are mutually exclusive, my dear. Build this home for the widows and children, under the oversight of the Nashville Women’s League, and once you’re married, you’ll have that accomplishment to look back on and appreciate. Not to mention a legacy that will live on.”

“To look back on and appreciate . . .”
Eleanor caught the not-so-subtle insinuation, which, in turn, shed light on her aunt’s motives. It was a compromise, of sorts, with little-to-no room for negotiation. Aunt Adelicia knew she would never refuse the opportunity to help build a home for the widows and children. Likewise, her aunt had also determined that marriage to Lawrence Hockley was the wisest option. So this was her way of
encouraging
that to happen, while also saving face in a public sense.

Of course Eleanor had heard about her aunt’s persuasive nature, but to personally experience its unfolding . . . She didn’t know whether to be impressed or livid.

As it was, her own choices were narrow. If she said yes to Lawrence Hockley, once the home was completed, so would be her direct involvement in what had been, thus far, the most fulfilling work she’d ever done.

If she said no to his offer of marriage, though she likely would still be allowed to help facilitate the construction of the building, once that was done—having gone against her aunt’s wishes—Eleanor knew her welcome at Belmont would be worn to the nub. And what then? How would she support herself?

But more importantly, how would she provide for the care her father needed?

Still thinking about what her aunt had said earlier, Eleanor looked across the dining room table at Lawrence Hockley, then back at the near-life-size portrait of his late wife hanging above the hearth. She had been a plain-looking woman, with a pleasant countenance. Yet there was something about her that tugged at the heart. Something that—

“So please continue, Eleanor. . . . You said the Nashville Women’s League requested that you facilitate a building project. What precisely will that entail?”

She relayed what had been discussed. “We should know our budget by the end of the week and then can proceed from there.”

Thus far, Mr. Hockley had treated her no differently than he had during their earlier dinners. He’d given no indication of being angry, although his list of questions seemed unending. Except for one . . .

He hadn’t asked for her answer yet.

“And what is the projected date for the building’s completion?”

“We don’t have the plans yet, but the architect assures us he can be done by June.”

He chewed the tender steak filet slowly, methodically, before swallowing. “An aggressive schedule, to be sure. But I’m assuming the building will be basic, functional in nature, so therefore swifter to construct. Whether the weather cooperates or not will also play a factor.”

Eleanor nodded as she sliced another portion of her filet, but her appetite gone, she moved it to the side.

“And who is the architect the league has procured?”

Goblet poised to drink, Eleanor hesitated. “Mr. Marcus Geoffrey.”

He frowned. “Geoffrey, Geoffrey . . .” The shadow in his expression suddenly cleared. “German fellow. The one who’s responsible for so many of the warehouse renovations lately.”

Eleanor’s grip tightened on the glass. “Yes, that’s right. He’s from Austria. You’ve met him?”

“No. But I’m on the city council, and Mr. Geoffrey was one of several architects who submitted plans for the new opera house.”

Eleanor set her glass down. “Really? He submitted a bid for that? And didn’t get the contract?”

Mr. Hockley leaned back in his chair. “Customarily, I would refrain from speaking of private council matters. But seeing as you and I are working toward a mutual goal . . .”

He smiled at her as though he’d said something endearing. Which, for him, that qualified, she guessed. So she smiled in return.

“Mr. Geoffrey’s design,” he continued, “was, by far, the most inspired. Exceptionally intriguing. And the council was rather up in arms when the mayor awarded the contract to his own son. But as it turned out, Mayor Adler later confided that Mr. Geoffrey’s firm was experiencing serious financial trouble and, due to such, would likely not have been able to complete the project anyway. So I suppose it all worked out in the end.”

His brow knitted. “But part of the reason I share this with you now is this. . . . Before any money exchanges hands, before you agree
on a contract, it would behoove you to confirm that his company is, indeed, solvent. Ask him to provide a financial portfolio for the past five years. Longer, if he has it. In fact, if you’d like, I’ll enlist my attorney to contact him on your behalf.”

“No,” Eleanor said a little too quickly. “That . . . won’t be necessary. I’m comfortable addressing the matter.” Though she wasn’t exactly sure how to go about it.