Chapter Eleven
After turning his back on the clinic, Fitz was too agitated to sit inside a closed carriage. Nor did he want to be alone with his thoughts, and so he covered the ten blocks to the Summer Garden Theater on foot. Moving at a good clip, he was propelled by a need to escape Dr. Trent’s diagnosis.
A cold mist hung on the air, mimicking the gloom in Fitz’s heart. He hunched his shoulders against the wind and rounded the street corner, putting the doctor’s visit in the back of his mind.
At the edge of the next block, he caught sight of his reflection in the shop window on his right. It was only the dimmest of impressions but enough to send waves of shock quivering through him.
Fitz saw his father in the blurry image. The likeness went beyond the physical, Fitz knew, in ways that couldn’t be seen or easily measured. They were both hardworking, dedicated to the firm and its employees, loyal to a fault, and loved nothing more than family and a balanced ledger.
Dr. Trent had confirmed the secret fear that had haunted Fitz for months. The same illness that was ravaging his father quite possibly lay dormant in Fitz, waiting to appear as he aged.
The doctor maintained the research was inconclusive. Fitz found no comfort in the claim. He saw what the disease was doing to his mother. Her grief and helplessness were killing her as surely as the illness was destroying his father. If Fitz ever married, it stood to reason that he would be condemning his wife to the same fate.
Fitz would never ask a woman to marry him, knowing he might have to live out his twilight years trapped inside his own mind, unable to remember the simplest things or take care of his personal needs.
And what of children? If the disease was hereditary, Fitz could pass it on to them.
The risk was too great.
He must never marry, or father children. The realization was the worst kind of blow. Fitz had always wanted a family of his own.
He stared down at his hands, his head full of the burdens he carried. His mother had insisted he keep his father’s condition a secret. At the time, Fitz had been all too willing. Mary Fitzpatrick didn’t need to contend with outside speculation and cruel gossip on top of the other hardships she endured.
Now, Fitz wondered at the cost of his silence. He’d never felt more alone, a situation that would grow more severe as he aged. There’d been a time when he’d dreamed of a different kind of future, one that included a wife and children. He would have taught them how to appreciate the arts, something his own education had lacked. He would have taught them the intricacies of commerce, as his father had taught him.
That dream was a distant memory now.
According to Dr. Trent, Calvin Fitzpatrick’s illness would continue to drain the family’s resources. The future required Fitz to do what he’d been trained to do—find promising investments and turn lucrative profits.
Luke Griffin’s automotive company was the most promising of the investments Fitz had his eye on, or so it seemed on paper. He would know more after their meeting.
Fitz conquered the remaining blocks and entered the theater through the backstage door. He listened a moment to the music.
Though fluent in French, he didn’t need to understand the language to know that Esmeralda was singing about unrequited love. Her voice was full of pain and lost hope. Each note sung in her dynamic voice was gut-wrenching, raw, and very real. The words wrapped around Fitz, digging deep in his heart and twisting.
Watching Gigi fall for Nathanial Dixon had been excruciating. Learning of her ruin had been even worse. Fitz didn’t know if he still loved her. But he knew he still cared and regretted his role in her shame.
He could do nothing about the past, but perhaps he could change the future. He would help Gigi find redemption.
The task loomed large, but Fitz was undeterred. He always got what he wanted. Almost always, he amended, a self-deprecating smile slanting across his lips. He’d never won Gigi’s heart.
Now, he never would. She deserved better than a life trapped with a man who would one day succumb to a brain disease.
“You look deep in thought.”
Fitz relaxed his shoulders deliberately, muscle by muscle. He liked the stage manager. Will McClain, a tall, bespectacled man with baggy features and kind eyes, had been in the theater’s employ for over thirty years.
“I blame my mood on Esmeralda’s performance.”
Will nodded a head full of thick white hair. “She’s certainly one of the greatest talents ever to play the Summer Garden, if not the best, which is saying something.”
Fitz looked to the stage. Esmeralda sat on a chaise longue, her voice now filled with fatigue. Her eyes drooped, nearly shut before she fumbled them open again to stare at the young tenor playing Carmen’s lover, Don José. The longing in her eyes looked genuine.
Paul Dupree, the singer playing the male lead, grazed his hand over hers, the move casual yet somehow proprietary, indicating intimate knowledge.
A slow smile curved Esmeralda’s mouth.
The scene was expertly executed, a triumph of acting and singing. Fitz felt as though he was eavesdropping on a private moment. The audience was in for a show opening night.
“How are the negotiations going between you and Mr. Everett?” Will asked.
Fitz didn’t pretend to misunderstand. He did, however, give a cautious answer. “He insists the value of the theater is worth the price he is asking. He is embellishing, of course.”
The stage manager’s expression turned shrewd. “You have no intention of buying the Summer Garden, do you?”
Had Will asked the question a week ago, perhaps even a day ago, Fitz would have silently agreed, though he wouldn’t have admitted the truth aloud. Today, he found himself captivated, not only by the theater with its ornate décor, roof garden, and public café, but by the people that worked to put on a production.
Fitz assured himself sentiment had nothing to do with his interest in the Summer Garden. But as he watched the drama unfolding on the stage, he finally understood why Gigi loved the theater.
This world suited her, nearly as much as the world she’d lost. A world Fitz vowed he would restore her to, no matter the cost to him personally.
“I find,” he said, “the more time I spend in this building, the more intrigued I become.”
“Not exactly an answer.”
No, but it was all Fitz was willing to give. “What can you tell me about the theater that I don’t know already?”
“I’d rather show you.” Will took Fitz on a tour, his fifth, yet far different than all the others before.
The stage manager led Fitz up into the rafters, where he pointed out the rigging, lighting, and various other technical aspects of the building itself.
“We’re far superior to most theaters in Manhattan or Brooklyn. In fact, the Summer Garden was one of the first to put in electrical lighting and indoor plumbing.”
They toured the roof garden next, then wound their way down a rickety spiral staircase and into the café. When they returned to the spot where they began, Will spoke again. “It’s more than the building that makes the Summer Garden special. We’re a family.”
Family, the word on Fitz’s mind all morning. “How do you mean?”
“Most of the crew have been with the theater for at least ten years. Same goes for many of the dancers and bit players, the ones who live and work in the city. Take Jessica over there.” He pointed to a young woman in a blue sparkling costume. “She’s performed in every show for the past three years. Bridget, Matilda, and Celeste have as well.”
Will went on to list the wardrobe mistress and set designer as long-time employees of the theater. “Mrs. Llewellyn started the same week I did.”
By the time Fitz left the stage manager to his duties, he had a better idea how the theater worked. What had seemed a frivolous, risky investment at first had turned into something far more promising.
Was he really considering buying the Summer Garden? He did a quick mental dance over the possibility and focused on the more pressing problem of restoring Gigi to her family.
The sooner he spoke to her, the better.
He found her buried beneath a pile of costumes in the wardrobe room, head bent in concentration. The picture she made was so different from any he would have attributed to the spoiled heiress of the past, and yet it was somehow right.
She sat curtained in shadows. Bottom lip tugged between her teeth, she wielded a needle and thread as if she’d been born to the task. The room was cold, the low light bouncing off the sequins and sparkles of a mountain of costumes strewn on an overstuffed sofa, several tables, and Gigi’s lap.
Fitz shut the door with a soundless click and moved deeper into the tiny room, no bigger than an oversized closet. Gigi had twisted her hair into a complicated braid. She’d always had lovely hair, a deep red that showed hints of gold in the sun. Even tucked beneath the mobcap, the blonde strands looked out of place, dull, and lifeless.
Fitz lowered his gaze. He found himself riveted by Gigi’s pretty, graceful hands laboring over a seemingly tedious task. Those long, elegant fingers used to glide across the piano keys and create the most beautiful music he’d ever heard.
Gigi’s talent had been unrivaled among her peers. All young society ladies were expected to play, but Gigi had excelled.
Fitz had spent many evenings in the drawing room of Harvest House watching her at the piano. He’d admired her talent and beauty, mostly from afar, while Nathanial Dixon had swooped in with his phony British accent and fake title. He’d used Gigi’s love of music to worm his way into her heart.
The two of them had played duets. Except, now that he thought about it, Fitz realized they’d only ever played the same song. They never finished because Dixon would say something low, meant only for Gigi’s ears, and she would become too flustered to continue.
All part of the man’s ruse, Fitz thought furiously.
He should have protected Gigi better. She’d wanted romance, soft words, and love. Fitz hadn’t known how to give her those things, not then and surely not now.
He felt the familiar race of his pulse. Regret and longing nagged at him.
Her hands moved with competence and grace, the task far more menial than playing a piece of music written by Mozart or Bach. She’d once had her own maid to attend to her clothing. Now, she took care of another woman’s wardrobe and sewed tiny sequins onto inferior material.
And yet . . .
She didn’t look unhappy. She looked oddly peaceful.
Fitz drew close enough to realize her scent was cleaner today, fresher, more . . . honest.
Ironic, when she was living a lie.
A lie you’ve helped perpetuate.
The leaden feeling returned to Fitz’s stomach.
He’d watched her in silence long enough. When he spoke, his voice sounded like he’d gargled gravel. “Gigi.”
The eyes that met his were wary, vulnerable. For some reason that made matters seem worse.
“I am Sally now. Why can you not remember that?” She sounded matter-of-fact, but a tremor moved through the words. “Gigi no longer exists.”
This was the exact opening Fitz had hoped for. “You don’t need to be distressed. I have no plans to expose you.”
“So you say.” Gigi sighed in cautious relief. “You promised you wouldn’t tell my family where I am, but you didn’t say whether they know what I’ve . . .” She paused, lifted her chin. “Do they know I am a . . . a—”
“Lady’s maid?”
She nodded.
“No, they don’t know anything about where you live or what you do. They don’t know if you’re safe or even alive.”
Setting aside the costume, she gained her feet slowly, carefully. “They know I am well.”
“How?” Fitz moved closer. “How do they know you are well?”
“I send a letter home monthly, by way of a carrier who keeps my location and situation secret.”
Fitz had a thousand questions, primarily, “Who is this carrier, and how does she”—or he?—“deliver your letters?”
Gigi seemed to consider her answer carefully. “I met Sister Mary the afternoon I was supposed to marry Nathanial. She was very kind to me and insisted I keep in touch. I did, and we continue to meet whenever she’s in the city.”
“Which, I gather, isn’t often?”
Gigi shook her head. “She trains traveling nurses at a mission near the Bowery, and does the same in Philadelphia, Washington, DC, and Richmond, Virginia.”
But not Boston, Fitz noticed. “That still doesn’t explain how she manages to get your letters to your family.”
“She mails them from various locations in each city, though never New York.”
Fitz had additional questions, too many to count. But he sensed Gigi had already told him more than she’d planned. If he pushed her too hard, she might end the conversation altogether.
Still, he couldn’t stop himself from asking, “Do you ever wish for a reply?”
“Never.” She said the word with something perilously close to a sob. “I fear any confirmation that my father hasn’t forgiven me.”
Fitz’s heart constricted at the raw emotion smoldering in Gigi’s eyes. His breathing shallow, he asked, “Have you told him that Nathanial is no longer in your life?”
“I keep the letters short. I give no specifics. I merely say that I am happy and well.”
“Why not tell them the truth about Nathanial? Surely your father would have let you come home once he knew the scoundrel was gone.”
Her sad eyes rolled up to his. “The situation is more complicated than that.”
So she’d claimed the other night in the alleyway. “Your father is not as unforgiving as you seem to believe.”
Tight-lipped and frowning, she glanced away from him.
Again, Fitz wondered what she wasn’t telling him. “Why can’t you go home?”
Her face filled with unspeakable pain. “What does my father think happened to me?”
This, Fitz could answer without a single fabrication. “He fears the worst.”
“And my mother?”
“She hopes for the best. Your sisters, nearly as romantic as you ever were, seem to believe you are happily married and living out a real-life fairy tale.”
Her lips twisted. “And what about you, Fitz? What do you think happened between Nathanial and me?”
He flexed his hands into fists. “I am in agreement with your father.”
Her face somehow shifted, no longer filled with curiosity or fear but an odd sort of defiance. “You must be feeling very smug.”
Smug? She thought he was happy with the knowledge of her downfall? It was shocking how sorrowful he could feel about something that had happened to a woman who’d all but spurned him.
Gigi had been caught in Nathanial Dixon’s evil snare. The rat had hurt and humiliated her, and had put Fitz in a position to do the same, because it was time to stop dancing around the truth. “Let’s get one thing straight, Gigi.”
She opened her mouth to speak, no doubt to correct him on her name.
Fitz talked right over her. “Despite all the warnings, ultimatums, and threats, you chose to run off with a fortune hunter. It doesn’t matter what happened in that hotel room. For all intents and purposes, you are a”—he paused for emphasis—“fallen woman.”
Fallen woman. Gigi felt her face drain of color. Fallen woman. The words reverberated in her head. Fitz knew . . .
Somehow he knew that she and Nathanial had . . .
Without the sacred vow of marriage . . .
Gigi shuddered at the implacable expression on Fitz’s face. He was right, of course. She was a fallen woman and no amount of atonement could erase her dishonor.
Her skin seemed to prickle and burn white-hot, as if she’d tumbled into a frigid lake.
“You claim it doesn’t matter what happened in that hotel room.” Aware she sounded angry and scared, she took several soothing breaths. “But we both know it does.”
He was silent, which worried her a little. A lot. The only movement was the ticking of a muscle in his neck. After several seconds passed, Gigi thought the conversation was over. Fitz would now leave the room. And New York. And forget he’d ever found her.
But then he spoke. “I don’t care what you did or did not do with Dixon.”
“Of course you care.” She couldn’t let the issue drop. How Fitz viewed her shouldn’t matter. But it did, and she knew why. If he, of all people, could see her as the woman she used to be, without the taint of her transgressions, then maybe she could learn to do so as well. “You once thought me worthy enough to consider marrying me.”
“Your father and I had an agreement, one that was never properly secured beyond a few vague promises.” He moved a step closer. “We are not pledged to one another, nor have we ever been, and thus I do not care if Dixon or any other man ruined you.”
He was too calm, too composed. Gigi searched his gaze. A mistake. His eyes locked with hers, and she saw the turmoil there. Her heartbeat went wild, thudding uneven and heavy against her ribs. Fitz did care but was insisting otherwise. What she didn’t understand was why.
The rebellious part of her wanted to push him.
“We are to be related by marriage, Fitz. My secret disgrace, if revealed, will reflect on you and your family.”
As soon as the words left her mouth, she understood why he was here. Why he was really here. He hadn’t come for the pearls. That had only been an excuse. No, he was here to determine the depths of her scandalous act, and then keep the news from getting out.
It made sense. If the truth of her wantonness became public, the scandal would rub off on Fitz’s family.
Perhaps it already had.
With the promise of a potential engagement between her and Fitz, there would have been speculation from his peers when she’d suddenly disappeared. There would have been questions from his business associates. “Did you help my father draft the lie about my studying music in Vienna?”
“No, but I remained silent about the truth.” And that made him complicit.
More to the point, her return would bring questions about their future together. “You don’t want me to go home.”
“On the contrary, I want to make your return go as smoothly as possible.”
“I wish I could believe you.” He’d covered up her sins as surely as if he’d constructed the lie that now prevented her from returning home.
The lie that also protected her reputation.
She didn’t deserve that kind of consideration, even if it was also to Fitz’s mutual benefit. Gigi hadn’t thought of anyone but herself the night of her flight. But Fitz had been forced to think of her since. By remaining silent, he shared in her deceit.
“Does my father truly not know where I am?”
One side of Fitz’s mouth tilted at a wry angle. “He does not.”
“You didn’t tell him you found me?”
Fitz broke eye contact, and his hands found his pockets. “I already interfered in your life once, for which I am greatly sorry.”
He was apologizing to her?
That threw her back a step. Since the beginning, Gigi had been assigning ugly intent to Fitz’s motives. Yet here he stood, taking the moral high ground.
“Had I not inserted myself into the matter,” Fitz continued, “you might not have left home.”
How wrong he was. As much as she’d wanted to blame him—as much as she had faulted him—Fitz’s meddling hadn’t pushed Gigi into Nathanial’s arms. She’d have left with him anyway. That’s just how enamored she’d been with the scoundrel. How gullible and naïve.
“You tried to warn me,” she admitted, reminding herself of that fact, too, and feeling even more wretched than before. When Fitz had confronted her about Nathanial nearly a year ago, he’d started out with tact, but when that hadn’t worked, he’d resorted to shock, then cold, hard bluntness. She’d been so outraged at the time. But looking back on it now, Gigi couldn’t deny that his intentions had been honorable. When hers had been anything but. “I refused to hear your concerns.”
Fitz did not press the issue. He simply stared at her in that patient way of his.
Gigi swallowed. Fitz’s silence said more than actual words. She’d never understood him, and was even more confused by his behavior now. Had he displayed a hint of fury or censure or any number of reactions, she would have bolted.
Taking care to keep as great a distance between them as possible in such a small space, Gigi glanced at the ceiling, the costume-draped wall, anything to avoid Fitz’s gaze. The man she’d all but jilted. She closed her eyes, reeling from a powerful onslaught of emotion. Guilt, humiliation, confusion, and the ever-present self-loathing.
The sound of material rustling told her Fitz had shifted his stance. She opened her eyes and found him still watching her, waiting calmly for her to speak again. Not a single piece of his hair was out of place. The hand-tailored suit he wore cost more than her yearly salary, five times more than the money she needed to buy back her great-grandmother’s pearls.
She couldn’t bring herself to look away. She was too intensely aware of his presence. How had she missed the way Fitz commanded a room? Always, he lived decisively in his skin. The hand-tailored clothing nothing but expensive drapery.
“Why?” she asked. “Why didn’t you come after me sooner? Why now?”
His lips pressed into a flat line, the only indication he wasn’t as calm as he’d appeared. “It’s taken me this long to find you. You are very good at hiding. I had to hire two private investigators.”
Her pulse danced. Fitz had hired men, as in plural, to find her. The confession should have infuriated her. Instead, she felt something in her simply let go.
All this time, he’d been searching for her. Eleven months and countless deceptions.
She’d changed her name, taken different jobs, never staying in any position longer than a few months. Each of her previous employers had thought it their idea that she’d moved on to a position they’d handpicked just for her, when Gigi had maneuvered the situation herself.
She’d made sure no one recognized her. If anyone had, the story her family had made up would have been scrutinized. All it would have taken was one slipup and the truth would have been revealed.
Gigi was suddenly tired. She didn’t want to keep hiding and worrying and being afraid of exposure. For months, she’d donned a disguise and had lost herself in the process.
And still, Fitz had hunted for her. For reasons she couldn’t fully comprehend. He spoke plainly and seemed sincere, yet Gigi sensed he wasn’t being completely authentic. He was holding a portion of himself back.
Of course he was holding back. She’d treated him callously, thinking only of her own happiness. Instead of demanding the explanations he deserved, Fitz was . . . apologizing.
Her face burned.
Pain burst inside her heart and leaked all the way to her soul. Her mouth shook, but no words came out. She stood closer and closer to Fitz but was not aware of moving. Perhaps because she hadn’t moved. Fitz had been the one to close the distance between them.
“Gigi—”
“My name is Sally. Sally Smith.”
His hands clasped her shoulders gently, tentatively, as if he understood he needed to handle her with care. Did he know how much his consideration stung? Much more harshly than a slap in the face would have.
“You are Gigi Wentworth,” he whispered, lowering his hands and stepping back.
“Not anymore.”
His expression filled with compassion. “So you say. But I still see her in you. I hear her in your voice whenever we are alone.”
So he’d caught that. No matter how hard Gigi tried, she couldn’t seem to flatten out her vowels in his presence.
“I also see Sally Smith, a woman you created out of desperation. The real you is somewhere in between the two.”
He couldn’t be more right. Or more wrong.
The old Gigi was no longer inside her. Nathanial had destroyed that part of her, as surely as if he’d buried a knife in her heart and twisted. She couldn’t bear Fitz championing her. What had she done but cause trouble for him? She’d hurt him terribly, simply because he’d not been exciting enough for her.
“I’m sorry,” she said. The words were so inadequate. That didn’t make them any less true.
“You have nothing to be sorry for, Gigi.” Fitz’s voice was soft and kind. So kind her throat clogged.
Fitz was proving himself a good man. Deep down, Gigi had always known this about him. She might have even reconciled herself to the prospect of marrying him if he’d been a little less formal and set in his ways. His lack of imagination and inability to live in the moment had scared her. She’d feared never living up to his standard of perfection and thus had convinced herself they would never suit. The rumors about him and his cousin had sealed his doom.
But there had been other signs.
Gigi had watched her best friend, Verity, suffer in a cold, loveless marriage arranged by her parents. Her friend had become a shell of her former self and had wanted more for her own future. She’d wanted passion and adventure.
Be careful what you wish for, Gigi.
Fitz had said that to her, on more than one occasion. He’d meant to caution her. She’d taken his words as a challenge. She’d pushed him to be the man she wanted instead of appreciating the man he was.
Their one kiss had been . . . it had been . . .
Lovely.
Unexpected.
And so very frightening.
Made worse because Fitz had maintained his distance from that point forward, never letting down his guard again. Just when Gigi had given up on ever restoring their friendship, Nathanial Dixon had arrived on the scene, as if he’d calculated the timing down to the minute. With very little effort, he’d won Gigi’s affection and promised such a false sense of freedom.
Ever since her foolish act, she’d dreamed of going home and starting over. She often awoke sweat-soaked and cold from nightmares of being turned away. The instinct of self-preservation had kept her from making the short trip from New York to Boston. That, and the pearls.
She was so close. And yet, so very far away.
“Come home with me, Gigi.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.” Fitz reached out his hand. “I’ll stand with you when you face your father.”
Gigi tried to think past the flurry of emotions swirling in her stomach, making her dizzy and sick. Whatever motivated Fitz to make such an offer, she knew it wasn’t simple kindness. He never did anything without thinking through every step, every outcome.
You are a fallen woman.
How he must despise her.
Then why not say the words? Why offer to stand by her?
“What if I’m turned away?”
“Then you’ll know you tried.”
She waited for more. He simply stood there, unblinking, seeming to stare straight into her soul. In that moment, she knew Fitz would never consider marrying her again.
Why did that hurt so much?
Fitz deserved more than a woman like her. They suited even less now than when she’d been Gigi Wentworth, the spoiled, most-sought-after, silly debutante. Her hand went to her lips.
His gaze followed the movement. A heartbeat later, he took a step closer.
As if wading through water, she mimicked the move.
He made to take another step, froze a half second, then continued forward until nothing separated them. His hands went around her waist. Her fingers went to his shoulders, flexing once, twice, then relaxing into the thick wool of his coat.
He was going to kiss her. Again.
There had to be a prayer to prevent this sort of disaster.
At the moment, Gigi couldn’t think of one. She couldn’t think at all. Fitz held her closer still, and reaction took over.
Something spread through her, something that made her feel reckless and far too much like the daring young debutante she’d once been.
Christopher Fitzpatrick was the very last man with the power to make Gigi feel reckless and daring. Besides, she was Sally Smith now. Sally was never reckless or daring. She was about control. Rigid control.
She shifted out of Fitz’s reach.
The door burst open a second later.
“Ah, Sally, there you are.” Sophie breezed into the room, an envelope fluttering in her hand, a cloud of jasmine and innocence following in her wake. “I need your advice. I have been invited to a ball and, oh—”
Sophie’s feet ground to a halt.
“Mr. Fitzpatrick, I didn’t see you there.” She looked from Gigi to Fitz, her brows pulled together in confusion. “I was told you left the building.”
“Your maid was explaining why such a massive amount of costumes is necessary to put on a production.”
“Oh, well, yes.” Sophie’s expression relaxed. “I suppose that would seem daunting to someone new to the theater.”
“Now that I have the information I need, I will wish you both a good day.”
He exited the room with the kind of smooth sophistication that had been bred into him from childhood. The man was not especially personable or charming, or even likable. He was intense and . . . Gigi sighed. He’d nearly kissed her.
Sophie stared at the door Fitz had just walked through, her brow still furrowed. “I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I believe that man is not what he seems.”
The young woman had no idea how close to the truth she’d come.
As if something had only just occurred to her, Sophie spun to stare at Gigi, eyes wide. “You know him.”
The statement had Gigi rubbing at her temple, where the beginnings of a headache pounded. “Mrs. Llewellyn introduced us days ago.”
Sophie’s suspicion morphed into certainty. “You know him.”
Gigi wished it wasn’t true. Suddenly, the minuscule, airless wardrobe room felt infinitely smaller.
“And . . .” Sophie gave her a saucy wink. “You like him.”
Gigi didn’t like Fitz. She tolerated him. She’d . . . nearly kissed him.
Well, she thought in furious despair, maybe she did like Fitz. But only a very little.