Chapter Twenty-One
Fitz didn’t make it back to New York in time for opening night. Gigi hadn’t held out much hope that he would.
Who was she kidding?
Of course she’d held out hope.
For every hour he was gone, all forty-five and three quarters of them, she’d waited anxiously for his return.
He’d sent no word. Not a telegram, not a note by special courier, nothing.
His silence hurt.
And the longer he stayed away, the more certain she became that he would never return.
To make matters worse, Gigi had another, equally troubling situation to deal with. Sophie had disappeared. The young woman had gone missing the same night Fitz had left town.
At least Sophie had left word. Nothing more than a hastily scribbled note, but that was better than no communication at all.
Now, as Gigi unfolded the piece of parchment paper for what must have been the seventieth time in two days, she admitted the truth to herself.
She’d failed Sophie. As surely as if she’d personally helped the young woman escape the town house with her lover. Gigi prayed her friend’s tale would end better than her own.
She lowered her head and read the runaway’s words.
My Dearest Gigi,
Your brave story has given me the daring to take my own leap of faith. Robert has asked me to marry him, and I have said yes. By the time you read this, I will be away.
Please. Do not worry for me. Robert is a good man. He is no Nathanial. He is my Fitz. And I am blissfully happy.
With all my love,
Sophie
“Oh, Sophie, what have you done?” Gigi pressed the note to her heart.
Her friend had listened to her story and somehow used it to rationalize running off with the man she loved. He is no Nathanial. He is my Fitz. Well, that was certainly unexpected.
Gigi’s one consolation was Esmeralda’s reaction to Sophie’s act of defiance. In a surprising twist that rivaled any fictional plot, when Gigi has screwed up the nerve to tell the opera singer about Sophie’s note, Esmeralda hadn’t blamed Gigi for her daughter’s rash behavior.
She’d blamed herself. “I should have realized Sophie’s resentment toward me ran deep.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am.”
“Yes, yes.” She’d brushed off Gigi’s sorrow with a dismissive wave. “I know you are, my dear.”
They’d come to an understanding that day, one that transcended their age difference. They were two women with regrets and a strong desire to see their loved ones protected from the consequences of their mistakes.
Heart heavy, Gigi placed Sophie’s note on her dresser, her eyes catching on a single sentence.
He is my Fitz.
Oh, how Gigi hoped that was true. If Robert Dain turned out to be half the man that Fitz was, then there was no cause for concern.
Please, Lord, let it be so.
It wasn’t the first prayer Gigi had uttered in the past two days. Each time she lifted up a request to the Lord, her burdens seemed to grow lighter. She was starting to feel restored, not quite the old Gigi, but not Sally, either.
In an effort to renew her spirit, she’d spent hours reading her Bible and was coming to understand two profound realizations: God’s plan often incorporated His people’s mistakes, and He was actively involved in the intricate design of His children’s lives.
For the first time in a year, Gigi looked at herself through God’s eyes and felt whole again.
She went in search of Esmeralda so they could set the time for their departure to the theater. To her surprise, the singer was ready to leave.
“This early?”
“I prefer to arrive ahead of the others. Walking through each scene is part of my opening-night ritual.”
With the entire household staff waving from the doorway, they climbed into Esmeralda’s private carriage. Once they were settled on opposite seats, the singer dug around in her reticule. “Before I forget, this is for you.”
She passed Gigi an envelope. “What is it?”
Proving she truly didn’t hold Sophie’s behavior against Gigi, she said, “Consider it a token of my appreciation.”
“For?”
“For skillfully guiding my daughter through these difficult months.”
Feeling like a fraud, Gigi tried to return the envelope.
Esmeralda would have none of it. “You taught Sophie how to move successfully in her father’s world. She had her chance to rise above the condition of her birth.”
Regret whirled in Gigi’s stomach. “She ran off with a man.”
“A man who happens to be an educated doctor. It is more than I hoped.”
The churning in Gigi’s stomach eased. Still, she made another attempt to return whatever Esmeralda had stuffed in the thick envelope.
“Do not insult me.”
Gigi stuffed the envelope in the pocket of her skirt. “Thank you.”
“You are most welcome.”
Esmeralda proceeded to shift around, stretching out her legs, pulling them back in, repeating the process over and over again. It was the first time Gigi had seen the diva nervous. “Tell me what I can do.”
“Your calming presence is enough.”
How ironic that Esmeralda was the Cappelletti woman who required Gigi’s calming presence. At least someone needed her, Gigi thought with a spurt of gratitude.
Her pleasure was short-lived.
As soon as they arrived at the theater, Esmeralda banished Gigi from her sight with a little shove. “Go away, now. I wish to walk through my scenes minus any distractions, your company included.”
Well then. With extra time on her hands, Gigi decided to set up the makeshift nursery for later that evening. She’d promised Jessica and the other single mothers that she would watch their children during the performance.
One more in a long line of surprises awaited her there. “Oh, I . . .” Her eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”
“I’m Mrs. Tupper. And you must be Sally.” The plump elderly woman had a mane of long white hair, smiling eyes, and a grandmotherly air about her.
“Uh . . . yes, I’m Sally.” How odd to hear that name in reference to herself. In two short days, despite carrying out her household and theater duties, she’d become Gigi again.
She chanced a peek around the other woman and felt her eyes widen. The room actually looked like a real nursery.
The floors gleamed from a recent polishing. New rugs had been moved in and the excess furniture out. The piano was situated against one wall, a small bookcase on another. There were several trunks overflowing with toys, while child-sized cots lined the farthest wall.
“You seem confused, dear.”
That was a magnificent understatement. “Who did you say you were?”
“I am Mrs. Tupper. I have been hired to watch the children.”
Hired? “By whom?”
“Mr. Everett, of course.”
Fitz had followed through with his plan for the children. He’d managed to convince the theater owner to turn this room into a permanent nursery. “When did he hire you?”
“Yesterday afternoon. Apparently, a generous patron is underwriting my salary.”
That was so . . . Fitz. The dear, wonderful, thoughtful man.
Gigi hardly trusted herself to speak. She let out a breath. “You’ve been busy.”
“I suppose I have been, with the stage manager’s assistance. Mr. McClain was quite adamant that his men help me put the nursery in order.” The older woman took a moment to glance around the room. “There is still more I wish to do, but I’m pleased with the start I’ve made.” Satisfaction swirled in her gaze.
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
Mrs. Tupper suggested that Gigi ask the wardrobe mistress if she needed any assistance.
Mere seconds later, Gigi stood in the dark hallway, staring at a firmly shut door. “That certainly put me in my place.”
She wandered around to the wardrobe closet and was met with a similar lack of desire for her services. With no one requiring her help, Gigi found herself at loose ends. I want to go home.
What was stopping her?
Twenty-five dollars. Gigi was still twenty-five dollars short of being able to redeem her great-grandmother’s pearls.
Members of the orchestra had begun to arrive. She could listen to them tune their instruments. Or perhaps not. The disjointed musical notes would only serve to agitate her further.
Her ears caught the subtle sound of female conversation. Gigi moved in that direction. She hesitated on the fringes of the group, engaging herself in silent debate. She didn’t really want to talk with anyone. Turning, she gathered her skirts away from her ankles and froze. The sound of paper crinkling reminded her of the envelope Esmeralda had given her.
Consider it a token of my appreciation.
Curious at the meaning behind the cryptic words, Gigi dipped her hand in her pocket and fished out the envelope. Slipping her fingertip beneath the flap, she flicked it open and peered at the contents inside.
“Oh, my.” Her fingers skimmed over the bills. Counting the denominations silently in her head, she came up with an impossible sum.
She counted again.
Shock had her collapsing against a nearby wall.
In her hand, Gigi held more than enough money to redeem her great-grandmother’s pearls.
It’s over. I can go home.
All that stood in her way was ten city blocks and one final transaction with a shady pawnbroker.
Tomorrow, Gigi promised herself. First thing in the morning, she would buy back the necklace.
She didn’t want to wait, but the afternoon had gotten away from her. With empty hours stretching before her, she tapped her foot in impatience. If she packed her suitcase tonight, she could leave for Boston as soon as her business at the pawnshop was complete.
Unable to contain her excitement, Gigi shoved away from the wall and hurried toward the exit.
A hand on her arm stalled her progress.
“Sally, where are you going in such a rush?”
“Home,” she told the wardrobe mistress. “Oh, Mrs. Llewellyn, I am going home.”
Fitz leaned against the wall opposite the door he’d just exited, heart in his throat. The last two days had been harrowing to say the least, tonight the worst yet. After working at the office tying up loose ends on several contracts, he’d arrived at his parents’ home far later than planned and had been confronted with utter chaos.
His father had been in the middle of an episode, according to his mother. Night terrors was the more technical term. One of the specialists Fitz had consulted in New York had warned him what to expect. The doctor had claimed that Calvin Fitzpatrick might be capable of performing violent acts during a course of five to twenty minutes and then, when it was over, not remember a thing.
Fitz wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t witnessed it for himself.
Hand shaking, he speared his fingers through his hair. Matters were far worse than he’d realized.
Unable to stand still, Fitz pushed away from the wall and paced back and forth down the long corridor. His father had come at him, eyes burning with rage, accusing Fitz of stealing his golf clubs. Fitz hadn’t played a single game of golf in his life.
No amount of reasoning had calmed his father. Taller by three inches and with thirty pounds of additional muscle, it had still taken Fitz considerable effort to physically subdue the older man. When he was finally calm, Calvin Fitzpatrick hadn’t remembered any of his anger, or the reason for his fury, or that he’d accidentally landed a blow on his son’s face.
Flexing his fingers, Fitz went back to alternating between pacing and praying. Praying and pacing.
Pacing and praying.
He’d come home for clarity. He’d certainly gotten that.
The door to his father’s bedroom swung open, and his mother stepped out into the hallway.
Fitz strode over to her. Taking note of the worry creasing her brow and the pale color of her complexion, he opened his arms in silent invitation.
She entered his embrace without hesitation.
“Oh, Fitz,” she said in a low, pain-filled tone. “I’m sorry you had to see him that way.”
“Does he have these episodes often?”
“Hardly ever. Only when his sleep is interrupted.” She pressed her cheek into his shoulder. “He must have heard you arrive.”
Fitz inhaled his mother’s scent, a soft mix of iris and mint. “I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t know.” She stepped back. Within her eyes resided all the fatigue and sorrow she endured. “His night nurse gave him a sedative. He’ll sleep through the night now.”
“Praise God for that.” Fitz studied his mother’s face. She looked exhausted, her dull, lifeless skin showing every bit of her sixty-five years. “Why didn’t you tell me he was having night terrors?”
“They’re rare, and I didn’t want you to think poorly of your father.”
More secrets. More lies.
Fitz breathed through his frustration. With each breath, a hot ball of dread expanded in his throat. His eyes throbbed, his heart ached, and a dozen simultaneous thoughts shuffled through his mind, pinpointing one frightening concern. “Has Father ever attacked you?”
“Never.” She must have seen his skepticism, because she added, “I promise. Tonight was the first time he’s become inconsolable.”
Fitz still wasn’t sure he believed her. When he persisted, Mary Fitzpatrick stuck to her story. “All I can think is that he didn’t recognize you.”
That had been excruciatingly evident. His father had called him Sebastian. They had no Sebastian in the family.
The truth could no longer be denied. Calvin Fitzpatrick was losing his mind.
“Oh, dear. Look at your eye.” His mother reached up and touched an especially tender spot.
Fitz winced.
She immediately went into her role as caregiver. “Come with me.” She hooked her arm through his. “We’ll put some ice on it to stop the swelling.”
Minutes later, Fitz was sitting in his parents’ enormous kitchen while his mother searched for a clean cloth to wrap around the chunk of ice quickly melting in her hand. She opened and closed drawers, coming up empty.
Fitz stopped her before she could mount a search through the entire house. Standing, he took the ice and set it in the sink. “My eye is fine.”
“It’s already turning purple.”
“It’s fine,” he repeated, then softened his volume when she flinched at his harsh tone. “Truly. Please, Mother. Sit. Now that we’re alone, I want to discuss something with you.”
After another round of opening and closing a series of drawers, she finally admitted defeat and did as Fitz requested. He sat beside her.
With her no longer in constant motion, he was better able to take in her features. She’d aged considerably in the past year and had lost weight, too much. Her clothes practically hung on her thin frame. Her coal-black hair was streaked with thick strands of gray, and the once wrinkle-free face was lined and haggard from worry.
As much as he hated saying the words, Fitz couldn’t help but voice what was in his heart. “You can’t go on like this.”
“He is my husband.” She said this as though it were explanation enough.
“He’s not the man you married.”
“Of course he is.” Faded blue eyes rolled up to his, distress written all over the still-pretty face. “I pledged to love him in sickness and health, till death do us part. It is my greatest joy to care for the man I love.”
There was honor in that kind of devotion, Fitz knew, but he still found himself saying, “Even if caring for him is killing you?”
“I’m fine, really.”
“You could put him in an institution.” There, he’d said the words that had been on his tongue for weeks.
Instead of feeling better, Fitz felt worse, shameful even, as if he didn’t love his father enough.
But he did love him. He grieved for the man who was slowly disappearing into a dark place, locked away somewhere in his own mind. And his mother was trapped right there with him. By choice. “You don’t have to carry this burden alone.”
“I’m not alone. You and your cousin have made sure of that. I have a team of nurses at my disposal.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Fitz, try to understand.” His mother offered him a soft smile. “Your father and I have been married for over thirty years. I have loved him in the happy times, the trying ones, and the terrifying moments like what you witnessed tonight. I have no regrets, other than to say I wish he wasn’t suffering so.”
There was a lesson in her words, Fitz thought grimly, but he couldn’t seem to process exactly what it was he should be learning.
“Where do you get the strength?” he wondered aloud.
“It’s not my strength that gets me through, but the strength the Lord provides in my times of weakness.”
Fitz looked into his mother’s face and saw the very definition of sacrificial love shining back at him. She wasn’t a religious woman. Or, rather, she hadn’t been before his father took ill. “You don’t regret marrying Father?”
“Not for a single minute.” Her eyes filled with tears. “The Lord brought Calvin Fitzpatrick into my life, and I cherish every moment I have with him.”
An image of Gigi flashed in Fitz’s mind. He thought of her delicate beauty. She was strong and capable, more now for the hardships she’d endured.
He loved her. Too much to ask her to live through what his mother suffered. “I spoke with some specialists in New York.”
“That wasn’t necessary. We have excellent doctors here in Boston. Some of the best in the world.”
“I wanted anonymity for the questions I had.”
“What sort of questions did you have that you couldn’t ask his doctor here?”
Fitz told her about his concern that his father’s condition was hereditary, ending with, “The research is inconclusive.”
She digested this information in silence.
“Mother, may I ask you something?”
Still thoughtful, his mother reached out and patted his hand. “Anything, dear.”
“If you had known about Father’s illness before the wedding, would you have married him anyway?”
“Absolutely, I would.”
She’d said it without hesitation. “You don’t want to take a moment and think about your answer?”
“I don’t need a moment. Fitz, darling.” She laid her hand over his. “What’s this really about?”
“I’ve found the woman I want to marry, but I . . .” He didn’t know how to finish the thought.
“Ah. You’re afraid you’ll turn out like your father and don’t want this young woman to turn out like . . . me.”
“When you put it that way, it sounds like I’m trying—”
“To play God?”
“I was going to say, trying to rationalize my decision to protect the woman I love.”
“Fitz. Let me ask you a question. If your roles were reversed, and this woman was the one destined to become ill, would you still want to marry her?”
His answer came as quickly as his mother’s had. “Absolutely, I would.”
“You don’t want to take a moment and think about your answer?”
A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Point taken.”
“Since neither of us is going to sleep tonight, why don’t you tell me about this woman you want to marry.”
In the low light of the kitchen, Fitz told his mother about searching for and subsequently finding Gigi. He didn’t reveal anything about the pearls or Gigi’s time spent with Nathanial, but instead focused on the way his own feelings had morphed from infatuation to a deep, abiding love. “I always cared for her, but now, when I think of the woman she’s become, I’m honored to know her. My heart aches for her. It literally aches.”
His mother went to the door and swung it open with a flourish. The beginnings of a new day were evident on the pink-tinged sky beyond the backyard.
“Well?” she asked. “What are you waiting for, son? Go get the woman you love.”