Chapter Eight
Gigi found Sophie as she usually did at this hour. An early riser, the young woman sat at the table near the window, drenched in the golden, rosy tint of dawn. Esmeralda’s treasured cat, Othello, slumbered in a sunbeam at Sophie’s feet.
Gigi moved to the table and set down the tray of pastries, coffee, and two soft-boiled eggs in pretty enameled cups of blue-and-gold porcelain, Esmeralda’s signature colors.
“Good morning, Sophie.” Gigi handed the young woman the New York Times and then poured the Earl Grey tea she preferred in a cup. “I trust you slept well.”
“Not a wink.”
“Oh, dear.” Gigi studied Sophie more closely, noting the light dusting of purple shadows beneath her red-rimmed eyes. Alarm had her asking, “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not especially.” The words were spoken without conviction.
“If you’re sure . . .”
“Oh, Sally. It’s just . . . No.” She shook her head decisively. “There is nothing I wish to discuss at present.”
Hands slightly shaking, Sophie spread the newspaper out on the table and pretended grave interest in the front page.
At the obvious dismissal, Gigi went about tidying the room.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sophie pick up her spoon and give one of the eggs a hard whack. With a look of distaste, Sophie sighed heavily and then selected a pastry off the tray. As she took a bite, she bent down and absently stroked the cat’s sleek fur. Othello’s rumbling purr overwhelmed all other sounds in the room.
Gigi picked up a blanket off Sophie’s bed and began folding it into a meticulous square, her mind only half on the task.
Clearly, something had upset her friend. Gigi was determining how to broach the subject when Sophie broke her silence. “I understand you met Mr. Fitzpatrick at the theater yesterday.”
Gigi’s hands froze mid-fold. Of course Sophie wanted to discuss Fitz. He seemed to be the favorite topic of the entire household this morning.
“I did meet him, briefly.”
“What did you think?”
Gigi ignored the pit forming in her stomach, schooled her features into a bland expression, and answered with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. “I found him to be very . . . polite.”
“Polite.” Sophie gave a hum of agreement, petting the cat with lazy strokes. “That he is. He hails from Boston. Did you know that?”
“I recall you mentioning that.”
“His family is one of the most respectable in the city. Have you heard of them?”
Remembering that she’d told Sophie her real name and had indicated she came from wealth, she saw there was no use lying. “Yes.”
“And Mr. Fitzpatrick? Have you heard of him?”
“Yes.”
“But you do not know him?”
Did anyone ever really know another person? Gigi had thought she’d known Nathanial. How wrong she’d been there.
After her encounters with Fitz, Gigi suspected he was as much a stranger as Nathanial had proven himself to be. Thus, it was with complete honesty that she said, “I do not know him.”
“Hmm.” Sophie lifted the cat into her lap and stroked her hand down the long, silky fur.
“Did Mr. Fitzpatrick upset you last evening? Did he say something”—about me?—“that caused you to lose sleep?”
“No, he was a delightful guest.” She nibbled on her bottom lip, a striking young woman lost in contemplation. “He’s really rather perfect. Although, now that I think about it, I found him a bit distant and not fully present.”
Distant. Not fully present. Gigi had once accused Fitz of those very things. He hadn’t been distant last night. Edgy, restless, demanding, and arrogant. But, no, not distant.
“I had a hard time deciphering his true feelings about any of the topics we discussed,” Sophie continued.
Fitz had made himself clear enough to Gigi in the darkened alleyway. Issuing orders and threats. I shall involve the police.
“Mama thinks he would be a good match for me.”
A sudden rush of emotion had Gigi picking frantically at the fringe on the blanket in her hands. It was hard not to like Sophie. She was sweet and gracious and deserved better than a match manipulated by her mother.
“You don’t like Mr. Fitzpatrick?” Gigi asked.
“I don’t know him well enough to like or dislike him.”
Gigi set down the blanket, picked up another one. “What do you think of him as a potential suitor?”
“I think . . .” Sophie sat back in her chair and cuddled the cat close. “We would be a terrible match. He is too perfectly polite, too perfectly gentlemanly, and too perfectly . . . perfect.”
There’d been nothing perfect about Fitz in the alleyway. Except for his being perfectly awful. No, that wasn’t entirely true. He’d shown a moment of genuine sympathy and vowed to find Nathanial for her.
“Marriage to a man like Mr. Fitzpatrick would mean instant acceptance and respectability,” Gigi ventured.
“In Boston society, perhaps that is true. But what of New York?”
Sophie posed a valid question. “Marrying a man like Fitz—Mr. Fitzpatrick would certainly be an excellent start.”
“Not enough, I fear. Not nearly enough.” As if sensing Sophie’s gloomy mood, Othello cracked open an eye and studied Gigi through the narrow slit. He gave her a dismissive sniff and returned to his nap, chin resting lightly on his front paws.
Gigi tried not to feel offended. But, really—weighed, measured, and found wanting by a cat? Not the greatest of humiliations, but still.
“I am supposed to accompany my mother to the theater today,” Sophie said. “She claims we will go shopping at Bergdorf Goodman after her rehearsal, but I know that’s not the reason.”
“No?”
“It’s because she wishes to throw me in Mr. Fitzpatrick’s path as much as possible.” Sophie set the cat on the floor and stood, eyes miserable. “I must prepare.”
“You’re already dressed.”
Sophie smoothed a hand down her skirt. “I am not happy with the color.”
“That shade of green does wonders for your coloring.”
“Precisely.”
Baffled, Gigi joined her friend in the closet. Standing shoulder to shoulder, they eyed the contents together. Sophie reached out and closed her hand over a hideous gray gown Gigi had attempted to toss out on several occasions.
“Not that one,” Gigi urged. “Your mother will object.”
Sophie gave her a sly grin. “Precisely.”
“But the color is unflattering, and the cut of the dress is too large.”
“Precisely.”
“You . . . oh.” Understanding dawned. “You don’t wish to attract Mr. Fitzpatrick’s attention.”
“Precisely.”
The young woman looked rather pleased with herself. Gigi was rather pleased with Sophie as well, for reasons she refused to contemplate. “What if he isn’t a man swayed by fashion?”
“All men are swayed by fashion, even the ones who think they are immune. It is all part of the mating game.” In that moment, Sophie sounded very much like her mother. “The key is to know the rules and use them to your advantage.”
Now she even looked like Esmeralda with her haughty pose and the nonchalant sweep of her hand.
“I thought you didn’t care to play that particular game.”
“Oh, I care. I care a great deal. I merely object to having my mother set the rules.”
Gigi took the gray dress and followed Sophie out of the closet. “I don’t understand what has brought on this sudden need to rebel.”
“It’s quite simple, really. I have been at the mercy of my mother’s decisions all my life. I have followed her rules to the letter. And now that I am on the brink of creating a new life for myself, she wishes to stall my efforts by throwing a man in the mix. A man of her choice, not mine.”
Gigi laid the dress on the bed and went to help Sophie out of the pretty green gown. She should have known Sophie would eventually test her boundaries. The young woman had a strong will and harbored great anger toward her mother. Rebellion was inevitable. But one step would lead to another.
And then several more. Gigi had lived out the scenario herself. She’d then seen the pattern repeated with her previous employer. Elizabeth St. James—now Elizabeth Griffin—had rebelled against her mother’s strict rules. The young woman had avoided scandal only because a good man—Luke Griffin—had come into her life.
Sophie was stepping out on her own and, because of that, Gigi feared the outcome. Youthful mistakes were regretted for a lifetime. “I urge you to think carefully about how you proceed.”
Something in her voice must have gotten through to the young woman, because Sophie’s bold expression settled into one of uncertainty. “It’s only a dress.”
Elizabeth’s rebellion had started with a dress.
“You are close to earning a spot in New York society. I would hate for you to take a misstep merely because you wish to upset your mother.”
“Yes, well.” Sophie stepped into the gray dress. “I know what I’m doing.”
Something in the way the woman made this casual remark put Gigi immediately on guard. “If your mother didn’t like Mr. Fitzpatrick, would you be this determined to avoid his attention?”
The question gave the girl pause. She straightened one of the sleeves, plucking at the thin ivory lace. “Rest assured, I am certain Mr. Fitzpatrick is not the man for me. It’s important to let him know this from the onset of our acquaintance.”
“You are resolved on this route?”
“Absolutely.” Sophie spun around. “I have a request.”
Not liking the calculating look she saw in her friend’s eyes, Gigi’s heart took a fast lurch.
“I cannot be alone with Mr. Fitzpatrick. I want you to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“Me?” Gigi gaped at the woman. “You wish for me to—” She swallowed back a gasp of dismay. “Distract him?”
“You don’t have to look so appalled. I’m not asking you to accost the poor man. I’m simply requesting you chat him up, keep him company, or maybe show him around the theater.”
“I’m sure he’s already had a tour.”
“Then take him up to the roof garden, unless I’m up there. Then find some other out-of-the-way spot.”
The suggestion rendered Gigi speechless. She couldn’t take Fitz up to the roof garden or anywhere intimate. He would no doubt use the occasion to ask her about the pearls.
“I should warn you.” Sophie tugged on an errant curl that Gigi had yet to pile atop her head with the others. “Now that Mama has it in her mind to throw Mr. Fitzpatrick and me together, your task will not be an easy one.”
Gigi breathed in sharply, the only outward sign of her distress. Fitz had been adamant last night in the alleyway that he wouldn’t rest until he had her great-grandmother’s pearls in his possession. She’d hoped to avoid him while she thought up a plan to dissuade him of the notion.
“Did you hear what I said?”
Gigi started, realizing that Sophie had continued talking while she’d been fighting off panic. “Er . . . no.”
“I asked if you understood what I’m asking of you.”
A sigh slid out of her. “I understand perfectly.”
“Very good.” The girl looked at her far-from-stellar reflection and gave one quick, firm nod. “Mother wishes to leave within the hour.”
“I’ll be ready.” Back in her room, Gigi packed a small satchel. She tossed in random items—a small sewing kit, a clean hairbrush, hat pins, an assortment of ribbons, and a book. The last item was one of Sophie’s favorite novels by Jane Austen. Gigi included the tome in case rehearsals went long and Sophie grew bored.
That task complete, Gigi sat on her bed and looked around her tiny room. So much smaller and plainer than the one she’d inhabited at Harvest House. But she had a bed, clothing to wear, the promise of three meals a day, and a roof over her head. Really, what more did she need?
Freedom.
There was no such thing. Not for a woman with a past like hers. And though Gigi had once lived with a strong faith, gifted with the surety of her Heavenly Father’s love, now she felt no connection to her Lord. She felt nothing. Knew nothing.
Believed nothing.
Eyeing her reflection in the mirror, she contemplated the woman blinking back at her. Sally Smith was as plain as her servants’ quarters.
Othello shoved into the room and wound around her ankles, a black-and-white, pudgy ribbon of fur. Welcoming the company, Gigi reached down and scratched the cat’s belly. The need to escape smothered all other thought. She would leave this house, change her name again, find another job, do charity work, get her hands dirty, and maybe own a fat cat. She would spoil him—of course—mercilessly. The two of them would live out their days in quiet solitude, far from society, far from the glittering balls and nosy reporters and gossip and . . .
Gigi would never see her sisters again.
No, she thought, a friendless, cheerless, solitary existence was not what she wanted. She wanted to be restored to her family. And . . . and . . . she wanted to go home.
She would go home.
Fitz could make his demands. He could threaten, cajole, or use any manner of persuasion. Gigi would never relent.
After sparing Othello one last scratch behind his ears, she picked up her tote bag and went to meet Sophie in the foyer.
Gigi arrived at the theater with Sophie and Esmeralda. They entered through the backstage door at a leisurely pace set by the opera singer.
Stepping into a wall of noise and light, Gigi took in the swarm of activity. Four men stood in a semicircle, hunched over a set of drawings. They argued over one of the designs, two of them convinced the arch should be painted green, the other two confident the color was supposed to be brown.
Esmeralda breezed past them without a single look in their direction. Likewise, she ignored the half-dozen women in matching bright-blue dancer costumes, her destination clear.
Fitz stood statue still. Enveloped in the golden glow cast by warm stage lighting, he stood separate and alone, watching the activity with an expression that betrayed his implacable resolve.
Of course the odious man would have already arrived at the theater. Fitz was nothing if not predictable. The music director walked up to him. Mr. Lawrence was a slight man of indeterminate years. He had a clever face and dark-blond hair that stuck out in every direction.
For his part, Fitz looked, as Sophie had claimed, quite naturally . . . perfect. He was dressed in business attire that fit him so well that Gigi had no doubt he still employed the best tailor in Boston.
He looked over at her.
Gigi looked right back.
Something odd dipped in her stomach. The sensation wasn’t altogether awful. She quickly lowered her head. When she lifted her gaze again, Fitz had shifted his attention to Esmeralda.
“Ah, Fitz. There you are. Just the man I wished to see.” As if she’d been searching for him all morning, Esmeralda lifted her hand in a queenly summons.
Even from this position, Gigi could read his exasperated expression before he smoothed it away with a benign smile. He crossed the distance with ground-eating strides. “Good day, ladies.”
Sophie immediately stiffened at the greeting. She took hold of Gigi’s arm and squeezed. Hard. Esmeralda carried the bulk of the conversation, saying something about how fortuitous it was running into Fitz so soon after their evening together.
Fortuitous for whom, Gigi wondered. Certainly not for her, or for Sophie, if her death grip on Gigi’s arm was anything to go by.
Esmeralda placed a gloved hand on Fitz’s bicep.
Seizing her chance to flee, Sophie mumbled a quick, garbled farewell and took herself away, dragging Gigi with her. Despite her earlier request that Gigi distract Fitz, the young woman practically heaved Gigi through the maze of hallways.
They ascended an alarmingly steep, twisting stairwell made of rickety wrought iron.
“I didn’t even know these steps existed,” Gigi said, gasping for breath.
“Shh,” Sophie ordered. “Someone will hear you.”
They reached the top. Sophie threw open the door and stepped into a beam of sunlight. She motioned for Gigi to follow.
Gigi did as requested, momentarily blinded by the blast of sunshine. She attempted to regain her vision with several fast blinks. The task was made more difficult as an image of Fitz’s freshly shaved face and still-damp hair intruded.
His eyebrows had been drawn together in concentration, his mouth a flat line of grim determination. He’d looked like a man on a mission.
Shivering in the wind, Gigi washed out her lungs with several gasps of fresh air. When that failed to calm her, she put a hand on her forehead and shoved her hair back. At last, her surroundings came into view.
Sophie had brought them up to the roof garden.
Gigi had only been up here once, via a less precarious, carpeted staircase situated in the auditorium. The garden’s architecture was very pretty. Tables and chairs were scattered throughout, not haphazardly but in an arrangement that created an artistic and inviting atmosphere. Tiny, intimate islands of seating and large potted plants placed at strategic spots brought cohesion to the overall design.
Despite the chilly temperature and the light dusting of snow, it was a perfect hiding place for a woman wishing to avoid a certain man. Gigi let out a relieved sigh.
“You know you have to go back down there.” Sophie must have caught Gigi’s startled expression, for she added in a soft voice, “You promised to distract Mr. Fitzpatrick, remember?”
Of course, this was a hiding place for Sophie, not Gigi.
“Ah, yes. Right.” Gigi cleared her throat. “I’ll head back down now.”
She turned to go, then remembered the item she’d stuffed in her bag and spun back around. “I brought this for you.”
Digging inside the satchel, she retrieved the copy of Persuasion, Sophie’s favorite Jane Austen novel.
Gratitude filled the young woman’s eyes as she reached out a gloved hand. “You have thought of everything.”
Not everything. Gigi still had to come up with a plan to send Fitz packing once and for all. “I’ll let you know when the coast is clear.”
This time, when she turned to go, she kept walking. She picked her way carefully—very carefully—down the rickety stairwell and arrived on terra firma with slightly shaky legs. She took in one breath, two, a third. Equilibrium restored, she took one final pull of air, and went in search of Fitz.
She passed a group of young women. She nodded a greeting, which they promptly returned. Nearer the stage, Gigi caught sight of Maestro Grimaldi whipping his arms about as he conducted the musicians and singers through a practice run of the famous “Toreador” aria from the second act of Carmen.
Unable to stop herself, Gigi closed her eyes a moment and let the bass-baritone couplet in F-minor roll over her. Though the song described a bullfight, the time signature was in common time, which brought a sense of order to the music that Gigi found comforting.
It was moments such as these, when she was treated to a performance by some of the best musicians and singers in the world, that she missed her studies most. If only she’d taken her training more seriously, maybe then she’d have been immune to Nathanial’s advances. Fitz wouldn’t have felt compelled to interfere. And her father wouldn’t have disowned her.
Remembering her duty, she blinked open her eyes. Fitz was no longer in the wings watching the orchestra.
Where was he?
With Esmeralda, probably.
Except the diva was onstage with the others. Thinking through her options, Gigi came up with a plan that would satisfy her promise to Sophie. She would guard the stairwell to the roof garden.
As soon as the thought materialized, she discarded it. There was more than one entrance to the roof. She would have to locate Fitz after all.
Perhaps he was in the business office with Mr. Everett, talking about, well, business.
One way to find out.
Gigi rapped on the door and was told to enter. She pushed into the room. It was a small one, cluttered with stacks of paper on every available piece of furniture. The air was drafty, as there was no working fireplace or stove to ward off the chill.
Mr. Everett sat behind the lone desk facing the door. She couldn’t see his face or his caterpillar eyebrows. Head down, the theater owner wielded a brass letter opener with focused intent, ripping open envelopes with swift, efficient swipes.
A glance to her left, then her right, and Gigi determined the man was alone.
“Miss Smith.” He greeted Gigi with a suspiciously cheerful smile. “What can I do for you this fine morning?”
“I was actually looking for Mr. Fitzpatrick.”
“You just missed him.”
The faint spicy fragrance of Fitz’s scent lingered in the air, telling her that she had, indeed, just missed him by mere minutes.
Well, drat.
Gigi glanced around the office again, tugging her bottom lip between her teeth. “Do you happen to know where he went?”
“He took himself off to the wardrobe room.” That explained why they hadn’t crossed paths.
“I see you are busy.” Gigi glanced at the stack of unopened letters waiting for the owner’s attention. “I won’t keep you from your work.”
Yet instead of leaving, Gigi realized this was her chance to earn a bit of money. She squared her shoulders. “Mr. Everett? May I impose on you a moment longer?”
He gave her a slow smile, his good mood all but radiating off him. “Of course.”
“I am in need of a job.”
The man’s eyebrows drew together into one thick black line. “You are already employed.”
“I meant something in the evenings. Perhaps I could sort the mail, or organize your desk. The clutter is quite out of hand and—”
“My desk is precisely the way I like it. Organizing, as you put it, would only cause confusion.” He spoke kindly with no real censure in his voice, which gave Gigi the daring to continue.
“Oh, well then, maybe I could . . .” Think, Gigi. Think of something you can do. “Perhaps I could clean the theater? I’m rather proficient at polishing brass and mirrors.”
She’d performed similar work at the Waldorf-Astoria.
“I already have a cleaning crew.”
“I’m a hard worker,” she ventured. “There must be something that needs an extra pair of hands.” She wiggled her fingers to punctuate the point.
The theater owner tossed down the letter opener and sat back, tapping his fingers against the table for a minute before saying, “I’m afraid nothing comes to mind.”
Gigi folded her lips, then met Mr. Everett’s kind eyes. “I can paint the sets, take tickets, hand out programs once the show opens.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Smith.” He gave a slow shake of his head. “I already have people performing those tasks.”
The apology was in his eyes, as was the pity. How many times had Gigi seen that look since Nathanial had abandoned her?
Too many times to count, each one more humiliating than the last, but what did pride matter? She’d learned long ago that pride couldn’t fill her belly. And it certainly wouldn’t buy back her great-grandmother’s pearls.
“Right. Anyway.” Her hands fluttered, then gripped at her waist. She would not regret approaching him for work. “I’ll be off, then.”
She turned.
“Miss Smith.”
Gigi glanced over her shoulder.
“If anything comes up, I’ll let you know.”
“Thank you.” She left the office, closing the door behind her with a soft click.
How will I ever earn fifty dollars?
Hopelessness filled her. She nearly wobbled, but forced her knees to lock. For several seconds, she counted every heartbeat as she’d once counted the steps of a waltz. One. Two. Three.
I will not be defeated.
One. Two. Three.
No man was going to keep her from her goal. Not a shady pawnbroker, not a contrite theater owner, and especially not a handsome suitor from her past harboring his own secretive agenda.
As if the thought alone could summon up the man, Fitz stepped out of the wardrobe room. He didn’t see Gigi. His frustration showed in his stiff strides, in the striking, almost brutally handsome face that held a forbidding scowl.
The breath backed up in her lungs.
Furious at the visceral reaction, Gigi shoved at her hair, nearly dislodging the mobcap from her head. No. Oh, no, no. Fitz was not allowed to have power over her. Gigi wouldn’t allow it.
She would not.
With the faintest trace of trepidation shadowing her resolve, she straightened the mobcap and went to meet the man head-on.