Once an Heiress (Gilded Promises) Page 12

  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 d
istract 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 f
illed 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.

  Chapter Nine

  Fitz saw Gigi bearing down on him. His footsteps slowed, then stopped altogether. His mind raced. What had caused that look to come across her face? He’d never seen her quite so intense.

  Caught in the moment, he couldn’t help but notice how the lines of her black dress swung in soft waves around her ankles as she marched across the divide between them.

  Her eyes, that mesmerizing silver-blue, so beautiful, so enthralling, held her determination. His guard instantly went up. Fitz was staring at a stranger. No longer Gigi Wentworth, but not meek Sally Smith, either.

  Whoever this new, severe woman was, he was intrigued. He saw strength when he looked into her eyes, an expression more truthful than words.

  Perhaps that part of her hadn’t existed before.

  The horror of what she’d been through struck him anew. What must she have suffered in those early days after Dixon had abandoned her? Believing her father had forbidden her return, she’d been forced to fend for herself in a large, unknown city. She must have been terrified.

  The burst of anger Fitz felt, anger on Gigi’s behalf, had his footsteps striking faster, harder. Overwhelmed by the enormity of what she’d endured, he ached for what Gigi had lost. Her family and friends, her dignity and romantic ideals. Even her name was no longer hers.