by Renee Ryan
As she laced up her ankle boots, Gigi reviewed their conversation and the man’s threat to bring the police into the matter. She very much doubted he would go that far.
Her mind stuck on something else he’d said. The wedding must go off without a hitch.
Why would that be a concern?
If Annie and Connor’s union was a love match, as Fitz claimed, nothing could keep them apart. Not even scandal.
Gigi had seen the power of true love. Both of her previous employers had found their soul mates in the midst of scandal and were living happily ever after. Though it hadn’t turned out so well for Gigi, she knew love could, and often did, conquer all. She wasn’t so jaded to think otherwise.
What if Annie wanted Gigi at her wedding? They’d been close once upon a time, as close as any sisters could be. They’d laughed and shared confidences. Some had been silly, some serious. They’d dreamed of the future and of meeting their everlasting love.
Then Nathanial had shown up at a party hosted by a friend of a friend. Gigi had been instantly smitten and would hear nothing against him. She’d shut out her sisters, her friends, and anyone who didn’t approve of her attraction to the handsome charmer. Annie hadn’t been as vocal as the others, but she’d urged Gigi to be cautious. Gigi had happily taken leave of her senses. She’d seen the beauty in her love for Nathanial, not the danger.
Did Annie hold her selfishness against her?
Gigi would only know when she returned to Boston.
And when she returned, Annie should be the one to decide if she wanted Gigi to be a part of the wedding celebration.
If she was turned away . . .
No, she refused to let her mind spin in that direction. One step at a time. First, she had to send Fitz back to Boston. But not before extracting his promise not to tell her family where she was. Gigi must make restitution on her own.
She finished dressing, then stepped out of her room and hurried down the back stairwell. She followed her nose to the one place she felt truly comfortable in this house.
The noise level increased as she conquered each step. By the time she reached the first floor, the scent of bacon frying and bread baking restored the appetite she’d lost the day before. The growling of her stomach reminded her she’d missed dinner last night. Knowing Fitz was in this house had made the thought of eating distasteful.
Not so, now.
Unlike the rest of the town house at this early hour, the kitchen was a hive of activity. The room was well lit, warm, and welcoming. Gigi attributed the latter to the staff’s laughter. Heat and pleasant aromas drew her forward.
She paused in the doorway, a smile on her lips. I’ll miss these people when I’m gone.
Swiping at her eyes, she took in the familiar scene.
A wooden table sat in the center of the room, with two identical tea services waiting to be prepared and then taken up to the bedchambers where the ladies of the house still slumbered. A smaller table off to her right was filled with Gigi’s fellow servants. They were already digging into a hearty breakfast of bacon, eggs, a medley of fruit, and thick pieces of toast loaded with butter and jam.
Gigi’s mouth watered.
The cook, a large man whose girth practically equaled his height, barked at Gigi to stop dawdling in the doorway and sit at the table. He then turned to his assistant, Lottie, and gave the reed-thin blonde a succession of curt orders. The girl scurried back and forth from the pantry to the table.
The housekeeper looked up from her plate and motioned Gigi to sit. “Eat, dear, before the eggs get cold.”
Gigi took the chair directly across from the plump woman with the twinkling eyes and ready smile. “Good morning, Mrs. Garrison.”
“Good morning, Sally.”
They were joined at the table by the butler, Irving, the gardener and his assistant, Esmeralda’s lady’s maid, and the two additional housemaids. All but Lottie were on the wrong side of fifty. Every one of them had once worked in the theater, but the roles had shriveled up with each passing year, the curse of making a living on the stage.
Even Lottie had been a child actress. Her cuteness had matured into something not quite womanly and several steps from attractive, and thus she’d found herself out of work by the ripe old age of thirteen.
Of all the homes where Gigi had served in the past year, this one had her favorite staff. They were open and friendly, and told marvelous stories about their days on the stage—treading the boards, as they called it. Gigi suspected most of their outrageous stories were more fiction than fact, at the very least heavily embellished. She didn’t mind. Listening to their tales of life in the theater was the one indulgence she allowed herself.
Well, that and the Boston newspapers she read from cover to cover whenever she had a free moment. Something that would be far more precious now that she had to earn fifty extra dollars in only a few weeks.
As she filled her plate and began eating, Gigi listened to the chatter floating around the table. They were gossiping, of course, about Esmeralda, their favorite topic. Gigi felt a smile tug at her lips until she realized the speculation wasn’t about Esmeralda after all but rather the surprise dinner guest from the night before.
Gigi’s appetite took a dramatic turn for the worse. She thought she might be sick. Setting aside her fork, she silently mourned the waste of all that lovely food on her plate.
“Do you think he’s pursuing Sophie?”
Perfect. Even the servants were playing matchmaker. The roiling in Gigi’s stomach took on a life of its own.
She couldn’t imagine Fitz and Sophie together. Although maybe if she squinted her eyes very tightly and thought it through very, very carefully, she could envision them as a couple.
Fitz would provide Sophie the one thing she desired most, respectability. Sophie would bring light into Fitz’s austere existence. Where Fitz was hard, Sophie was soft. Her gentle nature would temper his arrogance. His steadiness would bring her stability.
They would produce beautiful babies.
The thought of Fitz and Sophie building a family together brought an odd reaction, a strange sort of unwholesome desire to rip every hair out of her friend’s beautiful head. The ugliness of her reaction to something that hadn’t yet happened brought heat crawling up Gigi’s neck.
“It must be Sophie he’s wanting,” the gardener’s assistant said. “He’s far too young for Esmeralda.”
“Right,” one of the housemaids said in a sarcastic British accent. “As if the age difference has ever stopped a young man from pursuing the mistress.”
Agreement sounded from nearly everyone in the kitchen, save for Cookie, who was too busy sending Lottie back and forth from the pantry to the stove.
There was a pause, and then, “But who is he?”
Another pause fell over the table, and Gigi could see each of them waiting for one of the others to supply something of substance about Fitz.
The silence lengthened.
“Surely, he has a name?” the housekeeper asked the room in general. “Does no one here know it?”
“Christopher Nolan Fitzpatrick.”
All eyes turned to Gigi. There was another beat of silence, during which the entire staff seemed to stop and wait, and then the interrogation began in earnest.
“Have you met him?” Followed by, “Is he as handsome as Lottie claims?” This had both housemaids wondering out loud and saying simultaneously, “Does he have designs on our Sophie?”
Gigi held up a hand to still the flow of inquiries. She answered them in order. “Yes, I met him at the theater yesterday,” she told Mrs. Garrison. To the gardener’s assistant, Gigi said, “He’s quite handsome,” because, well, Fitz was attractive, if a woman went for dark hair, intense green eyes the color of fresh ivy after a spring rain, and the strong, broody, silent type. Lastly, she said, “I have no idea if he’s pursuing Sophie.”
The hitch in Gigi’s throat could be explained away by her need to respond briskly to the rapid-fir
e questions.
“I believe he is in negotiations to purchase the Summer Garden Theater,” she added with no additional prompting.
“He’s rich?”
As Midas. “I believe so.”
“And respectable?” Lottie asked, setting another tray of toast on the table.
Gigi thought about her answer. “Very.”
“A handsome, wealthy, respectable man is wooing our Sophie?” Mrs. Garrison asked the rhetorical question with a wistful note in her voice. “How absolutely . . . wonderful.”
Gigi agreed that Sophie deserved a good man. The problem was Gigi couldn’t say for certain if Fitz was a good man. On paper, yes. In reality, she simply didn’t know. Respectable didn’t necessarily equal moral. In truth, Fitz had always been a mystery to Gigi. And now, he was being as secretive as ever, making threats and demands without offering a hint as to his real motives.
More questions came at her. She answered them as best she could, evading when a truthful answer would reveal a stronger connection to Fitz than a single meeting would warrant.
At last, the conversation turned to the current production of Carmen and the dubious talent of half the cast. None of whom were as gifted as those sitting at the table had been in their day.
Seizing her opportunity for escape, Gigi went to work filling the tray with Sophie’s preferred breakfast items. She added that morning’s edition of the New York Times and headed up the back stairs.
Once she was alone with only her thoughts for company, a sense of desperation nagged at her ability to remain calm. You have two days.
She’d spent much of the night trying to come up with a plan. The obvious answer was to tell Fitz the truth about the pearls and ask for his help.
If only she could trust him.
What am I going to do, Father God?
Silence met the question, just like all the other times she’d sought guidance from the Lord. Gigi was alone, as she’d been for eleven long months.
She cleared her mind of Fitz and his preposterous two-day deadline. Gigi would figure out what to do. She always did.
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.”
