by Renee Ryan
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.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“I’m sorry, Miss Smith. I’m afraid the pearls are no longer in my possession.”
Stunned speechless, Gigi blinked at the pawnbroker. She must have misunderstood. He couldn’t have said her great-grandmother’s pearls were gone. “You . . . what?” she croaked.
“I sold the necklace.”
No, it wasn’t possible. Mr. Ryerson couldn’t be this cruel. “We had an agreement.”
The eyes that looked at her were sharp and measuring. “What can I say? The client made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”
“But you . . .” Fury surged, prowling through her blood, seeking release like a wild animal straining at its leash. “You put your promise in writing.”
Surely, he would honor their agreement.
Forcing down her panic, Gigi fumbled inside the velvet satchel on her lap, pulled out the piece of paper, and slid it across the desk.
“Ah, yes, that.” He studied the promissory note with a satisfied smirk. “There are only two signatures here, yours and mine. You failed to secure witnesses to our transaction.”
“What does that mean?”
“Our agreement was never legally binding.” He spoke casually, as if he were discussing a change in the weather. Then, with a wicked grin, he proceeded to shred the paper into tiny pieces.
“Stop.” Gigi jumped to her feet. “You . . . you can’t do that.”
“I just did.” He dropped the remaining scraps of their agreement in the trash bin at his feet. “Our business is concluded, Miss Smith. My clerk will see you out.”
Finished with her now, he picked up his pencil, lowered his head, and proceeded to make random marks on the ledger beneath his hand.
The rising temper inside Gigi writhed and kicked for release. The muscles in her stomach tightened. She was out of her league. She’d known this for some time, but had pretended she held a portion of the control.
The air in her lungs grew hot, so hot she feared she would faint. Oh, but her fingers were ice. She might be out of her league, but she was not out of dignity.
She lost her fragile grip on her composure and released her anger. “You are a swindler and a thief.”
Mr. Ryerson ignored her. The scratching of his pencil across the page tore at her attempt to remain calm.
“You prey on people in desperate need of your help. How do you sleep at night?”
“You’ll have to excuse me if I’m not overwhelmed with remorse.” He set down his pencil and sat back in his chair. “I am a man of commerce, Miss . . . Smith. Whatever trouble led you to my shop is not my concern.”
Gigi thought of the compassion he’d shown her that day she’d entered his shop. It had all been a lie. All along, this man had held the control. He probably wanted her to beg, to cry. Dry eyes were her only defense.
“Have you no shame?”
He regarded her with blank, patient eyes, giving the impression he considered her daft. “You fell short of the money you needed to redeem the necklace. I had an eager buyer willing to make up the difference and then some.”
“When did you sell it?”
“Two days after your previous visit. The man was leaving the country and, as I said before, he made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”
That, Gigi decided, was the very last straw.
All the money in the world couldn’t bring the pearls back. They were gone. Sold. But to whom?
Please, Lord, let it not be over. “What did the man look like?”
“I beg your pardon?”
Wild with hope, she clutched the velvet satchel tightly to her. Perhaps the heirloom that had been in her family for generations wasn’t lost after all. “The man who purchased the pearls, what did he look like?”
Please, Lord, please let him describe Fitz.
“Short, middle-aged, slightly overweight, receding hairline, British accent.”
It was no use. Her great-grandmother’s pearls were gone forever. Concealing her grief, Gigi crossed to the exit. She didn’t look back. There was nothing left for her in this building.
Out on the street, the light hurt her eyes. The air roared with the noise of her defeat.
It’s over.
She would have to go home empty-handed. Just like the Prodigal Son, she would have to face her father with nothing but a contrite heart.
It took Gigi a full hour to gather up her suitcase and bid farewell to the rest of the household staff. She was going to miss this group of former actors turned servants. They’d been good to her, accepting her without question
.
Gigi took her time telling them each what they’d meant to her, finishing her words with a fierce hug. Mrs. Garrison hugged her the hardest in return. “You will be terribly missed, Sally.”
Gigi would miss Sally as well.
The young maid had taught the frivolous heiress how to work hard, take care of herself, and love with a servant’s heart.
“Thank you, Mrs. Garrison, for everything.” Blinking back yet another bout of tears, Gigi kissed the weathered cheek. “I have one final favor to ask of you.”
“Whatever you need.”
“Will you give these to Sophie and Esmeralda?” She handed the housekeeper two envelopes.
Gigi would have preferred to say good-bye in person. But Esmeralda was still abed and Sophie had yet to return from her honeymoon. In her letter to the younger woman, Gigi had urged her friend to write and let her know she was safe.
Gigi gave Mrs. Garrison her forwarding address and, with nothing else to say, made her way to Grand Central Station.
Fitz jumped off the train while it was still pulling to a stop. His feet barely hit the platform before he took off at a brisk pace. He wove through the throngs of other travelers with purposeful intent. He’d had a lot of time to think on the journey from Boston to New York and had come to several conclusions about himself, none of them flattering.
For an intelligent man, Fitz had been exceedingly foolish and stubbornly prideful. Can’t forget prideful. He’d convinced himself that pushing Gigi away was for her sake. Keeping her at a distance hadn’t protected her.
It had protected him.
Fitz had a lot of groveling to do. He just hoped it would be enough to win her heart.
A movement out of the corner of his eye had his feet grinding to a halt. His breath stalled in his chest.
Set apart from the milling crowd, there stood Gigi, a small battered suitcase at her feet.
Fitz switched directions. Let the groveling begin.
Coming to a stop beside her, he drank in the sight of her.
“Fitz?” As if coming out of a trance, she slowly turned her head. A range of emotions raced across her face, shock the most dominant. “You came back.”
