Chapter Seven
CHAPTER SEVEN
G ROWING UP ALONGSIDE C ENTRAL P ARK, THE B ROOKLYN B RIDGE, and the Statue of Liberty, Evelyn had seen plenty of wonders. In a year, the state would incorporate Brooklyn, Queens, Manhattan, the Bronx, and Richmond County into one New York supercity. She had barely turned twenty when Ellis Island first opened its doors five years ago. She’d been witness to the inventions of the telephone, the electric lightbulb, the gramophone, the zipper, the escalator, and the motion picture machine.
However, from the moment she approached its teeming mass on 34th Street, Evelyn knew that The Empire Theatre was the most beautiful, no, magnificent thing she’d ever seen.
It may have been covered in construction materials now, but the block practically glowed with potential. Through the scaffolding and ladders, she could spy everything the papers promised—the grand, Romanesque columns, the freshly tiled mosaics, Tiffany glass windows. If she blinked away the dust and tuned out the shouting builders and noisy street, she could almost see it. The future.
And damn, if the future didn’t look gorgeous.
Once she stepped inside the building, her assessment only cemented. She’d been in nearly every theater in the city, and plenty more around the country, but she’d never seen anything quite so miraculous. Gilded clocks and flawless mirrors decorated hand-painted fresco walls. Every furnishing was finely appointed and either old enough to be fashionably antique or so new she could still smell the fresh lacquer. The carpets were the color of perfect rose petals and twice as soft and lush.
And the man at its center? Even more promising.
“Miss Cross. What a pleasure to see you again.”
“Mr. Gallier. The pleasure is all mine.”
He adjusted his cuffs, looking everywhere but at her.
She waited for him to speak. Something. Anything. To ask her about the weather or her act or inquire about her sheet music or her journey here or how she liked The Empire’s progress. But he didn’t. As if he were afraid of what he might say if he opened his mouth again.
In situations such as this, Evelyn generally reached for a lurid joke or quip. But over brandies last night, she and Beatrice had talked the whole thing over. The seduction, the rejection, the business proposition, the ultimate realization that he had wanted her the whole time, his invitation to be herself in his presence …
Evelyn generally did not do sincere, not in public. There were so many Evelyns, sometimes it was hard to keep track. Firstly, and perhaps most importantly, there was Performer Evelyn, the greatest star of the Manhattan stage. Then, there was Business Evelyn, the temptress who’d talked many men out of their wallets and relieved even more men out of their clothes. And finally, there was, well, Evelyn Evelyn.
She only had the pleasure of being this last—the real Evelyn—in private. At the boarding house, with her friends, when there wasn’t anyone to impress, when she allowed herself to be a person instead of a perpetual climbing machine, she was still bawdy and dramatic and painfully ambitious, yes, but there was more to her than that, too.
She was strong-willed and determined, sharp-witted, with a dry sense of humor. And in contrast to her public persona, which was singularly unflappable, in the safety of her friendships and her own room, she felt things. God, did she feel things. Too big and too much and too deeply. Sometimes, it felt like she would collapse under the weight of all her feelings. Drown beneath the tide of her own emotions. Her upbringing had shaped her like this. On the street, she had to be tough and unflappable. A survivor. A scrapper. But back home, with her big-eyed, big-hearted mother, she’d been able to laugh, to cry, to scream at the unfairness of it all. She’d relished those moments when the tenement doors would close, and she could fist at her mother’s skirts, drop her head in her lap, and wail about the brokenness of the world.
To, for a little while, at least, feel instead of perform.
Evelyn couldn’t be like that. Not here. Not around Thomas Gallier.
But she could try to let a little of the real Evelyn show. It was just that she was so out of practice that all that came out was:
“Well.”
Thomas echoed her, still fiddling with his cuffs. “Well.”
“I must admit, I’ve rendered many men speechless before, but never before the formal audition.”
“You’re looking …” He gave her the quickest of once-overs, polite and pure. Then, he paused, giving Evelyn enough time to guess what his next thought might be. Decent? Close-legged? Clothed? “You’re looking eminently sensible.”
Today, she’d dressed in one of her more conservative ensembles, one she might have usually reserved for the confines of the boarding house and the few nearby blocks where she conducted her day-to-day. A white puff-sleeved top, complete with a high neckline, tucked itself neatly into the black woolen skirt. A black onyx gemstone—or so the man who’d gifted her had called it; she’d never had the piece valued—sat neatly at the base of her throat, drawing attention to her simply dressed face. Pale lips, barely darkened eyes, her simple blonde bun tucked beneath a straw sun hat decorated with a black bow. Her sturdy coat completed the look and protected her against the occasional winter chill biting on the edge of the early afternoon’s autumn breeze.
She was nothing like the Evelyn he’d seen yesterday, and yet, she’d followed Thomas’s suggestion. She’d come as herself. Still bawdy and brassy and thoroughly determined to get into his trousers.
The question was whether he’d like that. Whether he’d like her .
“A day of firsts, then. I’ve been called so many things in my life. Alluring. Stunning. Outrageous. Scandalous. But sensible? No.”
“I happen to admire sensible. It suits you.”
There was her answer. He did like her.
“Mind yourself, Mr. Gallier. That was very nearly a compliment.”
Their eyes met, and she searched his green depths for any hint of a genuine reaction fighting toward his polished exterior. Before she could find it, though, someone cleared their throat and reminded them both that they were not alone.
Thomas sparked to immediate life—any softness that had accidentally invaded him once again hardened to marble.
“Where are my manners? Forgive me. Miss Cross, allow me to introduce my business associate, Dr. Andrew Samson.”
“Hello there,” Evelyn said, reaching out for the doctor’s hand, who took it with enthusiasm. He, apparently, had none of Thomas’s trouble expressing emotion.
“An honor, miss. I’m quite a fan. Jules Moreau is an old friend of mine, so I’ve seen rather a lot of your work.”
Evelyn brightened. “You know Jules? Darling Jules?”
Before the doctor could answer, Thomas cut in—all business. As if he didn’t want any kind of familiarity or congeniality in his vicinity.
“Shall we begin?”
His strange abruptness caught her off guard, but Evelyn recovered as best she could. “By all means. I would love a tour.”
A tour, however, was not in the cards. Thomas was walking much too fast for it, and would have left her a step or two behind if she hadn’t been determined to match him stride for long-legged stride.
He had a direct, professional way about him that she admired. She could see already that he was not humorless, not unkind or unfeeling, but he was properly committed to his work.
It made her want him all the more. Now that she knew she wasn’t just his casting couch conquest, she found herself toying with ways to make him her conquest.
“Am I the only audition today?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“You must have the rest of the bill settled, then.”
“No,” he replied smoothly. “I am here to find a north star. I will wrangle the rest of the constellation after that.”
The implication that she was that star made her heart flutter. She offered, “I know a great number of simply spectacular performers. I’d be happy to make recommendations—”
He stopped short at two carved wooden doors depicting a series of satyrs and naiads at the water’s edge, performing a song with lyres and flutes. Suddenly, she and Thomas were very close. She swallowed hard. Being near him was like standing near one of those sideshow electrode generators—mere proximity threatened to shock her.
“The offer is very much appreciated, but with all due respect …”
Trailing off, he threw open the doors before them, ushering her into the grand new world of The Empire Theatre.
“… this is my project, Miss Cross.”
Unlike the rest of the pleasure palace, the theater was nearly completed. If one ignored the sawdust accumulating in unswept corners or the dust settling into the crimson stage curtains, one might imagine a performance going up this very evening.
Designed to look like an Italian courtyard, the theater was surrounded by grand facades inset with columns and fountains and statues of the muses. The seats were genuine red-crush velvet, unlike the imitation most of the theaters used. Live trees had been planted upon the false balconies topping the facades of House Left and House Right, filling the air with the scent of sprouting olives and fresh lemon. The ceiling was painted a deep, endless blue, and small electric lights had been installed to give the impression of a starry night sky.
The grandeur of the theater drew her deeper down its aisles. Her companions followed.
“As you can see, I’ve done quite well, building The Empire on my own. I’ll be the one to make the programming decisions. I trust myself in all things, just as last night, I trusted myself when I decided you belonged here.”
He was right—arrogant beyond belief, but right. At least, her vanity said so. She could imagine herself standing there at center stage, singing to the twinkling stars as lovers swooned in the opera boxes and gentlemen fanned themselves down in the orchestra.
“You’re flattering me so I’ll drop the subject,” she flirted.
“I’m not in the business of flattery, Miss Cross. Surely, you learned that last night.”
“I’ll be a gentleman and pretend I didn’t hear that, Thomas,” Andrew said, reminding Evelyn for the second time that they weren’t, in fact, alone.
Right. The audition. Her livelihood. Her future.
At the foot of the stage, she gestured to the attaché slung over her shoulder, her sacred, worn leather case that held the music that had made her famous.
“In the spirit of such generosity,” she said, nodding to Andrew, “let’s get to brass tacks, shall we? If you point me to a piano, I can favor you with a song, or—”
“No,” Thomas said. “That won’t be necessary.”
Surely, he meant that to be flattering, but the muscles in Evelyn’s back—the ones that might have curled in anticipation if she were about to outrun a predator—only tightened. “Oh?”
“Your reputation and last night’s act spoke for itself. So I contacted the one and only Emile Deschamps—our resident director. He’s worked with the great Enrico Caruso, Maud Allan, so many stars; a few years ago, he even directed the main stage performances at the World’s Columbian Exhibition. I’ve elected to have him develop an act for you.”
As if summoned by magic, a spindly man with an enormous mustache emerged from the wings, carrying an easel covered with a sheet. From his stage-polished boots to the hat deliberately placed at an attitude upon his balding head, he looked every bit the micromanaging villain Evelyn knew many “directors” to be.
Something about all of this was very, very wrong. Vaudeville wasn’t the kind of art form that typically had directors. Each performer was their own auteur.
“Mademoiselle,” Emile greeted from the stage. “It is a great honor for you to meet me.”
Translation error from his native French tongue? No, Evelyn didn’t think so.
“Charmed, I’m sure.” She nodded up at him, then turned her attention to another man setting up a camera near the stage’s left wing. “And who’s this handsome fellow?”
“Just the newshound, miss,” he said, completely immune to her charms.
She swayed her hips a bit—just enough to test his resolve. “Make sure you get my good side.”
He didn’t budge. Evelyn felt a little of her inner light dim.
This was not going to end well.