Chapter Twelve
CHAPTER TWELVE
B Y M ONDAY MORNING, T HOMAS WAS READY TO ACKNOWLEDGE that he had made a terrible mistake. There was a reason that he worked alone. If he was both master and commander of his fate, then all successes and failures were his own.
So why had he allowed himself to pass off his most important work, the staffing of The Empire’s bill, to Miss Evelyn Cross? Why had he agreed to take her on as a partner ?
“She seduced you, then?”
“ Doctor . What a thing to say—and so close to the press.”
Thomas cast a look around at the gaggle of reporters who were scattered throughout the audience, waiting for Miss Cross to debut the full range of their new performers.
Andrew simply shrugged. “I beg your pardon, but unless you’ve suddenly turned into an H.G. Wells character and had your brain replaced or some other such nonsense, it’s the only explanation.”
Thomas sighed. Yes, he supposed it did look that way from the outside. But Thomas had his reasons, reasons he answered for in equally hushed tones, lest any of the reporters nearby was tempted to eavesdrop.
“I spoke to Nehemiah Alban last night,” Thomas confessed.
“Yes, I noticed one of his reporters here.” Andrew smirked. “A stunning reversal from your previous policy to shoot all Manhattan Daily reporters on sight .”
Choosing to ignore the jibe, Thomas shifted his gaze to the crimson velvet curtains concealing the stage. “He’s agreed to help raise The Empire’s profile as we approach the grand opening next month.”
“That doesn’t sound like him. What does he want from you in exchange?”
Thomas kept his gaze stubbornly on the stage before them. “He wants me to pursue his daughter.”
At that, Andrew’s usual good humor seemed to dissolve.
“And how do you feel about this?”
“Less than enthused,” Thomas said.
The understatement of the century. The longer he thought about it, the more distasteful the entire business seemed—for a multitude of reasons, including the one Andrew had the audacity to call him on.
“I should think so. It’s a hell of a thing to court one woman when you’re fixated on another.”
“I am not fixated. Miss Cross is a real talent, and her reach through the Manhattan theatrical community is unparalleled. She will bring us a fine bill, and if the papers are to be believed, she has even more of a knack for publicity than I do.”
“I’m inclined to point out that I simply said another . I didn’t say that you were fixated on Evelyn Cross specifically. You’re telling on yourself here, friend.”
Damn. Andrew had him there.
“Miss Cross and I have agreed to keep our relationship strictly professional.”
Another fact about which Thomas found himself less than enthused. But he certainly wasn’t going to say as much to Andrew.
He also didn’t tell Andrew how, that morning, Evelyn had arrived at the theater when he did—at six thirty, hours before anyone else was due. As much as he had designed The Empire to surprise and delight, these were feelings that he rarely felt, but that was the only way he could describe his reaction to her arrival in his office doorway as the sun was just beginning to peek through the surrounding buildings outside. She was a human kaleidoscope, dazzling him at every turn.
And yet, the warmth of those first minutes had quickly dissipated. Over coffee and pastry in his office, she informed him briefly of her plan to present the bill this morning, and then, as soon as she’d wiped the last crumbs from her skirt, she’d disappeared into the theater, not to be seen again until Thomas and Andrew and the reporters arrived for this very appointment.
It was a brusque, professional encounter. Not unkind or cold, mind you. But focused. Disciplined. Thomas should have been thrilled.
And yet, when he eventually arrived in the theater for Evelyn’s little spectacle, he couldn’t find the strength to unclench his jaw or relax his hand from its fist.
Strange, that.
Oh, sure, he greeted the newspapermen with his usual restrained friendliness and helped them all to their seats with promises of a fine preview, but still … he was nettled by Miss Evelyn Cross. Despite the fact that he had no right to be. Despite the fact that he’d orchestrated their entire contract to keep himself from feeling anything for, toward, or about her.
When the clock struck twelve, Andrew and Thomas took their seats in the third row, behind the reporters. The doctor lowered his voice. “So you roped her into this far-fetched contract, under which you think you’ll be safe from her charms? Safe, I mean, to pursue a sure-to-be-lucrative dalliance with Constance Alban. All while you and Miss Cross are business partners?”
“That’s the idea, anyway,” Thomas said, reminding himself that this was for the best. That their arrangement would pop these bubbling feelings between him and the woman who so fascinated him.
“It won’t work,” Andrew said.
“And why not?”
“Because rules like that are made to be broken. And I imagine Miss Evelyn Cross will have a very, very good time doing just that.”
If he’d had the time, Thomas would have protested. But just then, the woman in question appeared onstage—and the unveiling of The Empire’s acts began.
“Good morning, gentlemen!” Evelyn stood directly at center stage, with an ease that told everyone she belonged exactly there.
Finding himself marveling at the sight of her—and the feelings that sight invoked—Thomas flipped through a stack of notepaper in his lap as though this were all some tiresome formality.
If Evelyn noticed this, she didn’t have time to comment.
She raised her hands and clapped twice.
Showtime.
At once, an electric spotlight encircled Evelyn’s fine form. The orchestra pit roared to happy life … and the show commenced.
“To begin,” Evelyn called in her best announcer’s tone, “let me introduce you to our orchestra.”
The limelight slipped down to illuminate the pit below her, where seventeen musicians sat in white gowns, with deep black bows in their hair. They struck up a rousing rendition of “Grand Ole Rag,” filling the theater with explosive crashes of cymbals and blaring horn counterpoints.
“Not only is this Manhattan’s premier band, but take a look, gentlemen. They are also the world’s first, and only, band made up entirely of ladies.”
Chills ran up and down Thomas’s spine—and they had nothing to do with the snickers of the journalists who peered into the orchestra pit for a better look. A flash of uncertainty crossed Evelyn’s face, but she recovered, continuing in spectacular fashion.
“And now,” she continued, “to our bill. You’ll find no greater collection of acts anywhere in Manhattan, these United States, or the wide world.”
“This ought to be good,” one of the other journalists muttered, making no effort to lower his voice. “If she opens with a lady band, I can only imagine what other plagues she’s wrought.”
The song shifted to something more driving and insistent. Evelyn reached for a great gold braid at the edge of the stage, gripping it for dear life.
“Humble denizens of The Empire … I present to you, our Sacerdos of high art and entertainment!”
A cymbal crashed deep in the orchestra pit, and, with a great heave of her arms, Evelyn pulled the curtains open.
The stage behind it was, to Thomas’s shock, empty. But Evelyn relished the obvious jolt she’d given the men, before a figure quickly filled it.
“Nathaniel Fry,” she called with a grand gesture as a tall, slender black man in a perfectly cut tuxedo sliced his way across the stage on silver-tipped shoes, his percussive steps joining with the drums of the band’s song. “The greatest dancer the world has ever known.”
“Julia Moreau.” Vanity Fair ’s Lady Rebecca Crawley floated to center stage, where she triumphantly ripped off her white-powdered wig and presented the very male head underneath. “A female impersonator of great renown.”
“Annie Parker.” A chained woman in a wheelchair. “A world-famous illusionist and escape artist.”
“Melvyn Sorrel. The human joke factory.”
“Alejandro Cansino. Cuba’s finest opera singer.”
“Tyrone Furthman. The Human Twister.”
“Betsy Washington. The Maravian Medium.”
Thomas wasn’t quite sure what to make of the commercial prospects of this lineup of outcasts and misfits. His eyes flickered to the stage and the journalists, hoping to gauge their reactions, but what he saw wasn’t precisely promising. If the laughter and chatter was any indication, then this chaotic assemblage would not pass muster amongst most fashionable audiences today.
However .
Thomas didn’t lose heart. He should have. But he didn’t.
Because for the first time since he’d started building this wild fantasy of his, he wasn’t bored. He wasn’t dreading each new body that stepped out onstage. He didn’t taste the metallic sting of failure in his mouth.
He was excited. Hopeful, even.
It occurred to him then that the reason he hadn’t found that “undeniable ” he’d been seeking for so long was that he hadn’t actually been looking for it. Undeniable implied a kind of oneness, singularity, uniqueness, but all he’d been searching for was pleasing, inoffensive, acceptable. Whatever the press agreed was de rigueur .
His respect for Evelyn Cross grew once again. It had taken her all of two days to realize that which he’d been oblivious to for years. She’d created undeniable out of nothing but her own indominable spirit and her thirty closest friends.
“And finally,” Evelyn called, setting herself at center stage, finally joining the performers. “May I present a new act of my own creation. Evelyn Cross and The Dancing Dozen. The first dancing troupe in this or any other nation made up entirely of beautiful, talented, and deliciously plump women.”
From the wings, twelve dancers—six on each side—shuffle-ball-changed their way out to center stage, their matching red skirts frilling about their white-stockinged knees. They were graceful and elegant in a simple, understated way—the kind of artistic flair that one often saw in a working-class dance hall instead of the Russian ballet.
They were a magnificent constellation of big, beautiful women. And Evelyn was their lodestar. Just as he’d dreamed.
Yet … the newspapermen didn’t clap. Not a single one of them said a word. Instead, they laughed.
And in that moment, Thomas’s esteem for this show and this bill collapsed at his feet.
He might be delighted by the show onstage, but the tastemakers of the media did not see what he saw in this assemblage of talent. Thomas Gallier was confident, but he wasn’t foolish. He needed the newspapers on his side if The Empire was going to be a success.
That’s when he realized he had two choices. The first: fire Evelyn, dissolve their contract, and go back to the bland, palatable entertainments that had previously sashayed and sung their way across his stage. The second: keep this bill exactly as it was—and take up with Constance Alban.