Chapter Fifteen
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A FTER THEY RETURNED TO THE THEATER, T HOMAS RECEIVED A letter and excused himself to read it, promising to rejoin her once he’d done so. But he never did.
Just when they were getting somewhere .
Disappearing act or no, Evelyn was a determined sort. Life on the vaudeville circuit had taught her that. So as the afternoon drew to a close, she went hunting for him. Despite the size of the place—the tour had shown her that The Empire was even vaster than she had initially imagined—she eventually found him tucked on the floor behind one of the great doors in the central atrium. Having relieved himself of his jacket and braces, he had rolled his sleeves up to the elbows, exposing some unfairly chiseled forearms. His mussed hair hung lazily in his eyes as he attended to his task.
Replacing … screws? That’s how it appeared, anyway. That he was taking out screws and replacing them with nearly identical ones, set apart only by a half-shade difference in color.
For a moment, he was so absorbed in his work that Evelyn had time enough to properly drink him in. As they had yesterday, his handsome face and figure struck her down to the core, awakening a hunger in her she hadn’t felt in some time. But it was the careful, attentive work to which he set himself that brought a smile to her face.
She wasn’t sure she’d ever met a man like Thomas Gallier. A man who owned a theater like this—the kind used to seeing his name in the paper—was not the sort who would roll up his sleeves and sweat over screws. Yet, here he was.
It added to her conviction that Thomas Gallier was a myth. A workingman in a rich man’s clothing.
He was hiding something, of that she was absolutely certain.
She shouldn’t have cared. She didn’t need to know the truth of him to fuck him or get what she wanted from him. But what she wanted was to fuck him and know his truth.
Evelyn was used to finding ways to get what she wanted.
“You’ve done a remarkable job of avoiding me, Mr. Gallier.”
At the sound of her voice, he started, attempting to scramble to his feet like any gentleman would in the presence of a lady. “Miss Cross—”
“No, please. Don’t get up on my account. The view is exceptional from up here.”
He ducked his head, as though mouthwatering shoulders rippling through a slightly sweat-damp shirt were something of which to be ashamed.
“Tell me,” she said once he’d gone back to his screwing … sadly, she thought, the construction kind, not the fun variety. “Do you always do your own carpentry or only when you need an excuse to evade your business partner?”
“Shock of shocks, Miss Cross,” Thomas said, not exactly unfriendly, though not its opposite either, “but not everything is about you.”
“Don’t you have people to do this sort of thing for you?”
“Considering the people were the ones who installed it improperly in the first place, no.”
There it was again. That brilliant flash of dictatorial control. He really didn’t know how to let go. Fascinating.
“I’m surprised you even know how to operate a screwdriver, considering what a fine-bred, absolutely genuine English gentleman you are,” she teased, reminding him of how she’d called out that phony accent of his.
With a grunt, Thomas tightened one of the last screws. Although she suspected he wished to continue ignoring her, his pride got the better of him. “Well, as it happens, once when I was in France—”
He stopped short, blood draining from his face, and she was shot through by the peculiar sense that she had stolen something from him. She didn’t know what that was, precisely, but she took note of the moment all the same.
“When you were in France …?” she prompted.
Every movement twitchy and unsure, he wiped his palms on a nearby handkerchief and returned his tools to their case.
He reminded her of an automaton who, having stuttered out of its trained choreography, suddenly clicked back into rhythm.
“I forget myself, Miss Cross. You carry me away sometimes.”
“Oh? To where?”
His eyes were sad, tinted with something like simmering anger. “To someone I haven’t been for a very, very long time.”
Was that a confession? Or merely as close to one as he would ever get?
A million thoughts and questions and desires bubbled to her breathless lips, each one fighting so fiercely to be freed that none of them ever quite made it. Thomas, all traces of introspection and confession erased, leveled his gaze at her.
“Was there something you needed? You have …” He withdrew a chained brass watch from his vest pocket and inspected it. “Ten, nine, eight … seconds until our business today has concluded.”
Evelyn scoffed. “Surely you don’t mean to hold to that silly rule.”
But he could. And he did. First, he snapped his jacket from the floor, causing a crumpled, golden invitation to slip from his pocket. She only just noticed its watermark—the flourished letters NA—when Thomas whisked it again out of sight. Straightening, he gave her one of those little bows to which she’d become so coldly accustomed.
“If you’ll excuse me. I have an engagement. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
“Mr. Gallier, you really are avoiding me, aren’t you?”
His hand went to his pocket, once again joining the invitation he’d just hidden there. The letter he must have gotten that took him away from her this afternoon. “I merely wish to hold to the terms of our agreement. And my engagement this evening is important. Vital for our business. Farewell.”
He was gone before Evelyn realized he’d said our .
Our business .
A NOTE FROM THE HISTORIAN
That evening, the following notice appeared in Nehemiah Alban’s paper next to an inset sketch of the “winsome” (read: fashionably slender) Miss Constance Alban:
THE MANHATTAN DAILY, OCTOBER 19, 1897 (New York, New York)
JILTED: THE EMPEROR
Last night, a coup was attempted by The Emperor of 34th Street—upon introduction from Dr. Andrew Samson, he made overtures to Miss Constance Alban, daughter of Nehemiah Alban, newspaper magnate. This first meeting did not go to plan. Miss Alban was not impressed by her latest suitor, clearly finding him to be a bore. However, this Manhattan Daily reporter has been reliably informed that Mr. Gallier indeed intends to try his luck again with the pretty heiress.
That’s right. Thomas met the woman he needed to impress, royally screwed it up, and Alban’s Manhattan Daily had to publicly nudge him to try again at a later date. Not quite the auspicious start to a relationship that would come to define his life.
Meanwhile, Evelyn Cross, who made it a rule to avoid reading the dross published by the Manhattan Daily whenever possible, was more concerned with another newspaper item:
THE NEW YORK SUN, OCTOBER 19, 1897 (New York, New York)
MR. brIGMAN’S ANIMAL AUCTION
Mr. H.A. Brigman, of 39th Street, is delighted and proud to present the largest sale of wild, trainable animals that the fair city of Manhattan has ever seen. To be in attendance: alligators, exotic fish, elephants, tiger cub, a company of minks, egrets, and perhaps a unicorn. Animals are highly trainable with the help of Mr. Brigman’s Authentic Guide to Animal Husbandry and Tutelage. Animals acquired legally in their countries of origin, all animals authenticated and checked for fleas. Inquire at Lower Manhattan Parade Ground tomorrow.
After the brush-off the day before, a lot of women in Evelyn’s position probably would have been cowed. I would have. I have . As a “woman of size” or whatever ridiculous euphemism we’re using lately to describe north of Rubenesque, I know there’s nothing quite like the slap of rejection. Suddenly, even if you usually like everything about yourself, you become convinced that every bad thing in your life—but especially that rejection—was because of your weight. Something that is so second nature to you, your own appearance, suddenly becomes your enemy.
But Evelyn didn’t fall for that shit, which I guess is part of the reason why I love her so much. Evelyn was fearless. Evelyn was without self-consciousness. She could not be scared off or deterred from what she wanted. In a world that kept telling her no, she found new ways to make people say yes. All people wanted to do was deny her. Deny her star power. Deny her existence. Deny her beauty. But she was undeniable. And she did everything she could to make sure people knew that.
Maybe I’ll be like that one day. Maybe we all will be.
A woman who wasn’t undeniable probably wouldn’t have given Mr. Brigman’s Animal Auction a second thought.
Not Evelyn, though. Never Evelyn.