Never Land the First Fish

Chapter Twenty: Part 1

They steamed into Dublin Bay twelve days later, after an easy crossing. By the time Maddox had confirmed his credentials with the harbourmaster, Gills had organised three carriages to take them on their errands.

"You two go," Emily said to Stocke and Julia. They were heading for the local offices of Seven Seas Shipping so that Stocke could send a message to those awaiting Gills and Julia in England. Stocke had insisted they wanted family to be on hand when they arrived, rather than leaving it to the authorities to treat them with courtesy.

"Come on, Lady Julia," he said, offering his hand to help her into the carriage. "Let's get that bit over with, and then wander down Sackville Street and take the air; maybe do a bit of shopping. I'll treat you to tea and cakes."

Julia looked around for Gills, who came over and took her other hand. "I'll find you when I'm finished," he promised.

She nodded, gravely, then stepped up into the carriage. Stocke followed her, tipping his hat to Emily before he closed the door.

"You'll tell him that I'm willing to do some concerts in compensation?" Emily asked Gills, referring to the impresario with whom she and Giancarlo had contracted.

Gills was patient with her, not commenting that she had asked the same question several times. "I will."

"But as a soloist or with another artist," insisted Maddox, as he came around the carriage towards them. That had been discussed before, too.

"Leave it to me," Gills said.

Emily trusted him. And it made sense for their own budding theatrical manager to talk to O'Reilly, the man here in Dublin. But it was easier to fuss about what Gills might or might not face than to think about her own visit to the townhouse that Giancarlo Narciso had acquired along with his adoring little Society wife, her aristocratic connections, and her tidy dowry.

"Shall we go?" Maddox asked.

Gills left on his errand, and Maddox handed her up into the carriage. He sat beside her and held her hand for the twenty minutes of the ride, rubbing his thumb repeatedly over her knuckles, the soothing motion sufficient to keep her from demanding that the carriage turn around.

She did not want to face Giancarlo, yet at the same time, she could barely wait to see him again, to confirm for herself that the feeling she thought she had had before his betrayal paled in comparison with what she felt for the man sitting beside her.

And at some level, ashamed though she was to admit it even to herself, she wanted him to know that she had found a new lover: a handsomer, younger, richer lover who was also world-famous and an English viscount.

Giancarlo would be all shades of green.

***

Patrick O'Reilly did not keep Gills waiting, appearing at the door of his office as soon as his secretary carried in Gills' card and the introduction letter from Vandenberg.

"Come in, come in. Any friend of Van's is welcome here, even if you are English."

They exchanged commonplaces about the weather and the Atlantic crossing while a servant bustled about with tea makings and light refreshments. Gills followed the Irishman's lead in keeping the talk light and social. He knew Vandenberg had presented him as Emily's agent. O'Reilly would get to business when he was ready, and meanwhile, Gills was getting the measure of the man, and no doubt vice versa.

O'Reilly waited until the servants had left the room; indeed, until he had sipped half of his cup of tea, before he introduced the topic of the visit, saying baldly, "You'll be knowing, of course, that the woman you are representing walked out on her contract."

Straight to the point, was it? Gills looked closely at O'Reilly. Years of living off his wits in circumstances that depended on his ability to read others gave him skills that were proving useful in his new venture. "According to the reviews I read in New York, Signore Narcisco, the lead musician in the contract, carried out the contracted arrangement with a new supporting act."

To lousy reviews. He was, or so the reviews said, poorly prepared. Furthermore, they questioned whether he had ever rehearsed with the violinist with whom he had attempted to replace Emily. "Surely, Signore Narcisco has sufficient musical taste to understand that he replaced a maestra of the violin with a mere novice?" one reviewer asked.

"If ye've read the newspapers, Mr Gildeforte—or should it be Lord Joseph I'm after calling you?" Another shot over the bows. He was letting Gills know that the New York papers had made it to Dublin. Gills had expected it.

"Gildeforte is fine. My friends call me Gills."

The swift quirk of the man's lips was gone almost before Gills noticed it. For some reason, O'Reilly was amused. "If ye've read the newspapers, then ye know Narcisco bolloxed it up."

Gills nodded. "Starting the day he drove Miss Kilbrierry from Ireland."

O'Reilly put his cup down, rested his elbows on his desk, and steepled his hands under his chin, his forefingers in front of his lips. "So that's your line. If Miss Kilbrierry wants to sue the idiot for breach of promise, you'll not be hearing any objection from me. But she owes me four concerts. Three if you push the point, for Narcisco's four without her weren't worth a single one with her."

Ah. Gills knew the opening gambit of someone prepared to bargain when he heard it. "Without Narcisco." He said, flatly. "That's nonnegotiable."

"Suits me," O'Reilly agreed. Gills couldn't stop his eyes from widening in surprise. He'd not expected to win that point with such ease.

"Wasn't it me that found in another violinist?" O'Reilly asked. "And nearly broke her, he did. Kept changing the tempo on her, came in too early on her solos. Suggested she needed to practice at his townhouse, and then the fecking gobshite claimed they'd play better together if she'd let him bed her? And didn't she hit him with her violin case and leave?"

"Good for her." Gills had to smile at the image. These lady musicians were an interesting lot.

"And then he her blamed her 'inexperience' for the reviews. A load of bollocks. He'll not be playing again in any concert hall I have influence over."

O'Reilly was seething with rage at the memory. "Relative of yours?" Gills asked.

O'Reilly marked a score in the air with one finger. "My niece. So, I've sympathy with your Miss Kilbrierry, Gildeforte. And, as I say, I've seen the New York papers. She's a bigger star now than she ever was. Three concerts. Come on, man. She owes me something."

"She agrees," Gills admitted, and got down to dickering.

Before he left an hour later, they'd shifted from tea to whiskey, learned a new respect for one another, and settled on two concerts to be held at a time to be decided—"I'm assuming your client will want to be in England for your trial," O'Reilly commented, with a sly grin.

Gills let that particular conversational cannonball lie where it fell, but O'Reilly came back to it when Gills stood to take his leave.

"You're not bad for an Englishman, Gildeforte. If you make it out of this mess of yours with your life and your freedom, maybe we can continue to do business."

Gills shook the hand that was offered to him. "I'll look forward to it."