The Civic Opera House swarmed with a dizzying amount of activity. Archibald wasn't ever sure where to look. Stagehands hammered away at towering set pieces that started to take the shape of a Parisian cityscape. A matron and her corps of ballerinas ran combinations across the stage while Jasper Green barked orders at the crew hanging a scrim from where he stood braced atop the arms of two seats in the front row of the theater.

"Stage right, raise the scrim two inches — No! Stage right! House left — no, not stage left!"

"Is everything all right, Mr. Green?" Archibald asked as he surveyed the chaos.

"Everything's not alright," Mr. Green said. He alighted from his perch upon the chair with surprising ease for a man of his age. "We have a week until opening night and we are still casting our leads. This doesn't bode well for us, Mr. Colston."

Archibald nodded as the crash of wood on wood made the dancers scatter with screams of alarm. "You might be right, but perhaps Miss Vanderberg will work out."

"Perhaps, but I never put too much faith in these society types. Very rarely does their talent live up to their reputation." Mr. Green turned and glared at the crooked backdrop. "I beg your leave, I must go instruct some stage hands on how to raise a scrim. Mr. De Rosier is in the costume shop if you want to stop in."

Archibald gave the man his thanks and set off for the costume shop on Mr. Green's vague instructions. He found himself backstage, dodging dancers and set pieces, when a firm hand on his chest stopped him in his tracks.

Archibald's stomach dropped as he turned to see Grace Hodges attached to the delicate hand. Her blonde hair of loose curls was swept away from her face into an elegant knot at the base of her neck, her pink lips in a severe line, and her brows wrinkled to form a crease on the bridge of her nose.

"This is a private rehearsal," she said, though it took a moment for the words to sink in.

Archibald's mouth flopped open, words lost as if his breath had been stolen from his lungs at the unexpected sight of the woman. He tried to call up the reason he was backstage, but his mind could only focus on the warmth that spread from the hand that pressed unflinching against his chest.

"Mr. De Rosier," he finally choked out. It wasn't even a full sentence and he cursed himself for it. He'd harbored the hope of an introduction to the lady, but not like this. Miss Hodges probably thought him a simpleton.

He didn't think it could get worse until it did. She looked him up and down with discerning blue eyes, and to his great dismay didn't seem impressed. "The costume shop is that way." She pointed to a door on the back wall. "Don't touch any props," she added, then took her hand off Archibald's chest to let him through.

"Thank you," he said. He bowed and regretted it immediately. The stiff gesture made the line between Miss Hodges brow deepen as she watched him. With a smile that barely hid his panic, Archibald hurried past the intimidating stage manager and into the costume shop. He shut the door behind himself before collapsing against the frame with a pained groan.

The room at the back of the theater, lit by a wall of towering windows, was in an even further state of chaos than the actual stage. Towering shelves, spilling bolts of fabric in every texture and color, occupied the wall opposite the windows. Scraps of paper and muslin patterns littered the floor, and Harry De Rosier sat in the middle of it, hunched over a tiny sewing table built for a person a foot shorter than him.

"Oh my," was all Archibald managed to say as he worked his way across the room. With no tailoring or dressmaking skills to speak of, he navigated the carnage without stepping on anything lest it might be part of a costume. It all could have been scrap, but he had no way of knowing better. He took extra care to avoid a large, wire contraption at the center of the room that could have been the start to some panniers, but also could have been a pair of wings.

"Good morning, Harry," Archibald said over the whir of the sewing machine. He peered around the corsterier's shoulder to inspect his work and the movement made Harry jump.

With a good-natured laugh, Harry took his foot off the pedal, and the machine slowed to a stop. "My word! I didn't even hear you come in."

"It seems you still have a lot of work ahead of you," Archibald said with a sweep of his hand over the chaotic scene.

Harry shoved his palms into his eyes and rubbed. "Yes, yes," he mumbled into his sleeves.

"Did you sleep?" Archibald noted the sag in De Rosier's shoulders.

"No, but that's a luxury I can't afford thanks to your sister," Harry said as he scrubbed his fingers through his hair to push it back into place.

Archibald's stomach dropped as he was filled with shame at Olivia's behavior. "I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am," he began. "She told me all of what she said and I know she regrets it. I made her promise to apologize—"

"That's not necessary. And I'm talking about the costumes — that really was all her idea and it's brilliant. I just wish I would have thought of it sooner." He laughed.

"Yes, well. I'm still sorry about her. She's having a tough time adjusting to the change."

Harry pulled the panels of fabric from the machine and sheepishly tested the needlework. His teeth worried his lower lip before he said, "Is that really all that's the matter?"

Archibald's brow knit together as he tried to figure Harry's meaning. "I'm not sure. I don't think there's anything—"

"I didn't say anything to offend her? Or maybe did something I—" Harry's long fingers fretted the seam on the translucent silk. "I don't know what I'm saying," he said with a tired chuckle.

"Forget Olivia. Get some sleep," Archibald said, placing a hand on his friend's shoulders to steer him away from the pile of half-finished costumes.

Harry mumbled something under his breath that sounded close to, "—snot quite as easy as it sounds."

Archibald wasn't sure if he meant his sister, or sleep, but he didn't get a chance to beg for clarification before Mr. Turner burst into the room. "I'm not one for dramatics," he said. His teal satin cravat was askew and he had a wild and dangerous sort of look in his eyes. "But we are ruined."

"Ruined?" Archibald asked at the same time Harry said, "I'm going to bed."

Mr. Turner drew a trembling hand to his wrinkled brow. "The Society of Music just announced a new Gilbert & Sullivan they'll be premiering the same night as ours."

"Which Gilbert & Sullivan?" Harry asked, his head perked.

"Something with Pirates, but that's not all. Our pianist slipped on an icy walk on his way in today. He's been hospitalized with a broken arm, and Miss Vanderberg's carriage just pulled up to the theater. Unless she can sing A Capella, she won't be able to audition."

"If she's as good as she says, she shouldn't need accompaniment," Harry said.

"I can play," Archibald said.

Both Harry's and Mr. Turner's jaw fell open in surprise. Harry recovered faster and slapped a hand to Archibald's shoulder. "You sly dog! I had no idea you had any musical inclination."

"Of course. A proper British gentleman has to be good for more than just a dance partner and an escort into the dining room," he said. "Just don't ask me to sing."

"Good." Harry laughed. "I was getting worried there was nothing you didn't take to like a natural."

Archibald pushed Harry's hand off of his shoulder. "I've already had enough of you and your gigglemug for the day. Go home, and get some sleep, or have you forgotten we're set to attend Miss Vanderberg's cotillion tonight?"

Harry rubbed his eyes. "Must have slipped my mind. I'll be off then, but I am sorely going to regret missing the chance to see you play."

Mr. Turner led the way back to the stage where a piano had been pushed to the center. Miss Vanderberg stood at its side. Her head was high, a knowing smile splashed across her lips; she looked every bit like she belonged there.

"Mr. Turner. Mr. Colston. Mr. De Rosier," she said with a nod of her head to each, but her gaze lingered longest on Harry. "It is a pleasure to see you."

Harry smiled weakly. "Likewise, but I'm afraid I can't stay."

Daphne's grin fell and she pushed out her lower lip to form an exaggerated pout. "Say it isn't so! I do so love to have an audience!"

Harry stepped close to her and took her gloved hand in his. "I am truly sorry, Miss Vanderberg. I will see you tonight, of course." He brushed a kiss to her knuckles.

Miss Vanderberg batted her lashes, and Archibald had to appreciate her determination. "Then you can make it up to me by standing up with me for the first dance tonight." Determined and she didn't miss a step.

"As you wish," Harry said before making his leave.

"Let's get this over with," Mr. Green said. He and Miss Hodges had appeared sometime during Miss Vanderberg's display of flirtation.

"Where is Mr. Adcock?" Miss Hodges asked. "Isn't he supposed to be here already to play for Miss Vanderberg's audition?"

"Mr. Colston is going to play for her," Mr. Turner replied as he smoothed out his cravat.

All eyes turned to Archibald, but he was focused on one pair. Determined to recover from such a disastrous first impression, he locked eyes with Miss Hodges as he took a seat at the piano. He set his fingers on the keys, and to prove he wasn't exaggerating his skill, he rolled through a few scales and a couple chords before starting into a Nocturne by Franz Liszt. Miss Hodges lips didn't pull into a smile, but they pressed themselves closed and her eyes crinkled at the corners. It wasn't a smile, but it was certainly an improvement from her disapproving glare.

"Very lovely," Miss Vanderberg said. She pulled a folio of sheet music from under her arm and set it on the music stand. "I hope you are all in the mood for Puccini."

"I suppose if we must," Mr. Green said with a perceptible cringe.

"Ignore him," Mr. Turner said, guiding Miss Vanderberg so she stood at center stage. "He spent a season a season in Venice and drank far too much wine for his own good, and he has been turned off of the Italians since. An aria from Puccini is perfect for an audition."

"Call it permanent bottle ache," Mr. Green called over his shoulder as he gave Miss Hodges his arm and helped her down the steps into the audience.

Archibald was glad to see they'd been able to move past the attempted murder. He said a silent prayer as he played through the piece for Miss Vanderberg's audition to familiarize himself with the trickier looking passages. A peculiar heat rose to his cheeks as he stumbled over some odd chords, but he had a suspicion it was due to the knowledge that Miss Hodges watched him from the front row. After he felt reasonably comfortable with the measures, it was Miss Vanderberg's turn to hold the room's attention.

He started in at the beginning, and she joined four bars later. Her voice, clear and strong caught him off guard. The shock of such a voice was enough to make him hit a few sour notes, but he recovered and fell into harmonious step with the soprano. It was difficult to focus solely on the music when he had such a desire to watch Miss Vanderberg perform. Instead, he had to watch to hit each note so his playing would not distract from the voice that filled the theater all the way to the rafters.

The aria finished and for a moment the entire theater was silent enough that Archibald could hear his own heart thumping in his chest. To his trained ear, she'd hit every note, but he wondered if she'd really performed it the way Messrs. Turner and Green were looking for.

The silence broke with Mr. Turner's frantic clapping. Mr. Green had risen from his seat and gaped, open-mouthed, at the socialite.

"Bravo!" Turner yelled over his own applause. "Bravo."

Miss Hodges clapped politely and gave Miss Vanderberg a gracious nod of her head.

"Are you sure you've never performed on the stage, Miss Vanderberg?" Mr. Green asked.

"Never," Miss Vanderberg said with a shake of her head and a brilliant grin stretched from ear to ear.

"You are a natural," Green said as he and the others moved to join them on the stage.

"So does this mean I have the part?" she asked, a hand pressed demurely to her heart.

A look passed between Green and Turner, and with a nod from the former, all was settled. "You have the part," Turner said with arms open wide.

As discussions about scripts and costumes and rehearsal schedules began, Archibald felt Miss Hodges' presence at his side. And then she wasn't at his shoulder, but seated opposite him on the piano bench, close enough that her arm bumped into his.

"You play well," she said, resting her chin on her shoulder to look at him.

Archibald suppressed a violent blush by refusing to meet her gaze. "Thank you," he said, his eyes fixed upon the black and white keys.

"I don't find many British expatriates in New York," she said pointedly. "Not ones who aren't in financial or social ruin."

"Ah," Archibald said. He knew the type who ran to America in search of heiresses eager to put the title of "Lady" before their name. "I am not in financial or social ruin per se, just in search of a more forward-thinking world."

"I believe you have come to the wrong place for such thinking. I surmise that you have now left a cadre of heartbroken young women back in England for no reason then."

"Maybe New York isn't so forward thinking, but it has its opportunities." he replied. "You see, I sold my ancestral estate to an American businessman and upset everyone in the county before I left. I wasn't going down with my father's sinking ship, but I am surprised by how many of our acquaintance thought I should — as if it was the honorable thing to do. "

Miss Hodges nodded and Archibald looked up just in time to see a smile left the corner of her lips. "People love a success story, but they love tragedy even more. I believe they are bitter to be robbed of good gossip to share over tea."

Archibald shook his head and laughed at the truth of such words. "Truly. But please don't talk of tea. I am still mourning the loss of my kitchen staff. My new cook has scalded the already horrid tea leaves every day since we've arrived. I am deeply afraid I've had the last decent pot of tea I will ever have, and I wasn't wise enough to appreciate it."

"Yes. They started war over a tea tax, and they can't even brew it. If Mr. Turner ever offers you a cuppa, say no. He likes it bitter as anything," she said. "But I do happen to know a place where you can get a palatable brew."

"Indeed?"

"Oh yes, but it's a great secret."

Archibald leaned slightly towards Miss Hodges and whispered conspiratorially, "And are you at liberty to divulge this secret to a total stranger?"

"I can, but for a newcomer such as yourself, it might serve better if I took you there. How does tomorrow afternoon sound?"

Archibald's pulse fluttered. A public outing with an unaccompanied woman? His mother would be scandalized. "We haven't even been properly introduced," he objected.

She reached her arm across her body, extending her hand to him. "Grace Hodges," she said.

Archibald took the slender hand in his. "Archibald Colston."

Miss Hodges stood. "Excellent. Tomorrow at three o'clock, meet me here."

"I will," he said, though the suddenness of such an intimate engagement sent his mind reeling. He thought he understood the social mores of New York, but he had been proved wrong before. The woman held a career in the theater after all. Yet for a woman of marriageable age to make arrangements so boldly, and without consulting her mother, went against convention in most any circle. Regardless of propriety, Grace Hodges was something entirely outside of the norm — and Archibald was enthralled.

Thank you so much for reading!! It has been a crazy couple of months and my posting has been a bit erratic, but thank you all for sticking with me! Seriously, the support means so much to me and really helps me push through writers block! I'm excited to bring you more Olivia Colston in the next chapter!