Bite it?
Shocked by the scandalous nature of her thoughts, she scurried back into her chair—focusing her attention on the wall, the ceiling—anywhere but the director.
The man who had recklessly announced that he’d hired her to be his assistant.
And really, oughtn’t he show at least a smidge of shame for acting so presumptuously? Mr. Dodd offered no explanation but merely slapped the jumble of documents back onto his desk and reclaimed his seat, looking quite satisfied with himself.
“You…!” She found herself at a loss for words.
He raised his brows. “You have incredible eyes.”
She shook her head, sputtering. “Incredible what…? Don’t be foolish! Mr. Dodd! You need to hire that other woman,” Elle moaned. “I am not an actress, and I am not here to be your secretary. I’m here to discuss Lady of the Scullery.”
“Lady of the Scullery?” His confusion would have been laughable if he wasn’t looking at her as though she was…
Anything but a playwright.
“The play sent to you by G.S. Oldham.” She’d used her initials and her mother’s maiden name, because any playwright worth his or her salt wrote under a pseudonym. And since she couldn’t risk her parents knowing what she was up to, she’d used her maid’s sister’s address, which was just outside of Mayfair, for correspondence.
But most of all, because no director would dare produce her play if they knew the identity of her father.
Only just refraining from rolling her eyes, Elle removed her gloves and then opened her reticule. And drawing on all her training, she straightened her shoulders and handed him the letter.
She didn’t need to see the words written to know what he would be reading. The multiple times she’d read over it had been more than enough to memorize the contents.
* * *
Mr. Oldham,
I’m of the opinion that your manuscript might be a suitable candidate for this year’s production schedule if terms can be agreed upon. Appear at my office at eleven sharp, Thursday afternoon to finalize.
Salutations,
Mr. Carter Dodd, Director
Drury Lane Theater
* * *
“Oldham is above meeting with me himself, eh?” The smooth baritone of his voice didn’t match the smirk on his mouth. Irritating, really. “God save me from the artists of our time.”
“But I’m—Don’t you consider yourself an artist?” she asked.
“Perhaps. In the beginning. Until, that is, I realized what really mattered in this business—money. It always comes back to money.” He gestured to his desk. “Nonetheless, I want you as my assistant. Whatever he’s paying you, I’ll double it.”
“Whatever who is paying me?”
“This Oldham fellow.”
“I-I—” Elle wasn’t sure if he was serious or not. “But I’m—"
“As for the play,” he shook his head and then leaned back in his chair. “Go back to your husband or father or whoever this Oldham fellow is and inform him that if he wants me to produce Lady of the Scullery, he’s going to have to meet with me himself—unless he’s dead, that is. Because aside from Marlowe or Shakespeare, I require my playwrights be available for rewrites throughout the run.”
“He isn’t dead—or my husband. I mean, she isn’t.” Elle paused to find her words. “G.S. Oldham is a woman, and you are—already meeting with her personally.” Elle exhaled before smoothing her skirts. At his confused expression, Elle added, “I am G.S. Oldham.”
“Mrs. Oldham?”
“Miss Oldham.” Giselle spoke the name with confidence.
