The Davenports(12)

“What did you think of my speech?” Mr. DeWight called up the stairs after her.

“I . . . I . . .” She was unsure what to say. She both believed him entirely and emphatically did not.



* * *



—

“Miss Olivia!” Tommy jumped from the driver’s seat as soon as she emerged into the sunlight. A sheen of sweat covered his brow, and his cap was mangled cloth between his fingers. He glanced at Mr. DeWight and frowned. “I’m sorry to frighten you, miss, but I’ve been looking high and low for you. We have to go.”

“Yes, of course,” she replied, distracted, still feeling stunned.

Washington DeWight touched her shoulder lightly and some of the fog around Olivia’s mind cleared.

“Will you be at the next meeting? We’ve rented this space for the next few months.”

“Mr. DeWight—”

“Please, call me Washington.”

Olivia’s stomach flipped at how easily he brushed aside formality, like they were old friends. She watched Tommy open the carriage door for her. “Mr. DeWight,” she said, feeling a small flutter in her chest. “I don’t think that would be for the best.”

He laughed again, but this time it did not feel kind. “I understand.” Mr. DeWight took her hand and helped her inside the carriage. He leaned forward. “Don’t you trouble your head over these silly things.” His eyes flicked to the luxurious interior of the carriage and back to her eyes. “I’m sure your mind is much too crowded with pearls and parties and all the fine things in life. You just enjoy.”

With that, he shut the door and the carriage took off. Olivia watched him standing there on the sidewalk as the horses veered into the street, his insult burning her cheeks.





CHAPTER 6


    Helen



Helen, still in her dressing gown, stared at her reflection in the vanity. Tonight was the Tremaines’ big gala, and Amy-Rose had done her best to tame Helen’s curls and pull them up to the crown of her head. She never understood the need to straighten her hair before curling it when her hair dried into tight coils all on its own. Didn’t she get a say on how her hair looked? And who decided what hair was supposed to look like anyway?

All she could think of was the hours she’d spent sitting in her room when she could have been in the library or the garage. Somewhere beneath the spiderweb of bobby pins, her scalp itched, but she knew if she so much as stuck the tip of her pinkie in there, her mother would be able to tell.

She looked at the dress draped over the chaise behind her and sighed. It had a high waist and a skirt that fell like a column. The crystals around the neckline glistened. Helen had no interest in going to this party. She dreaded the small talk of how much she’d grown and how her piano lessons were coming.

Helen was lost in her thoughts when she heard a knock at her door.

“Come in.”

William Davenport inched his way inside the doorway. Helen took in her father’s stiff white shirt, stark against the midnight of his slacks and shirtwaist. She followed his gaze as it traveled around her room, which she refused to let anyone clean but herself. It was cluttered not only with books and sketches, but also discarded shoes and abandoned cups of tea and empty plates. Amy-Rose and Olivia complained about the mess. Helen argued that all the best minds lived like this. She’d read in one of her books that it fostered creativity. Now she turned slowly in her chair, wondering if her father thought she was a slob.

Once upon a time, she had been the apple of her father’s eye. He would sit her on his knee as she pulled on his ears and traced his profile and asked him questions. Questions about anything—including his horses and carriages. She recalled one afternoon when her father was in a carefree and playful mood. He let each of his children drive a buggy up and down the drive. Olivia kept a slow and steady pace. John, who had driven several times before, drove with a confidence that got under Helen’s skin. When it was Helen’s turn, she snapped the reins and set the team barreling down the drive. The air whipped her cheeks red and snatched the hat from her head. Mr. Davenport threw his head back and laughed. “That’s my girl!” he had called out.

“Helen,” her father said now, removing his glasses, “shouldn’t you be dressed for the party?”

“Why are people always trying to dress me?” she muttered under her breath.

Mr. Davenport leaned over her desk and tapped his cane, shifting some of the atlases she’d left out. “I had an interesting conversation with John today,” he said.

“Oh?” Helen asked, curious now. She turned back toward the mirror, watching his reflection move across the room and pick up another book on her bedside table. She noticed their resemblance—the stubborn nose and large brown eyes he’d passed on to her.

“Yes. He told me he bought a Model T that didn’t run. Bets have been placed on who will uncover the reason. One person is close.”

A small smile tugged at the corners of her lips. She’d spent the past few days in the garage working on the engine. John shooed her away before lunch.

Mr. Davenport was standing over her now. Without a word, he placed a car manual on the vanity in front of her. “The mechanics say every morning another part is removed. And cleaned. Exceptional problem-solving skills. I wanted to congratulate the mechanic. They may be able to repair it. But none of them had the slightest idea who was behind it,” he said, sending her heart into overdrive.