The Davenports(13)
Helen stared at the manual, grasping for words like straws. Was he upset? But he seemed impressed . . . She took a deep breath and met his gaze in the mirror.
She faltered.
“Curious thing to bet on a person you can’t even name.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Let me see your hands.”
Helen’s stomach fell. Reluctantly, she did as he asked. Gently, he pried one of her fists open. Even after scrubbing with a fine-tooth brush, the telltale tar peeked through the corners of her fingernails. His next breath held more disappointment than she could stand.
“It’s dirt,” she said, the lie a piercing betrayal to her pride. “I was in the vegetable garden with Jessie.”
“I will not suffer a liar, Helen,” he said sharply. “You are not to go into that garage and mingle with those ruffians.”
She cast her gaze downward. “They’re my friends.”
Mr. Davenport grunted. “They are not your friends. They are my employees. Malcolm expressed some concern—”
“Malcolm!” Helen said. Indignation twisted her stomach. The ornery mechanic held fast to outdated notions. She should have known this day would come.
“The garage is no place for a lady. It is a place of work, for those who need to, and not your playground. You’re a beautiful girl, and you should take pride in that. It’s time for you to grow up, Helen.”
Helen slouched in her chair. Her image of his approval, the broad smile he’d direct at her for her accomplishment, it drifted out of reach. “I’m not a lady. And I can be a valuable part of the company if you would just give me a chance. If I could just—”
Mr. Davenport’s silence was the loudest sound Helen had ever heard, louder than her own quick breaths. The hardened look in his eyes stopped her, but fatigue returned them to their warm, deep brown. Her father pinched her chin and met her eyes. She could have sworn his were tinged with a sadness that equaled her own. “John will take care of the business.”
Her father’s words tore open her heart and squeezed the hope from it.
“Now hurry up and get ready,” he said. “We’ll be leaving soon.”
Mr. Davenport’s figure blurred in Helen’s vision as he left her bedroom. She pressed her palm to her lips and took a deep, shuddering breath, hearing the door click firmly shut behind her father.
CHAPTER 7
Amy-Rose
The house was quiet after the Davenports finally left for their evening at the Tremaines’. Amy-Rose and the remaining staff did not expect them back much before dawn, just in time for their long day of service to begin again. However, she was one of the lucky ones.
Her personal list of chores related mostly to the upkeep of Olivia and Helen. Olivia, who was so neat, left nearly nothing for her to do, and Helen didn’t let Amy-Rose straighten her room lest her creative sanctuary be disturbed. So, Amy-Rose’s mornings were filled with pressing their dresses and styling their hair. After that, she was free to do as she pleased.
She sighed. What must it be like to stay out all night, dancing and drinking champagne, not a worry in the world? She placed Olivia’s powder and rouge in the makeup kit and turned off the lights.
She moved to the opposite wing of the house, where Henrietta—Hetty—was preparing Mr. and Mrs. Davenport’s room. This side of Freeport Manor may have had fewer rooms, but they were grand. Mrs. Davenport surrounded herself with plush rugs and oversized couches that were as firm and unyielding as she was. Her closet was bigger than the apartment Amy-Rose had shared with her mother before they came to live here. Amy-Rose leaned against the doorframe as Henrietta straightened the duvet with quick flicks of her wrists.
“I’m just about finished here,” Hetty said. “Why don’t you head down to the kitchen and make sure everything is ready for Jessie when she gets back?”
Amy-Rose nodded. The Davenports’ cook had left for the Tremaines’ home early this morning to help prepare. Mrs. Tremaine requested her services, hoping to serve Jessie’s signature desserts for her guests.
Once in the kitchen, she saw that Jessie had already scrubbed and polished everything. Amy-Rose said a silent prayer of thanks and took a seat at the long kitchen table to work on her salon plans and salves. She spent hours each night after her chores were finished, listing and experimenting and drawing and erasing and redrawing until she was satisfied, only to begin again on a clean sheet of paper. Her fingers traced the edge of one of the pages like her mother would her cheek before tucking her into bed.
She read through her recipes, gathering the items to try a new one. A jar of honey. Bananas to be mashed and blended with the reduced sugary syrup. Oils pressed from the plants and herbs in the garden that she kept in the highest cabinets. All the makings of a perfect pre-wash treatment. Amy-Rose didn’t know what it took to run a business, but she knew what hair needed to be shiny and healthy. Mixing her treatments calmed her, left her mind free to wonder the what-ifs the future held.
Amy-Rose sighed and scratched the pencil across the pages of her journal, doodling design ideas for her salon next to her honey and banana recipe. The salon would be bright and welcoming. She wanted a tea service and finger foods. Everything would be lavender, her mother’s favorite color. She imagined large gilded mirrors at each styling station that would multiply a delicately patterned wallpaper. Proper sinks for washing and rinsing, an elegant label gracing the product bottles, and on the sign above the door . . . If only she could decide on a name.