The Davenports(20)

Helen was confused. “What about me?”

Mr. Lawrence laughed. “Tell me about yourself.”

His request caught her off guard. Helen realized she’d never met anyone who didn’t already know who she was, who her family was. She was the youngest of the Davenport children, Olivia’s sister, the one who couldn’t needlepoint, sing, or serve tea correctly. What else was there to say?

“I too am well read,” she began. He nodded as if he expected this and she pouted. She squared her shoulders and said, “Mostly mechanics’ magazines and manuals. Poetry is such a bore.” She looked at him, a challenge in her eyes.

“Fantastic. I’m rubbish with machines,” he replied. “How are you with electrical work? There is a switch in my hotel room that shocks me every time I turn out the lamp.”

“I’m sure I could manage.” Helen’s face grew hot at the idea of being in his room.

He lifted his eyebrows a fraction, but recovered quickly, his features forming a smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Suddenly, Helen’s skin was too tight. What was she doing? He may not be engaged to her sister, but it was only a matter of time. Helen recalled the way Olivia smiled as Mr. Lawrence led her across the dance floor. Even from her chair in the corner, Helen heard the relieved sigh of her mother above the music. This is what Emmeline Davenport had always wanted.

And yet, what was this feeling stirring in her chest?

“I must head inside,” he said. With that, Mr. Lawrence took her hand and kissed it, holding it to his lips a moment too long, she thought. Helen stilled. Her mind grew quiet and all she could see was the handsome young man standing before her.

“Good night, Miss Davenport.”

“Good night, Mr. Lawrence,” she said, pulling her hand away. “And until you call that electrician, consider lighting a candle instead.”

He laughed, his hand hovering above the handle on the patio door. “Ring me first. I’ll put a pot of tea on.”





CHAPTER 11


    Amy-Rose



Amy-Rose combed her fingers through Helen’s hair, removing pins along the way. She tried to keep her focus on the task at hand, but one pin had stuck her, just lightly, reminding her of the sewing needle she’d used to stitch John’s button back on. And the bitter tang of Helen’s coffee, black, just the way John drank it, clawed at her senses. Everything, however small, reminded her of John. They’d had a moment, the two of them, hadn’t they? Amy-Rose felt the flutter in the stomach as she imagined his calloused hands against her wrists. The warmth of his palm against her skin. She was overreacting. They were just having a bit of fun.

“Are you well, Amy-Rose?” Helen stared at her, a hand clasped around Amy-Rose’s wrist.

Amy-Rose could feel her pulse bounding against the soft pressure applied by the girl, whose hands were as rough as her brother’s. Thoughts of John crowded her mind again. She cleared her throat and shook her shoulders. “Yes, of course,” she said.

Helen’s eyes narrowed. Amy-Rose held her gaze and tried to remember what it was Helen had been talking about. Was it about cars? Helen was usually talking about cars. Or some new invention she’d read about in her father’s papers.

“So, what do you think I should do?”

“Do?” Amy-Rose turned Helen in her seat. Her mind scrambled to piece together the words Helen had said while her mind wandered, imagining she was caught in John’s arms.

Helen rolled her eyes. “My birthday is at the end of the summer. I’ll be eighteen and Mama will have no reason to hold off finding me a husband. The only thing that’s saved me so far is how picky Olivia can be.” Helen sighed, and for a moment she looked like the young scrawny girl she’d been a year ago. But over the past months, her figure had filled out, she’d grown into her face, and the intelligence in her eyes hinted at a fierceness within her Amy-Rose hoped wouldn’t scare off eligible bachelors.

Helen’s words about her older sister were harsh, and Amy-Rose thought to remind her of the pressure Olivia must be under, to decide her future at nineteen, please her parents, and live up to the expectations of society.

“Is she being picky? Or does she know what she wants and is willing to wait for it?” Amy-Rose hadn’t meant to say those things out loud. Her fingers quickened their pace about Helen’s head. She feared she’d say more. Last night’s chance encounter with John disrupted her composure, and now Amy-Rose didn’t know up from down. Sleep evaded her and she woke with a pounding headache. Not even penciling ideas for her salon had calmed her nerves.

“I think you’re right.” Helen picked up another paper. “Livy knows what she wants, and she’s not one to settle.” Her eyes met Amy-Rose’s in the mirror. “Obviously, neither should we.”



* * *



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    The wind whipped the dresses on the line with a crack. Amy-Rose held the hem of one of Olivia’s shirtsleeves to her skin. Still damp. For a moment she weighed the chances of the gust tearing the clothing from the line against the trouble of hanging the garments in the small room where she did the mending. The arrival of dark clouds made the decision for her. She began removing the shirts and dresses off the line, folding them neatly to prevent creases. The less she had to press the better.