The Davenports(22)

They ducked under the clotheslines. The shirts twisted in the wind and Amy-Rose pretended they were other dancers circling elegantly around them. John commended her on her form and joked about how happy he was to not have to worry about toes crushed underfoot. He began to hum softly, drawing her closer, close enough that their movements slowed. She angled her face closer to his. She didn’t think she’d ever stood this close to him before. Her breath stuck in her throat, the heady smell of his cologne too intoxicating.

Amy-Rose’s heart raced. Her foot stepped into the basket of folded laundry. Before she knew it, the ground and sky tilted. John fell with her, pulling clothing from the line around them. The two of them were a tangle of limbs and damp garments. He gently removed the petticoat covering her face. She sat up and looked at the mess they’d made, all the things she’d have to rewash, but beside her, John looked at her like she was the world. His laugh escaped in a great, infectious rush.

“At least I didn’t step on your toes,” she said.





CHAPTER 12


    Olivia



Olivia looked out the window as the breeze scattered white petals across the back lawn. She sat in her new day dress, pale blue with an ivory lace trim. Smart. Modest. And a host of other important qualities her mother said clothing can convey. If Mr. Lawrence was anything like her brother, whether a dress was becoming or ugly often depended on the figure of the woman who wore it. “It’s not about size,” he’d said to her once. “But proportion. Line.” As if he’d been talking about a motorcar. She took shallow breaths now due to the corset and shook her head gently.

She and the new English bachelor, Jacob Lawrence, were the talk of Black society since their turn about the Tremaine ballroom floor. The only person more excited about the blossoming romance than Olivia was her mother.

In the week following the Tremaines’ party, Mr. Lawrence had had tea at Freeport Manor, lunch with her father downtown, and just this past Sunday, attended service at their church, sitting in their family’s pew. The whispers were loud. Suffocating. As encouraging as they were frightening.

It was everything she wanted.

Olivia had done what was expected of her and this was her due: a strong, handsome gentleman who fulfilled her parents’ every wish and her quiet hopes.

She shifted in her seat as the thought of the young lawyer Washington DeWight eased into her mind. His life appeared to be full of choice and intention. But he also seemed to be unimpressed by all that Olivia had accomplished. As if all her own hard work was a waste of time. The idea of him thinking she was some frivolous girl made her grind her teeth.

Emmeline Davenport burst into the morning room then, humming loudly to herself. Olivia noted she was in a particularly good mood. Her mother was graceful, and though she had faced hardships of her own, Mrs. Davenport, her hair styled neatly at the base of her head, had an approachable face that disguised nothing. Her almond-shaped eyes smoldered like twin coals, warm and mesmerizing. Every joy and disappointment wrote itself clear across her brow and the tilt of her mouth. Their small angles guided Olivia’s reactions—when to bargain, challenge, and relent. After all, the only thing Emmeline wanted was for her children to have the best of everything and to want for nothing. How could Olivia fault her for that?

Olivia emerged from her thoughts to find her mother smiling at her as if she held a secret.

“I think someone is a bit lost in a daydream,” Mrs. Davenport said, more like a statement than a question. “How flushed you look.”

Olivia placed a hand on her cheek. It was indeed warm. Her mother would be alarmed to know it was thoughts of Mr. DeWight—not Mr. Lawrence—to blame for her blush. In fact, Olivia was a bit alarmed herself.

Emmeline Davenport patted Olivia’s hand and sat on the chaise across from her. “I am very pleased at the reception you and Mr. Lawrence have received. You two make such a lovely couple.” She turned to the window Olivia had just been gazing through. Olivia’s stomach did a little flip. This was everything she wanted. It was all going to plan. She felt a great weight was being slowly lifted from her shoulders with each passing day spent in Mr. Lawrence’s company.

Her mother sighed as if she felt it too. Mrs. Davenport picked up a pair of gloves from the small table beside the large wingback chair and tapped Olivia’s knee. “It’s a beautiful day for a stroll and a picnic.” As she stood, the footman entered the sitting room to announce that Mr. Lawrence had arrived.

Olivia glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was exactly one in the afternoon—Mr. Lawrence was nothing if not punctual. She followed her mother to the grand foyer where Mr. Lawrence stood with his hat in his hand, examining the painting of a shed in a lonely cotton field, where the small white tufts appeared to be swaying in a breeze under a cloudless sky. Like every suit he’d worn, whether houndstooth or herringbone, today’s was impeccably tailored, the fabric a luxurious tweed.

He turned at the sound of their approach, a smile already on his face. The power of his gaze made Olivia pick at the buttons of her gloves. She pointed to the painting. “Daddy received this as a gift. It’s the plantation where he and his brother were enslaved. The artist is one of the men charged with locating my uncle. He painted it from my father’s description.”

“It’s a powerful piece.”

“He nearly threw it into the fire when it arrived. But if you look here . . .” Olivia pointed to two figures in the background.