The Davenports(26)

But then, “Helen, dear!” her mother had called from below.

Helen had paused at the top of the steps. Downstairs and to the right was the kitchen, where she hoped to slip unnoticed to John’s garage. Her mother pitched her voice the way she did when company was present, when she was afraid Helen might commit some egregious social error without some subtle warning to reset her course.

Helen’s chest tightened. As much as she wanted to flee, she knew she wouldn’t get far. “Yes?” she said, dragging out the word and swinging around the newel post. She hoped whatever this was, it would be a minor delay.

A woman, older than her mother, stood in the foyer. Her expression was as bleak as her dress. Helen entered the grand space cautiously.

“This is Mrs. Milford,” said Mrs. Davenport, smiling widely. “Mrs. Milford, Helen.”

Mrs. Milford was a short woman in a severe black dress and sturdy boots, polished to a shine. All of which, when compared to Mrs. Davenport’s mauve frock, made her a bearer of bad news. The newcomer held her hat in her hands, revealing dark hair streaked with gray, brushed smoothly away from her deep brown face, and painfully pinned at the nape of her neck in a tight, coiled poof. She analyzed Helen’s every movement and appearance from head to toe.

“A pleasure to meet you,” Helen said, not completely forgetting her manners as her stomach dropped.

“Likewise.” Mrs. Milford’s disapproval appeared to wane temporarily.

Afraid of what this visitor meant, Helen turned to her mother, dread growing with each loud tick of the grandfather clock beside them.

“Mrs. Milford is—was—a pastor’s wife.”

“Didn’t agree with the pastor anymore?” Helen asked to her mother’s shock.

“I am recently widowed.”

Now Helen was shocked. Her brief elation that her mother would be embroiled in such scandal—and would have shared it with her—was quickly replaced with a compassion she didn’t know how to express. She regretted her callous question, shame burning her neck.

“No need to say anything,” Mrs. Milford said. “There shouldn’t be any awkwardness between us if we are going to work together. And present tense is fine. I feel as though he is still with me.” A gentle smile softened her features, but her glance at Mrs. Davenport, followed by a subtle nod, spoke of an ambush.

The feeling of queasy dread had returned as Helen followed them into the dining room. A heavy brocade cloth fell like liquid gold over the surface of the table. Each seat had a slight variation in the place setting before it. Helen looked at her mother.

Mrs. Davenport cleared her throat and regarded Helen with a warning in her eyes so severe, Helen held her breath. “Mrs. Milford, as I was saying, is a pastor’s wife with strong ideas of how a lady should behave. She answered the ad in the paper.”

“What ad?” Helen croaked.

“?‘Lady’s Companion Wanted. Must be well read, have extensive knowledge of etiquette, and above all else, patience.’?” Mrs. Milford folded her hands.

“What?” Helen shrieked. She hadn’t meant to raise her voice, but this was bad news. Very bad news. “How could you do this, Mama? I don’t need etiquette lessons. Again!”

“Clearly, you do. Your current behavior is not only childish, but rude.”

Helen’s plans for the day were officially scrapped. The first thing they did was send Helen back upstairs to change into something more “suitable.” Her new lady’s companion followed her upstairs, her mother close at their heels. Helen tried not to cringe when she opened the door to her bedroom.

“Helen,” Mrs. Davenport said from the threshold. Helen watched as her mother toured her sanctuary in silent horror. Books and sketches strewn everywhere. A pair of shoes peeked from underneath the bed skirt. At her vanity, empty plates and teacups occupied the space where perfume and makeup should be. “This won’t do,” her mother said. She turned to Mrs. Milford. “Do you see how desperately we could use your services?” Helen bristled at the word desperately, but held her tongue.

A few humiliating moments later, Helen was dressed. Corset and all. She smoothed flat the tiered ruffles at her neck and blew at the awkwardly dangling feather on her hat. I’m indoors, she thought to herself, struggling to keep her emotions in check. Her clothes were heavy, abrasive in their newness.

Now back in the dining room, she stood hungry and breathless, looking at place settings that offered no promise of a meal. What have I done to deserve this? she thought. But she knew. These were things she’d be expected to know once she became the lady of her own house. The thought of a fast approaching future where she could no longer sneak into a garage and tinker, murmur her secrets to her father’s horses, or genuinely do what she wanted when she wanted made her appetite disappear. Well, almost.

Helen traced a finger along the ivy detail of a fork’s handle. You should know this, she thought to herself. It’s not as if you don’t pick one up every day. Her mother insisted the table be formally set each night. Helen suddenly wondered if she had been using the wrong forks at dinner all this time without knowing it. This is ridiculous. She moved a fork to the other side of the plate and glanced up at her new companion triumphantly.

The corners of Mrs. Milford’s lip drooped, making her already long features stretch further in her narrow face. “Miss Helen, I was under the impression you were a clever girl.”