The Davenports(27)
“I am,” Helen replied, hating the hesitation in her voice.
“Are you trying to be obtuse? Do you enjoy wasting our time and your parents’ money?”
“No.” Helen swapped two of the forks left of the plate.
Mrs. Milford’s questions came in rapid succession. “What type of man do you hope to attract with such poor attention to detail?”
Helen swallowed a huff. She’d already endured one lecture on how to better control or conceal her emotions and did not wish to invite further scrutiny. Her mother no doubt expected daily reports on her progress. And she did a little better than paying attention to details! How else does one pinpoint the exact cause of an engine misfire or the myriad others things she was capable of doing? No mechanic worth their grit could do what Helen did without a cunning or a discerning eye. But that wasn’t what Mrs. Milford wanted to hear. No, no. Nor her parents. If only they could see the significance of her skills outside the home. There must be a man who valued that.
Mrs. Milford continued to talk, and without meaning to, Helen allowed her thoughts to drift to Mr. Lawrence. Jacob. Her sister’s soon-to-be-fiancé. She’d never had such easy conversation with a member of the opposite sex without a vehicle between them. He was funny. And Helen suspected, just from their brief encounter on the Tremaines’ patio, that he saw the benefit of her interests, and in the skills that she nurtured in secret. She caught the smile spreading across her face. She shook herself, blushing hard. Worse, she became aware that she had missed something Mrs. Milford had said.
“Come, child. This is nothing to work yourself up over.” Mrs. Milford walked over to one of the chairs along the dark-paneled walls. She reached into a beaten fabric bag with a faded floral pattern and pulled out a book, then came around the grand table.
Up close, Helen noticed the scars under her chin that dipped into the collar of her high-necked blouse. She wondered if Mrs. Milford may have some secrets of her own and if her severe dress went beyond the mourning of her husband. In her hand was a slim book covered in pale blue cloth. She offered it to Helen, never taking her eyes off the young girl’s face.
“The Art of Being Agreeable by Margaret E. Sangster. Once you’ve completed this one, I will bring you another.”
Helen enjoyed reading manuals. How-to’s were always her first choice. Knowledge and books were her companions when her sister outgrew her to join this world Helen had tried so determinedly to avoid. Was she being childish? Digging in her heels, delaying the inevitable?
Helen took the book from Mrs. Milford, careful to keep her face neutral. It was a dead weight in her hands. So much heavier than the planetary gear she’d held in the garage just a couple of weeks ago.
“There is much for you to learn,” her new companion said. “But this is a start.”
Helen looked at the table, still unsure if her place setting was correct, and thought, This is going to be a nightmare.
CHAPTER 14
Ruby
The air was warm and sticky, and something sinister buzzed around Ruby’s ear, deepening her irritation. Or maybe it was Agatha Leary. Agatha was nice enough, though her presence was a constant reminder that Ruby’s best friend was otherwise preoccupied.
Olivia spent every free moment lately with Jacob Lawrence. Or with Mrs. Davenport, planning on ways to casually run into him. Ruby missed the afternoons they shopped the storefronts on the South Side. Or when they visited the museums during the hours allotted for Black patrons—or sometimes during normal hours, if Olivia was bored and in a suggestible mood, game for leveraging her family name. They always found something to pass the time.
Especially now, with her parents checking on her as much as they were—a girl could hardly breathe!—Ruby missed Olivia. She felt time quickly slipping through her fingers. John was losing interest. His focus always seemed to be elsewhere. And he had yet to call on her or schedule the ride they had talked about. She thought for certain after the ball he would have extended an invitation. He had positively steamed with irritation—the sight of Harrison Barton swinging her around the ballroom floor seeming to have lit a fire under him. But that was over a week ago and the flame was fading fast.
After the party, she had waited for a letter, racing down the stairs to meet the postman outside before her mother could. But there was nothing addressed to her save for the short notes Olivia sent to update Ruby on her own courtship. Hastily, Ruby would return to her room, with its leftover opulence, mostly untouched by the cutbacks made to support her father’s campaign. Securing John’s hand, her contribution to her father’s endeavors—and the salvation of his greatest undertaking—grew less likely by the day. She thought of responding to Olivia, but she could hardly ask her oldest friend, How do I keep your brother interested?
That is why she stood behind a chain-link fence now with Agatha Leary droning at her back, watching the young men of her set play a game of baseball.
“Agatha, do you see Mr. Davenport?”
Agatha stammered at Ruby’s sudden interruption. “I don’t see him. I hardly think he’d be out here running bases on account of his limp. Why, Ruby, you should know that!”
“I meant Mr. John Davenport.” Ruby suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. She hoped John would be among them or in the crowd so that they might have a few moments to speak to each other. The rest of the spectators would serve as a chaperone and a buffer from Agatha, who thought it her duty to shadow Ruby’s every move in addition to talking her ears off.