The Davenports(33)
“Washington DeWight.”
His smile widened. He stepped forward and pulled the door closed behind him. “You recognize me? I suppose the lighting here is much clearer than in a crowded ballroom.” He straightened, broad shoulders thrown back. One hand held a briefcase, the other gently tapped his hat against his chest.
Olivia folded her hands behind her back to hide fidgeting fingers. The smell of cheroot cigarettes reached her. Her father was within. She glanced back to Mr. DeWight, eyes narrowing.
“I met with your father,” he said quietly. “Incredible journey he’s had, I thought he would be interested in supporting the Cause.”
“Yes, he is very influential. People come from all over to talk to him. Sometimes even ingratiating themselves with his children to get closer.”
“And you? Have you come for your allowance to purchase ribbons? A hat perhaps?” He smiled and Olivia’s mouth puckered to the side. He pointed his hat at her. “No, perhaps it’s a new dress to entrap the poor, unsuspecting Mr. Lawrence into an arrangement?”
“Is that what you think I am? Some frivolous girl consumed with material gain who has to cheat her way into a good match?”
“You keep telling me you’re more than that. I have yet to see it. Oh, I know your family is very charitable. You donate money to orphanages and the Negro-run hospital. You and your mother bring food for the shelter. All well and good. Important. But hardly dangerous. You do not risk your name or standing with any of these gestures when the impact of offering either could prove the difference. They could spark real change. The Cause demands it. Mr. Tremaine understands that.”
“So, you mock Mr. Davenport’s children just beyond his earshot?”
“Olivia—”
“Miss Davenport,” she corrected, her eyes on the door behind him.
“No offense was intended, Miss Davenport. On the contrary, I see potential in you. A fire smothered by the demure feminine ideal to which you so meticulously subscribe.”
Olivia stood speechless, shocked by the passion burning in the words that grew softer with each syllable. She stood inches from him, without shoes, even a corset. She listened to him diminish the work she did and heard their shortcomings with the heat of embarrassment coloring her cheeks. She wished nothing more than to show him he was wrong. That she was more than a doll waiting to be placed in a new playhouse.
“I see the fire now,” he said, clearly pleased with himself. His stare challenged her. “Have you given a thought to what we talked about when we last met?”
She nodded. “I’m not as you say. I don’t have to prove myself to you or anyone else.”
He smiled. “True. But to yourself—is it not worth proving to you?”
* * *
—
The afternoon passed in a blur. In her father’s study, Olivia stared at her book, turning the pages without seeing them as he read through his papers. Mr. Davenport’s eyes weighed on her, but she kept her face down as her thoughts bounced back and forth on what William Davenport would think of Mr. DeWight’s observation. She wondered what her father and the young Southern lawyer had discussed. If he had any inkling as to what that same young man asked of his elder daughter, he didn’t say.
He folded the paper in his lap. “Olivia, you have been sitting here the better part of an hour. And I haven’t seen you turn a single page in that book.” Mr. Davenport removed his eyeglasses and tucked them into his jacket.
Olivia blinked her vision clear. Her father was watching her, a gentle smile on his face.
“I didn’t realize,” she said.
“What’s on your mind?”
Her mouth was dry. Washington DeWight’s words swirled in her head. She couldn’t ask without revealing how she knew the young lawyer.
“Is this about Mr. Lawrence?” he asked. “The two of you have spent a lot of time together in a few short weeks. Don’t tell me you’re worried about a small family dinner.”
Olivia was at a loss for words. It was not like her father to bring up the gentlemen who courted her. He left that to her mother, though she assumed he was disappointed that she had not found a husband last summer.
“Mr. Lawrence—yes. Well, Chestnut did let him give her an apple.” Olivia’s horse was notoriously picky, allowing only Tommy and Olivia herself to feed her.
Mr. Davenport chuckled. When he spoke, his voice had turned serious. “Your mother worries about you girls. She can’t help it. Her childhood was difficult.” He pressed his lips together. “Going to bed hungry each night as a child makes you hungry in other ways as an adult.” They knew this. It’s why Mrs. Davenport stressed the importance of giving to the shelter, the food pantry, and committed their involvement to the employment offices too. Olivia watched him look toward the door, his eyes softening. Her mother’s voice wafted from down the hall. “We just want the best for you.”
Olivia nodded, her throat still tight.
He used his cane to push himself out of the chair. “Let’s see what Jessie has prepared for us.” Olivia took his hand, warm and rough in hers. Mr. Davenport kissed the top of her head and Olivia could smell a hint of cheroot clinging to his clothes. She looped her arm through his as he led them to the dining room.
* * *