The Davenports(35)
“I would not host such meetings here and put you all at risk.” Mr. Davenport’s eyes softened with a sadness that tempered Olivia’s frustration. “And then there are the men I employ. Who would feed their families if the shop and garage were vandalized, or worse, in retaliation?”
His words were sobering. There was more at stake than the material possessions she knew she took for granted. “You’re right,” she said, though the words tasted sour on her tongue and her heart felt heavy. She smiled and let John redirect the conversation to horse racing until her mother said enough and ordered the dessert be served. A cherry pie. The scent of its sweetness turned Olivia’s stomach. She pushed the fruit filling out of the pie, her appetite nonexistent. Instead, she studied Mr. Lawrence at her side. Leave it to the politicians and activists, he’d said. His words hung in the air, pressing down on her shoulders.
“You know,” Mr. Lawrence whispered. “I admire your passion to champion this cause.” The look in his eyes was encouraging.
“I’d like to do more than that,” she said. She didn’t know where to start, but she was sure she could find out. Even if it meant speaking with Mr. DeWight. Her father seemed in favor of the work he planned.
“I’m sure. Your mother mentioned you’re a junior member of some of the charitable clubs across the city. You’ll be helping with the Tremaine fundraiser?”
“Yes,” Olivia replied, hesitant. “But it’s not all I intend to do. I—” Her words stuck in her throat at her father’s voice. Mr. Lawrence’s attention pulled away, his opinion needed on another matter. His glass raised in salute to match Mr. Davenport’s. Olivia found herself fixated on the patch of skin on her father’s wrist. From underneath the sleeve of his outstretched arm, the smooth and uneven texture of the scar peeked out at the hem.
A burn to hide a brand.
Olivia remembered, as a young child, the way a white investor had looked at it one afternoon she and her mother visited him at the garage. Her father had rolled up his shirtsleeves to assist one of the mechanics. And although his arms and hands were riddled with scars, there was one that gave this white investor pause. The one that made some people cringe while others grinned. She didn’t understand the stares then, their morbid curiosity. Now her father’s mention of the Springfield Massacre, the lynching reported only in The Defender, and the threat of restrictions disguised as laws made her worried for every person she knew. She was glad to be sitting, a sudden light-headedness making her weak. Her pulse pounded to an unfamiliar beat.
Washington DeWight was ringing the warning bell.
“Is everything all right, Olivia darling?” Mrs. Davenport asked quietly. She held Olivia’s wrist, steadying her full glass. Her tone was not lost on her daughter. Nor the fact that she had missed when her mother left her seat and came to stand at her side. Olivia pushed away thoughts of the lawyer and his call to aid, and everything his presence meant. The warning underneath her mother’s question refocused her attention.
“Of course, Mama,” she said. “Everything is perfect.” Olivia finally took a sip of her wine, hoping it would quiet the thoughts of dread growing louder in her head.
CHAPTER 17
Helen
The big clock echoed with a force strong enough to rattle Helen’s nerves. Each tick of the second hand brought her closer to a breaking point. The matron hired by her mother to refine her manners turned out to be a humorless woman who insisted every occasion be treated as if they hosted the Queen of England for tea. Lemon and the sugary scent of cake cloyed at her senses.
Every waking moment was carefully scheduled. Her music lessons continued, but everything else was endured under the watchful eye of her tutor. Today, she and Mrs. Milford sat at the corner table at Marshall Field’s crowded tearoom. Helen’s back was to the wall, where she could see other gentlewomen pick at their food, their packages herded around their ankles. They hid their laughs behind napkins and flipped flaxen and raven curls from their faces. She sipped more tea than she’d care to drink and realized that if she did everything right, she had a life of absolute boredom ahead of her.
Helen tugged at the bodice of her dress, hoping to get a gasp of air into her lungs and make room for the plate of macaroons before her. Mrs. Milford always knew when Helen wasn’t wearing a corset, and would devise some torturous punishment like embroidery to remind her of the importance of proper attire. Marshall Field’s latest fashions were all any of the girls her age talked about. Those and a catalog from a place called Bloomingdale’s in New York City. None of the newer styles required a corset. Helen eyed her chaperone.
“Shoulders back, Miss Davenport,” said Mrs. Milford, gesturing to the pot between them. As Helen refilled their cups, her companion said, “You don’t have many friends your age, do you?”
Helen’s stomach made an odd lurch. “I don’t share many things in common with girls my age,” she replied.
She wondered if things would have been different if she hadn’t fallen in love with the weight of the wrench in her hand, the smell of oil, the feeling of accomplishment after building something with her own hands. Olivia called it soreness, that ache in Helen’s muscles after crawling out from under a carriage or automobile. Helen didn’t know how to describe it, but she knew no new dress or party could make her so happy. Her heart had sunk when she’d caught sight of John and the others walking to the garage as the carriage took her away this morning.