The Davenports(36)

“Oh, I doubt that’s true,” Mrs. Milford said. “You think you’re the only girl whose interests lay outside the domestic realm?”

Helen bit the inside of her cheek and gazed around the room. Do they all have passions they keep hidden? She remembered her sister. “Olivia used to ride,” Helen said. “She could coax even the most stubborn of horses over hurdles or onto a carriage hitch. She loved riding.”

Mrs. Milford brought her cup to her lips. “I’m curious to know how she handled the adjustment. I take it she doesn’t ride like she used to.” Her raised eyebrow was a kind of challenge. And she was right. Helen didn’t often think of how Olivia might have imagined her future, only how well she carried the expectations placed on her.

Helen turned to the older woman. “Why did you take this position? To teach me?”

Mrs. Milford studied Helen’s face as if she were imagining someone else sitting across the table. There was a small shift in the firm set of her shoulders. “Maybe this is enough for today?” She called for the waitress.

It was just as well. The tea had grown cold.



* * *



—

Helen grabbed her hat and a parasol, using the kitchen entrance as her means of escape. After a painful half an hour at the piano, Mrs. Milford had given up and dismissed the instructor. “Don’t go far. Amuse yourself and return at three o’clock,” she said. Helen was only too happy to oblige.

The noise from the garage tempted her more than anything. She had snuck out late last night to check the progress on the Model T. Have they noticed the changes I made yet? She heard Malcolm and Isaac, the architect-turned-mechanic, talking. Helen weighed the odds that her father wouldn’t find out. She breathed around a tightness in her chest that she couldn’t blame on her undergarments, and headed toward the drive instead, undecided about her next move.

A black-and-red Davenport buggy turned onto the Freeport drive just then. Helen froze. Who is coming up the drive? She had a panicked feeling it was her mother and Mrs. Johnson in the latter’s family carriage. Her mother would expect her to be with Mrs. Milford, or studying in her room—not skulking around the grounds and garage. She moved toward the porch, but it was too late to run back inside. Her feet were rooted to the steps, her hat still clutched in her hand. Helen tucked flyaway curls under her hat with hands slick with sweat. She cursed herself for not ducking into the garage when she had the chance.

As the carriage drew closer, Helen realized it was not her mother. The top of Mr. Lawrence’s head was the first thing she saw. It struck her as odd that she had recognized it.

The horse halted at the bottom of the stairs. Jacob Lawrence stepped down and his eyes found hers immediately. He walked up the stairs, stopping a few risers below her so they met eye to eye. It reminded her of the way he stood in front of her in the Tremaines’ garden the night of their party.

“Miss Davenport, I had hoped to call on your sister this afternoon,” he said, smoothing down the corners of his mustache.

Helen took a deep breath, still recovering from her small panic. “Olivia is not here. She’s out with Ruby. They should be back before dinner.”

He nodded and stuffed his hands in his pocket. “Well, I’ll be off then. You’ll tell her I came by?”

Helen looked at the great gate at the end of the drive and then back at the house.

“Miss Davenport?”

Helen bristled at his tone, but decided to use it to her advantage. “I will. If you help me.”

Mr. Lawrence removed his hat and bowed. “How may I be of service?”

She tapped her chin and pretended to think hard. “There is a damsel in great need of rescuing.”

“Am I to assume you’re the damsel?”

“Of course not, squire. We are going to rescue her.” Helen waited.

Mr. Lawrence stepped closer and dropped his voice low. “Is it a dragon, or a sorcerer, that has our damsel?”

“Yes,” Helen said. A laugh escaped her lips.

He raised an eyebrow at this answer, a smile tugging at his full mouth. “In that case, best not keep her waiting.” His palm opened between them. “Where is their lair?” he whispered.

With one final glance at Freeport Manor, Helen grasped his fingers and climbed into the carriage. “There’s a bookstore in town. I’m sure we can find her somewhere in there. I can direct you.”

Riding beside Mr. Lawrence in a buggy made by her father’s company felt like an illicit act. She ran her hand over the plush seat. “Where did you get this?”

“Your father was kind enough to let me use one. Perhaps he knew it was destined for great things.”

Helen laughed. She was thrilled to have escaped the house, but equally appalled that she’d fled beside the man who was wooing her sister. The tree-lined drive of Freeport Manor disappeared behind them. The neighborhood gave way to louder, crowded traffic broken up by patches of green.

“Thank you,” Helen said. “I had to get out of the house.”

“Is it haunted?”

Helen’s brows knit together. “No, of course not.”

“You looked like you’d seen a ghost.” He smiled. “Are you sure you’re not the damsel? Is this a test?”

Helen smacked his leg with her parasol. “I am no damsel!” She fought the urge to cross her arms like a child. Mr. Lawrence was the same age as John and the other young men who worked in the garage. She was surprised at how comfortable she felt around him. Most of her interactions with men revolved around carriages or automobiles. Not her plight against conformity.