The Davenports(45)

Leave now, or not all.

She closed her door slowly, careful to muffle every sound. It was easy slipping out the side door, creeping into the garage. Her father had shown each of his children how to saddle, ride, and hitch a horse to one of the simple buggies, for which she was grateful. By the time Hetty arrived, the small open carriage the staff often took into town was ready.

They arrived at Samson House in barely any time at all. Olivia guided the horse to the alley and tied it to a lamppost. Like before, people of all walks of life climbed the steps, crossed the tilted front porch, and entered the nondescript building.

Hetty turned to her. “Miss Olivia, I agreed to come here with you, but if your father ever found out . . .”

“Hetty, I assure you, he would be angry with me.” But Olivia didn’t miss Hetty’s look of unease as the two of them entered the house.

The hum from below was louder than she remembered. In her hurry to make it on time and unseen, Olivia had left the house without a hat or gloves. No purse . . . just the simple day dress she wore while making the final preparations for the ball. She had nothing to disguise her or shield her from prying eyes. But there was also nothing about her that marked her as a Davenport. The suffragist Mrs. Woodard had been discreet after Olivia’s first night after all.

She melted into the crowd, and though her clothes were of finer quality, she found herself more comfortable than on her first visit, especially with Hetty’s familiar face at her side. She felt grounded and eager.

“This way,” Hetty said. Olivia obeyed, following her reluctant companion to where a group of women stood. Hetty hugged them. She turned to allow Olivia to join the circle. “This is—”

“My name is Olivia,” she said, before Hetty could offer more.

Hetty’s eyes widened slightly. Her smile stayed where it was. “Yes, this is Olivia.”

“How nice,” said the closest woman. A shock of white hair flared from her dark temples and tucked neatly in a bun. “How do you know each other?”

“From work,” Hetty said.

Olivia nodded and tried not to fidget under their curious stares. She listened as they made their introductions and spoke their reasons for joining the Cause. When an older woman recounted the abduction and murder of her husband, Olivia wanted to cry, and then became lost in thoughts of What if? How many random events had needed to take place for her parents to meet and succeed, for her to be where she stood? She always knew how fortunate she was and enjoyed the work she did, but now more than ever, she wondered what else she had to offer.

“Miss,” said Hetty.

Olivia cringed. The small word did not escape the others’ notice.

“Do you mind if I meet my cousin over there?” Hetty pointed to a young man, older than John, a few feet away. “You’re welcome to join us.”

Olivia shook her head. She needed to find Washington. “Hetty, when we’re . . . here,” she said quietly, “you can call me Olivia. Actually, I would prefer it.” When the dubious frown returned to Hetty’s face, Olivia added, “I’ll be fine right here.”

She watched her companion move toward the young man and hug him, and then she took in the room around her. It was filled to bursting. The attendees glanced around them furtively. The snatches of conversation that floated around warned of increased violence, fear that laws against interracial relationships would spread like the Jim Crow laws.

“. . . they’re rounding men up at night like cattle . . .”

“. . . My sister says she has to walk home to relieve herself. There’s no restrooms for the colored girls in the factory . . .”

“. . . They’ve fled north. New York, he said . . . their marriage put a target on their backs. Just the other night, bricks were thrown through all their windows . . .”

There was optimism too. More than one person mentioned Mr. Tremaine and the efforts of former abolitionists working in his favor.

Then she heard a familiar voice. Warm and rich with Southern cadences.

She squeezed between patrons until she saw his face. Washington DeWight wasn’t wearing a hat, and the shadow of a beard had begun to show along his jawline. Though he looked tired and a bit rumpled, his eyes shone with an enthusiasm that drew her in. Olivia couldn’t deny the magnetic effect he had on the people gathered around him. He was jotting something down in a notebook, stuffed to bursting with brightly colored flyers and cards, some of which dropped like falling leaves to the floor where he stood.

Olivia knew the exact moment he spotted her. His eyes widened.

The gentleman to his left repeated his name. Mr. DeWight thanked him for coming and separated himself from the group.

Olivia couldn’t help the smugness creeping into her face. She’d made it. Late, but she was there. Her smile faltered as his grew. Why does he look like the one who’s won?

“You missed my speech,” he said. “Or perhaps you got lost again. The salons are closed at this hour.” He pulled a timepiece from his coat pocket and feigned amazement. “I’m surprised to see you,” he said, and before she could respond, continued: “Did you have to pay one of your servants to get you here?”

“No.” She noticed the crowd around them breaking up into smaller groups. “I snuck out of the house, but I didn’t come alone. Unlike you, I can’t go and come as I please. I have other commitments, however trite you may find them.” She thought about her plan, but doubt crept in. She had lied her way here. She had concealed her last name. And she had placed Hetty in an uncomfortable position. She scanned the room and found her reluctant companion deep in conversation with another young woman. Does Hetty need compensation? Olivia wondered if she should have asked Hetty to bring her here in the first place. It wasn’t like she didn’t know the way here herself.