The Davenports(47)

Olivia blinked back tears. She swallowed the lump in her throat. He still held her elbow, his thumb against the vulnerable flesh at the crook of her arm. She warmed under his touch. It was soothing, which confused her. Days ago, she would have sworn if they ever were to touch, it would be her slapping him for being forward. Now her face burned at the thought of her palm against his bare skin.

He pulled his hand away then and took a small step back. “What do you love to do?” he asked. “Something just for yourself.”

She thought back to the moments that she felt happiest and carefree. The wind whipping around her, excitement running through her veins, and no thought but staying seated. “Riding,” she said. She thought of the personalities of each of the horses in the stable. And how little time she spent riding since coming out last spring.

“Well, I just met this gentleman who owns a carriage company and seems to have an endless supply of horses on hand. I can make the introductions.”

“How kind of you.” Olivia laughed. Her breathing eased.

They continued walking. She could see her horse, Chestnut, that had taken her and Hetty here happily accepting apples from two children on the street.

“And does Jacob Lawrence enjoy riding?”

Olivia, rebounding from this last question, glared at him. It was a prying, improper thing to ask. She imagined he didn’t heed social niceties unless they suited him. “I don’t know,” she said.

“I heard things are moving quickly between you two.”

“They are.”

“Do you love him?”

“Love,” she gasped. Her horse waited several feet away. Activists trickled out of the meeting house and parted ways. Hetty slowed her pace when she spotted Mr. DeWight, giving them a wide birth as she climbed into the buggy.

Olivia knew the answer to this. It was the future planned and agreed upon the moment she was introduced into polite society, to which Washington DeWight was not a party. No one would ask such an impertinent question. But we’ve been honest so far. “We may not be there yet, but we have a similar background, share the same values. We enjoy the same things.”

“What are these things? Picnics in the parks and dancing at parties.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “They aren’t real.”

Olivia thought about Mr. Lawrence and their courtship. It was real. Their shared experience was real. “You know nothing about our relationship.”

For the first time ever, Mr. DeWight seemed at a loss for words. The struggle was clear in the furrow of his brow. “I’m just going to come right out and ask.”

“As if that isn’t what you’ve been doing all night?” Olivia laughed in disbelief. It was past time to go home. She should have left when he’d told her she’d missed his speech. She had to get out of here, heaven help her, or she would slap him before the night was out. She untethered the reins and coaxed Chestnut forward.

Mr. DeWight placed a hand on the horse’s neck. Olivia watched Chestnut nuzzle his shoulder. “Picture your future with him. Are you happy?”

“DeWight!” He glanced to the person calling for him.

He slowly backed up. His eyes stayed on hers, igniting her every nerve. “I can see it. You want passion. Purpose. You won’t find that with him.” He began walking away, turned, took two backward strides. “What does he really know about you?” he said. He flung out one arm as if to take in the whole South Side, Samson House. “Or you him?”





CHAPTER 21


    Helen



The wrench in Helen’s left hand shone like sterling, reflecting the light from the bare bulb above. She tried her best not to look at the clock at the end of the workbench. Or think about the hurt look on her sister’s face when she hadn’t wished to sift through her closet for a husband-snaring ensemble.

She thought of apologizing after dinner. She even went upstairs to see if Olivia wanted dessert. Helen was shocked to see her sister fully dressed and hurrying through the back stairwell to the kitchen used by the staff. Naturally, Helen followed. While her parents and Mr. Lawrence retired to the study, Olivia and Hetty left in a carriage. What could she be up to?

Whatever it was, Helen felt a lot less guilty about her own activities. She snuck out to the garage after dinner and began organizing and cleaning the small hand tools left around the automobile John had brought home so many weeks ago now. The mechanics rarely placed things where they belonged, and the task, though tedious, didn’t require much thought or effort on her part. It was soothing. She often wondered if this was how embroidery was supposed to feel.

Her hand was inches away from a set of clamps when the door behind her creaked open. With everyone out or preoccupied, she hadn’t thought to lock it. Helen held her breath. Her eyes closed, and she braced herself for the tap of her father’s cane and the words that would be her undoing.

“Help me, will you?” John nudged the door open with his foot. He had a tool bag on each shoulder and a stack of files a foot thick in his hands. She dropped the wrench and took the papers. “Put them over there,” he said, pointing to the wobbly table they used as a desk.

“What are these?”

“Davenport Carriage’s finances over the past decade. I figure the first thing Daddy will say when we try to pitch an automobile line, will be ‘How do you plan to pay for it?’ I have some reading to catch up on. So do you.”