The Davenports(55)

Helen knew being surrounded by so many cheery people was making her mood worse.

Mrs. Milford frowned. “I trust you can find your way back.”

“Of course,” Helen said, and suppressed an eye roll. She walked in the direction of the closest powder room. As soon as her chaperone’s attention returned to the dancers, Helen raced to the library. The desk was set back, allowing her father, when seated, to gaze down the length of the room. Floor-to-ceiling shelves framed large windows above tufted benches. The two chairs that faced the desk were far less comfortable than the two that faced the fireplace on the opposite wall.

Hoping her tutor didn’t know the house, or her, well enough to know where to start looking, she took an atlas off the shelf and sat in a highbacked chair in front of the empty fireplace. She held the book to her chest and closed her eyes, savoring the way the heavy mahogany shelves and books absorbed the brunt of music and laughter. A moment of peace was all she wanted.

A knock at the door jolted her awake. Helen peered around the arm of her chair. Jacob Lawrence entered and closed the door behind him. She’d only just pushed him out of her mind. Now here he stood with his back pressed against the library’s door. He studied the shelves, taking in the spines of the leather-bound collections and carefully collected pieces of art that separated them. She ducked as low as she could manage, before cursing under her breath. There was no hiding the bright white gown her mother insisted she wear. Her own reflection had surprised her this afternoon once Amy-Rose had turned her to face her mirror, reviewing the importance of using dinner napkins and the clip to pin up the train.

“This is the perfect hiding space,” Jacob Lawrence said, covering the distance between them. He fell heavily into the other chair. Too close, she thought. Yet not close enough. If you had run off to the morning room, you could have shared the divan . . . Her skin burned like she was caught out in a blistering heat.

He used a hooked finger to undo the silk bow at his throat and popped open the top two buttons of his shirt. “I like a party, don’t get me wrong.” He gestured to the door. “That is a lot. When I saw you slip out, I knew you must have a secret hiding spot. How long until they find us?”

Helen stared at the base of his neck, at the delicate bone underneath the skin and at the way the knot in his throat bobbed as he spoke. Hardly scandalous, but then why couldn’t she look away?

“Helen?” He gently touched her shoulder.

“Uh,” she started, pulling his words from the fog in her mind. Think! “It depends on who they send to look. John would know where to find me and would lead them in the opposite direction.” Her smile dimmed. “Olivia will find me here eventually and bring me back.” She stared at the wall, picturing her sister floating across the dance floor and mingling with the guests. “She’s at home at these parties. She remembers people’s names. She asks about their families, their trips, even their ailing knees. Oh, and she loves dressing up.”

Jacob Lawrence angled his head toward her. “Then I guess we’re lucky to have found the best spot in the house to wait it out. And I seem to remember a long list of your attributes offered over a pair of cigarettes. Unfortunately, the landlord did have that switch repaired.”

His smile sent a delicious wave of gooseflesh across her skin. It also left her confused. Her feelings couldn’t be normal. How could he prefer to be here with her instead of with her sister?

“Look, you don’t have to entertain the homely sister,” she said. “You and Olivia are perfect for each other. She’ll be a great wife, like she is at everything else. She’s compassionate and beautiful. And—” Helen lost herself in her words. All she could think of were her own flaws. She saw every sharp edge Mama and Mrs. Milford attempted to soften and polish. And how each one would always be jagged next to her sister. There was no point in competing. Not in this. And she wanted her sister to be happy.

Helen’s chest hurt with each breath. She stood to create some space and pressed her forehead against the cool wood of the bookcase. Mr. Lawrence rose too, as if to follow, but stayed where he stood.

“Helen.” She turned slightly. He took a step forward, hesitated, reached out a hand to her. “May I?”

She nodded, and he stepped closer, brushing a tear from her nose. His fingers turned her face toward his. He looked at her, his eyes boring into hers. “You are beautiful,” he said.

He bent his face toward hers. His breath stirred her hair. He smelled of cedar and spiced wine, and faintly of cigarettes. She wondered what it would feel like to kiss him. He was so close. It was as if he was waiting for her to decide.

So, she did.

Helen pressed her lips against his. She had wanted to do this every day since that muddy afternoon. Mr. Lawrence’s reaction fueled her desire. He kissed her with the same passion she had desperately tried to hide. When she remembered why her feelings for him needed to remain secret, she faltered. The perfection of their stolen moment began to sour. As if he recalled the reason too, Mr. Lawrence pulled away.

Helen suddenly felt cold and off-balance. Pain replaced longing in his eyes. She felt the change like a blow. She retreated to the chair. And though Mr. Lawrence moved to comfort her, she knew it was the last thing she needed.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to the top of her head. She kept her focus on their feet, watching the way their edges blurred into the floor. “Olivia and I . . .” His voice cracked and Helen felt a fissure open in her heart. “I apologize. That shouldn’t have happened,” he said.