The Davenports(61)

Olivia stood up from the vanity. She thought to place her hand on Amy-Rose’s shoulder, but changed her mind, curling her arm back. In her rush to grow up, she’d left her friend behind. “You wished we’d always be friends. I did too. I’m sorry I forgot that.”

“I remembered for both of us.” The tension in Amy-Rose’s forehead weakened as did the knot in Olivia’s stomach.

“I promise to do better, to be a better friend going forward,” said Olivia, returning Amy-Rose’s small smile. And though she hesitated before, she didn’t now. She grasped Amy-Rose’s hand and pulled her into fierce hug.



* * *



—

Lunch was served on the patio outside. It was a mild afternoon for mid-May. A linen tent from the party provided much-needed shade. Jacob Lawrence and Mr. Davenport seemed at ease together, her father’s legs stretched out between them. Mr. Lawrence always said all the right things. He made her parents laugh. She believed she could paint an accurate picture of what her life with him would be like: one filled with opportunity and luxury few enjoyed. She would be content. Would he? If she was being truthful, there was a sadness that had crept into his eyes despite his smile and playful banter. Olivia couldn’t put her finger on what felt amiss, but something had happened.

Mr. Davenport absentmindedly dug his cane into the ground, disturbing the manicured lawn. Her mother sat opposite her.

“I’d say last night was a success, wouldn’t you, Emmie?” Mr. Davenport reached for his wife’s hand. Their fingers interlocked and the look they shared made Olivia blush. It was moments like this that made the promise of marriage worth the pressure to make a good match. Her father turned with mischief in his eyes. “When can we expect a proposal?”

Olivia gasped and saw Mr. Lawrence freeze.

“Come now, children, why prolong the inevitable?” he said.

Mr. Lawrence cleared his throat. The wicker chair beneath him creaked with his shifting weight. Olivia stared openly at her parents, her breaths shallow. Surely, they were joking.

Mrs. Davenport squealed and pressed a hand to her cheek. Olivia wasn’t sure she’d ever heard her mother make such a sound. “We could have it here, William,” she said. “Might I suggest late summer? We can commission an arbor or gazebo for the ceremony. The blazing star and butterfly weed will be in bloom and the reception in the ballroom . . .” Her words were lost to the buzzing in Olivia’s ears. Inevitable, like she had no choice, no say.

Mr. Davenport straightened in his seat. “We’ll have to find you both a suitable place to live. You’re welcome to stay here, but a young couple needs privacy.”

“And we want grandchildren!” her mother chimed in. Olivia endured her glances with as much grace as she could manage. Her brief conversation with Amy-Rose had left her feeling lighter, but the aftereffects of the champagne, and her conversation with Ruby, lingered. The hardest thing we can do is to decide what we want, she’d said.

Olivia’s face burned. Mr. Lawrence laughed nervously beside her. She felt as tense as her horse Chestnut before Olivia goaded her over a hedge. She was outdoors, but Olivia felt like walls were pressing in around her. Or maybe it was her skin, stretched too tight. For the first time, she felt the unfairness Helen swore was laced through the expectations of being a young woman. Olivia’s jaw clenched beneath her smile and her blood boiled. How can they discuss my future like this? Her parents’ voices faded to a buzzing in her ears.

As if he sensed her mounting distress, Jacob Lawrence reached for her hand and squeezed it. His gentle pressure kickstarted her breathing. Light-headed from the sudden rush of air, Olivia withdrew her hand and placed it on her cold, damp cheek.

“Olivia dear, you will make a wonderful bride,” said Mrs. Davenport, misty-eyed. “Don’t you think so, Mr. Lawrence?”

“No one would be able to take their eyes off you.” His gaze seemed to skip over her, even as he said the words.

Olivia stood. Her chair tipped back behind her. Mr. Lawrence caught it easily and placed his hand at the small of her back. She realized then what was amiss. When she danced with Jacob Lawrence, when he held her close—it was clear as day. Yes, she could grow to love him, but how long would that take? And what would that love look and feel like? There was no heat drawing her to Mr. Lawrence, no racing heartbeats to signal a deeper attachment. She enjoyed spending time with him. They could live happily together. Without passion. When did the butterflies stop fluttering? Olivia couldn’t remember. Her feelings for Mr. Lawrence were wrapped up in the happiness of her parents and her desire to please them and live up to the name they shared.

Ruby was right. He was handsome. But Olivia’s thoughts returned again to the young lawyer, and the future that awaited her if she continued on the path already set before her.

This is wrong, she thought. Mr. Lawrence doesn’t love me. He doesn’t really know me, and we both deserve more. “Excuse me,” she said. Olivia picked up the napkin that had fallen from her lap and dropped it onto her chair. She crossed the patio, torn between entering the house or heading for the stables. Anywhere was better than at that table where her future was being planned without her input. Helen would have argued back, she thought. She stopped in a small copse of trees near the stables, ready to turn back, when she heard her name.

Mr. Lawrence approached slowly. He held his hands up near his shoulders like she was a deer that would bolt any second.