The Davenports(63)

“I’m glad I ran into you.” She glanced over her shoulder once more before leading him to a nearby tree.

“I didn’t think I’d see you so soon,” he said, flashing a smile.

“I was hoping to catch you”—Olivia pulled the journal out of her purse—“and give you this.”

Washington turned it over in his hands, surprise clear in his face. “Thank you,” he said, looking up at her.

Olivia tugged at her gloves, both giddy and nervous. “I want to join—the Cause. I can’t stand by and do nothing. Not knowing what I know. And realizing all that I still don’t.”

Mr. DeWight held her gift over his heart. “Thank you.”

She returned his smile, raising her chin high. She was glad to have met him. “What?” she said when she noticed his mouth screw to one side.

“What did it for you?”

Olivia shrugged. There was no chance she was going to tell him that she was growing bored of her routine, that she enjoyed the give and take of what she gleaned among the activists. Definitely not mentioning the stirrings she felt now.

He leaned in. “It was my dancing, wasn’t it?” he asked.

Olivia laughed and was rewarded with a look of joy on the young lawyer’s face. She smiled long after he continued on his way and Ruby returned with a sweet roll for each of them.





CHAPTER 28


    Helen



Mrs. Milford stood at the center of the Davenports’ ballroom, hand hovering over the handle of the phonograph. The music sounded tinny in the empty space, nothing like the live bands her parents usually hired for their parties. Without the presence of dozens of people, every step Helen took echoed. And each misstep resulted in her etiquette teacher making her start from the beginning.

Dancing with a partner was ideal. Though it was never her strong suit, a talented gentleman made the endeavor bearable. Alone, Helen stumbled over her own feet. She thought about how gracefully her sister and Ruby moved. She imagined Jacob’s arm around her.

And that was where that thought would stay—in her imagination. He and Olivia, it seemed, had an understanding. She was not quite sure what that meant except it made her parents immensely happy. And Helen miserable. She flinched.

Helen couldn’t think about him without the sting of the library scene replaying in her mind. She’d been so stupid. Behaved so poorly. Throwing herself at him! They were unchaperoned. Olivia had finally found someone after an unsuccessful round the previous year, and here Helen was. Ruining it. Guilt gnawed her insides. The thought of food turned her stomach. She’d skipped breakfast and sat in the garage, unable to focus on the work in front of her.

The record skipped. Distracted by a misery of her own making, she stepped out of her shoe. The pain was hot and sharp. It traveled halfway up her leg before she realized her mistake and fell to the floor. The throbbing in her ankle did nothing to dispel the memory of another time she had stumbled. Jacob Lawrence struggling to contain a laugh, both of them covered in mud. She didn’t know then that the stirrings she felt would lead to so much heartache.

“Oh! Miss Helen, stay where you are.” Mrs. Milford stopped the music.

“I’m fine,” Helen said. Her ankle felt warm under her hand, but the pain receded quickly. She kicked off her other shoe and remained sitting on the floor.

Mrs. Milford walked around her, hands on her hips. “Is this about Mr. Lawrence?”

Helen’s head snapped up. Mrs. Milford stared at her. Helen tried to hold the older woman’s gaze, but her shoulders deflated. It had been over a week since the stolen kiss in the library and she could think of little else.

Mrs. Milford rolled her eyes. The gesture made her look younger, a less stern version of herself. She sighed and slowly lowered herself to the floor. “I used to have the same look on my face when I met my Robert. I was younger than you. I didn’t have any family, living in a tenement with three formerly enslaved in Philadelphia.” She smiled and Helen noticed how it softened her features.

“Did you marry him? This was the pastor?”

“I did. We didn’t have much, but we were happy.” She pulled at the collar at her throat. Exposing the scars at her neck. When she caught Helen looking, she didn’t shy away. “They’re from a fire. My husband and I moved to Springfield just before the riots. I worked for a white family then, caring for their young daughter.” Mrs. Milford stared at a spot on the floor between them. “I could see the flames from miles off. The air was thick with smoke. Hot too. It burned my insides with every breath and stung my eyes.” She paused. Her face was as smooth as her voice. But the sadness in her eyes made Helen’s throat tight.

She looked at Helen then. “The whole block where we lived was engulfed. Onlookers told me he’d helped a family of three out of the apartment building before running in once more. I don’t even remember entering the complex. Or the gentleman who carried me out. All I could think of was my husband and how he was still inside. He didn’t come back out.”

Helen held her head in her hands, the pain in her ankle forgotten. “Mrs. Milford, I’m sorry.” She didn’t want to imagine the shock and deep wound of that loss, but she forced herself to sit with it. Her eyes stung. Helen sniffed and said, “And I was so awful when you arrived.”