The Davenports(65)

Helen swallowed around the lump in her throat. “Downtown.”



* * *



—

She stood on the front steps of the Field Museum in Jackson Park. Its colonnaded edifice loomed before her. The ride over was torture. Jacob was within her reach, but Helen had never felt so far from another person. She ached with a poison mix of regret and longing. His attempts at small talk made an unwanted interaction even more awkward, especially with her chaperone sitting sentinel between them. Thankfully, once they arrived at the museum Mrs. Milford retreated a discreet distance.

“Shall we go in?” he asked.

“Yes.” Helen stepped, then turned. “Actually, not yet. You’re right, we should talk.” She sat on the stone steps and gazed out to the lakefront. Jacob sat beside her, stretching out one leg and propping an elbow on his bent knee. When she looked back at the entrance, Mrs. Milford was nowhere in sight. She took a deep breath—a mistake, as she filled her lungs with the smell of Mr. Lawrence’s cologne or soap. Cedar and spiced wine? She didn’t care, it was as unique as him.

“I’m sorry,” she said. She forced her eyes up and studied his face. There may never be another chance to look at him so openly. His strong jaw and neatly trimmed mustache. Helen tried her best to push away the memory of how his mouth felt against hers, the way their bodies had fit. Because it could only be just that. A memory. On the car ride over, Helen realized that it was more than her future happiness that hung in the balance. And although Olivia seemed to have cold feet, this arrangement, this understanding, was something her sister wanted. And it was something Mr. Lawrence had agreed to after their own encounter.

His attention moved from Helen’s clasped hands to her face. He wore an expression she’d never seen before. It pinned her to the step. “I’m not,” he said. “Sorry, that is.” They sat close, but not too close. It made her want to shrink the distance between them, regardless of who would see. Her skin tingled as the scene in the library replayed in her mind. She relived every sigh and touch. Before her, his lips parted as his gaze fell to hers. He took deep breaths and she swore she saw her own wants reflected in his eyes.

But what about Olivia?

She watched his fingers intertwine with hers, felt the gentle firmness of his hands. She replayed her sister’s behavior in her head. Olivia hadn’t looked excited at all about the possibility of marriage now. In fact, she’d looked a lot like Helen did when Mrs. Milford first arrived.

Doubt twitched in Helen’s gut. It would be in poor taste for him to swap one sister for another. Bad form for Helen, shameful for Olivia . . . possibly resigning her to spinsterhood.

Unless . . . Olivia walked away from him first. But that would never happen, right?

“If you’re not sorry, then . . .” Helen paused. “I—don’t understand.” She didn’t connect how he could be one way with her, but still appear to court Olivia.

“I do wish things were different. And they will be soon. All I can say is, I gave her my word and this pain we’re feeling now . . . I believe it will pass.”

Helen looked away. She wanted to believe it more than she could say. She wanted to trust him, that there was some reason he and Olivia welcomed the speculation on their relationship. Why was this not covered in the etiquette guides?

“Shall we?” Mr. Lawrence stood and helped Helen to her feet.

“Yes.” She slipped her arm through his, afraid to hope, but willing to take a chance.





CHAPTER 29


    Amy-Rose



“Did you get any sleep, child?” Jessie lifted a pan from the suds overflowing from the sink. The Davenports’ lunch was nearly ready to be served and she was set on putting her kitchen back to rights and prepping for the next meal.

“I got enough,” said Amy-Rose. She’d tossed and turned for the better part of an hour. When she couldn’t sleep, she’d tried to work on designs for her store. She needed a label to set her apart from the other ladies selling hair-growth formulas and treatments. She’d glanced over partially conceived designs, trying not to dwell on the embarrassing scene at the party that had forced her to hide in the kitchen. She’d stopped when she noticed there were more tears on the pages than ink. She just didn’t know where she fit. How could she continue to walk these halls after last night? She’d need to move on from Freeport faster than she’d planned.

Idiot. How could you think there was any version of the future where you belonged on the arm of John Davenport?

Luckily, Jessie had kept her busy for the better part of the day. Focused on her regular chores and those she offered to complete for Hetty, Amy-Rose could temporarily forget what had happened. The linens were freshly laundered. The silver polished. The wood oiled. Helen had surprised her, sitting still for the first time in ages as she redid her hair. Neither had spoken. The procedure was painless, but free of their usual gossip. Then there was Olivia, who had surprised her with an apology and a promise. Before long, Amy-Rose had moved on to the next item on the list. She’d continued to forget. Before it all came hurtling back like a blow.

“I think that’s enough chopping for you.” Jessie pulled the knife from Amy-Rose’s hands now and moved the diced carrots to a bowl. “Don’t want to serve one of your fingertips in tonight’s stew.”