The Davenports(79)
“Yes, dear, I know.” Mrs. Tremaine sniffed at the red dress. “I must say, he’s been hot and cold, but grew much more attentive after Barton’s interest.”
“Actually, this is about him too.” This is it. Ruby took a breath. “Harrison Barton and I have grown close. It wasn’t part of my plan, I know—”
“Ruby, you are a very pretty and charming young lady.” Her mother tugged at the bodice of the dress. “You’ll just have to let Mr. Barton down gently. I’m sure he’ll find a girl to settle down with. Girls like you deserve the best. Your father and I won’t have it any other way.” Ruby’s feelings for Harrison Barton sat on her tongue, which had turned to dry rope in her mouth. Her parents wouldn’t have it?
Panic rose in her chest. Surely they knew how much happier she had been with Mr. Barton. Olivia had called it obvious in the way they looked at each other. Ruby stared at her mother in shock. What would become of her if she refused to marry John? Her stomach clenched. It seemed clear by this excursion they no longer needed the influx of capital from the Davenports’ business to fund the campaign. But the Davenport name had wider recognition than the Barton one. The crest was emblazoned on luxury carriages across the city and country. The Davenports moved in and out of many different social circles and wielded more influence bought by the company’s success. The women at her parents’ party so many weeks ago were right. Her father would need the white vote to win.
Mrs. Tremaine pouted at the red dress on the mannequin. “Try it on. I’m curious.”
Ruby watched her mother walk away and numbly reached for the dress, shame settling beneath the stone hanging around her neck. She touched it then, and remembered how lost she had felt without it. Maybe her instincts had been right. This place—it wasn’t the right time.
Later, I’ll tell Mother and Papa together. Tonight.
Ruby threw the red dress over her arm and made her way back to the dressing room.
CHAPTER 35
Olivia
Thirty minutes after retiring to her room, Olivia picked up her shoes and tiptoed down the servants’ stairs. The house creaked restlessly as she made her way through the house. She had claimed a headache again before dinner and silently paced around her room, listening to the clock ticking above the mantel of her fireplace until it was time. She’d reread the letter Hetty delivered to her that morning from Washington DeWight. She’d pressed it to her chest and tried to quell the lightning crackling over her nerves. It smelled of his cologne and tobacco and fresh ink. She imagined him writing it in a crowded corner of the café.
After that, it was easy to pretend to be ill. All she could think of was how she was going to get away.
As she gathered her belongings to leave the sitting room that joined her room with Helen’s, her sister walked in. Olivia took in Helen’s grease-smudged face and sighed. “If Daddy finds you, Mrs. Milford will be the least of your problems.”
“You’re one to talk,” Helen teased, pulling the bandanna from around her head. “Why are you always heading into town with the staff and returning with no packages?” Olivia crossed her arms over her chest. “Fine, don’t tell me. I just need you to keep this”—Helen gestured to her clothes—“to yourself. Just until after John meets with Daddy again to talk about our plans to manufacture horseless carriages of our own.”
The desire to obey their family and to be part of something bigger than themselves was the unlikely foundation of this truce between sisters.
Olivia’s thoughts turned to the women who had shared their lives with her. They recounted the harsh working conditions of the sweatshops and the paltry pay they received. Others shared news from the Southern states. They arrived on trains by the dozens each day, traumatized, hungry, and looking to start fresh.
She couldn’t help thinking of how her father must have looked decades ago still healing from the wounds on his back and the horrors of the plantation. He had a skill, a keen eye, a desire to work. A determination to not only survive, but to thrive. Not until she saw the faces of the migrants, witnessed their fear and confusion for herself, did she realize the sheer amount of hardship he had had to overcome once he’d made it here. Her heart ached for a young William Davenport.
She wished she could express all of this to Helen. Keeping her work secret weighed on her, but it was safest this way. She reminded herself that she wouldn’t have to hide it forever. And neither should Helen.
“Fine,” Olivia said now, mirroring Helen’s earlier tone. “I won’t tell anyone you’re working on John’s automobile. For now. But the two of you better come up with a better way. I can help. If you’ll let me.”
Helen threw her arms around Olivia’s neck. “Thanks, Livy.” She held her sister tight.
“You smell,” Olivia said. Helen held her tighter and laughed.
* * *
—
The warmth of that hug still clung to Olivia as she stepped off the streetcar at the busy intersection to meet Washington DeWight.
She spotted him immediately. His face was turned up toward the setting sun, his hat hanging precariously on his head. The restaurant behind him was a flurry of activity. Tables spilled out onto the sidewalk, filled with diners. The smell was intoxicating. Her stomach reminded her of the skipped meal that made this rendezvous possible. She removed her hand from her angry abdomen as she approached, and tapped his shoulder.