The Davenports(8)

“Good evening,” she said, hiding her nerves behind a casual tone.

John flinched in surprise and turned to her.

She placed a hand on his wrist. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“My mind was somewhere else.” John smiled, the full force of his gaze on her.

In a moment, she was transported back there: under the white oak trees that lined the Davenport property. Helen had challenged Ruby and Olivia to a race. Ruby’s horse had thrown her from the saddle and run off into the woods. Helen and Olivia were too far ahead to see what had happened, but their brother came running.

As John had inspected her ankle, Ruby could only think of how handsome he was. How much she wanted to kiss him. Before she could lose her nerve, she leaned in.

His body had stiffened, one of his hands still encircling her ankle. Then he softened and returned the gentle pressure of her lips. A violent fluttering had erupted in her chest. Ruby had risen onto her knees and closed the space between them. She’d shivered as his hands brushed the top of her shoulders, slid across her back, and settled at the nape of her neck, deepening their kiss.

When he’d finally pulled away, gasping for air, Ruby had almost fallen forward into his lap. His heart had thudded under her palm, and he’d smiled at her. Wordlessly, he had helped her to her feet and escorted her back to the house. It was their first kiss, and certainly not their last.

He stared at her lips now as if he was trapped in the same memory.

Ruby’s face warmed, and she took another step closer.

“Do you still ride?” John asked, practically reading her mind.

“Not as often as I’d like,” she replied, a smile on her lips. She did not mention that her family had sold all but two of their horses.

John took a small sip from his glass. “Weather permitting, we should arrange an afternoon ride for next week.”

Ruby kept her grin demure. “I’m sure we can find the shade of an oak tree when the sun is high.”

John’s eyes widened, but just when she finally had his full attention Amy-Rose suddenly appeared, holding a bottle filled with the amber liquid John was drinking.

“Thank you, Amy-Rose.” John extended his glass, the effects of their shared memory quickly vanishing. “And thank you for this afternoon. I know Helen can be a handful.”

“No trouble at all,” Amy-Rose said, casting her eyes downward. She was, as always, infuriatingly beautiful for a maid. Ruby had never seen a girl whose features, unadorned with jewels, gloss, or rouge, appeared so flawless up close.

Ruby stepped closer to John. Between him, the fire, and the look he was giving Amy-Rose, she felt a ribbon of sweat unfurl down her back. “Come. Let’s go someplace a little more private,” she said to John, eager to get their conversation back on track. She cut her eyes to Amy-Rose, who nodded and walked away.

Ruby needed to remind John of what they once were and what they still could be. And that would not happen if he was staring at the maid like that.



* * *



—

From outside, Ruby’s brick-faced home seemed empty, abandoned. Tremaine Mansion was nestled closer to the bustle of downtown Chicago. Ruby alighted the carriage in front of the grand entrance. She couldn’t help but think it looked like a haunted mansion compared to Freeport. It lacked the warmth of the Davenports’ home, and the family that breathed life into it.

Standing in her empty foyer, Ruby felt like a ghost, a specter who flitted silently in and out. She was glad for the darkness. It hid the changes that opened a hollow sadness in her—missing paintings, sold mementos, items that were, to her, priceless trinkets. The list was endless.

“Ruby, darling, is that you?”

She had nearly reached the landing of the staircase when her mother called from the dimly lit room down the hall. Her shoulders sagged. “Yes,” she replied quietly. Her stomach rolled as she dragged her feet across the hall where a plush Aubusson runner once warmed the corridor.

Mr. and Mrs. Tremaine sat on either side of a slowly dying fire, drinking sherry. Ruby came to a stop before them as if called to the mat for some transgression.

“How was your evening?” her mother asked.

Ruby stared at the embers glowing red in the firebox. “Lovely.” She tried not to fidget; her mother despised fidgeting.

“The Davenports are well?” she pressed. Ruby looked at her mother and saw what she would look like in twenty years. Even in the low light, she could make out her regal nose and full lips. Though her figure was fuller, Mrs. Tremaine could easily be mistaken for Ruby’s sister.

“Yes.”

Mr. Tremaine placed his crystal glass on the side table with a crash. “Enough pleasantries. Did you speak with John?” Her father turned in his chair and frowned at her. He was a tall man with a rounded belly. Ten years older than his wife, his hair showed a light dusting of white at his temples, but the sharp, piercing gleam of his eyes had not dimmed a bit.

“John and I shared a moment alone after dinner,” she began. “He and I lingered in the dining room when everyone else retired next door for coffee or brandy. We laughed about some of our adventures as children—”

“Ruby,” her mother said, “you’re rambling.” Mrs. Tremaine didn’t raise her voice, but there was something in her calm, composed tone that made the hairs on Ruby’s arms rise.