The Davenports(87)

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Helen gave Olivia a subtle nod, her signal that their parents were too deep into a conversation with the pastor and his wife to notice her slip away from the church. Thanks to her sister—and, Olivia suspected, her tutor—a note had made its way from Olivia to Mr. DeWight yesterday to meet her after the service.

While her family exchanged pleasantries and news with the congregation, she walked the few blocks to the apartment building where Mr. DeWight rented a room. It was a simple brick building, lacking a doorman or any of the amenities she was accustomed to. It served a purpose, he said, when they walked past it a few weeks ago. She stared at the listing next to the door and was lucky that someone exited so she could slip past the tall wrought-iron gate. Olivia climbed up the three flights of stairs, cursing under her breath at the way her church shoes pinched her toes.

The door to his apartment was at the top of the third landing. Olivia stared at the large 3A mounted at eye level. She paused with her fist inches from its surface. What she was doing had consequences. Not just for her, but Helen, her family’s reputation. It was one thing to daydream about running away with a handsome young gentleman lawyer and an entirely different thing to enter his apartments. It will be much worse once you board that train, she scolded herself. Her mind was made up.

Her rap on the door went unanswered. Olivia stepped back to check the number on the door. This was the correct address. “Washington,” she called. Still no answer. Dread began to pool in her stomach. Olivia glanced over her shoulder, and with a shaking hand, turned the knob. The door gave easily, though it screamed the whole way open.

It was one room. A narrow bed was pushed up against the longest wall. A chair and desk nestled opposite it, and immediately to her right was a small kitchenette, barely enough to prepare the essentials. He said he lived simply, but this was beyond what she expected. She stood in the room, smaller than her sitting room, and grasped for what to do next. She couldn’t look for him. There was nowhere to look.

Her palms prickled. She removed her gloves before her damp hands could soak into the silk. Panic began to set in. Washington DeWight lived here. It smelled like him. Olivia threw open the wardrobe. Empty. The cabinets in the kitchenette empty. Had he left without her? Spots began to crowd her vision. Olivia tried to slow her breathing, but her nose stung with the threat of tears. Did I miss my chance?

Her next breath caught in her throat, she coughed, and the breath after was filled with a whiff of pine so strong, it made her look up.

“Olivia, are you okay?” Mr. DeWight stood in the doorway.

She stared at him. “I thought you’d left without me.”

“I would never leave without saying goodbye,” he said, crossing the room to her.

“Then where are all your things?”

“Reverend Andrews offered me the room in his attic until I leave for Philadelphia. The previous occupant moved out. I’m just returning the key,” he said, placing it next to the stove.

Relief hit her as swiftly and forcefully as the panic. He pulled her close. His arms wrapped around her and every muscle in Olivia melted into him. She felt his smile on her forehead when he kissed it, his skin fresh and smooth from a shave. “Does this mean you’ve decided?”

Olivia focused on a knot in the wood floor, with the full knowledge of her inadequacy from her place of privilege. “That night I came to see you at Samson House I missed your speech, but I did listen.” Olivia shook her head. “I listened to people speak of their greatest tragedies without an ounce of surprise or anguish. It was spoken as a matter of fact.”

She looked up into his honey-colored eyes and said, “Yes, I want to go with you.”

Mr. DeWight lifted a hand to stroke the sensitive hollow of her neck where her pulse jumped in response. He took both her hands, and she inhaled. Coffee, pine, and the warmth of his skin. She was drunk on the smell of him, stronger than any champagne cocktail.

“It’s a difficult life,” he said. “The risk of injury or imprisonment—or worse—is always present. The accommodations are unpredictable. And there’s a lot of heartache mixed in with the wins. That rally . . . it was nothing compared to what I’ve seen. I want you to be sure.”

His words, though true, had the opposite of the intended effect on Olivia. She didn’t crave danger, but the thought of doing nothing . . .

“I’m sure.”

He hesitated a moment before kissing her. The kiss started slow, but Olivia was greedy. She pushed onto her toes and arched her back until they fit together like two pieces of a puzzle. She sighed and his tongue slipped into her mouth, skimming the tender underside of her lip. The kiss deepened and she pulled him even closer. The taste of him made her head spin. Olivia broke away, stepping back and gasping for air. Her skin felt tight and clammy.

“Maybe we should slow down,” he rasped.

Olivia placed her hand on his chest. “Like your heart.” His raced beneath her palm as if challenging hers to keep pace. He watched her with half-closed eyes while she took in the liquified depths of them, the shape of his lips, and the high cheekbones that framed every smile. He was beautiful. She ached to have his lips on hers again. He shuddered as she kissed along his jaw. Her hands pushed his jacket off his shoulders. It fell to the floor with a soft thud. When their lips met again, Olivia’s body hummed with anticipation. She didn’t want to slow down. And even if she did, she wasn’t sure if she could.