The Davenports(9)
“He invited me to go riding.” She took a step closer to them.
“When?” Mr. Tremaine’s voice was loud in the quiet, and made both his wife and daughter flinch.
Ruby looked between her parents, realizing that she had played this all wrong. She should have said she was still priming John to ask her the question they so dearly wanted. “We . . . haven’t decided on an exact date.”
Her mother’s mouth puckered into a tight bow.
Mr. Tremaine slapped his knee and shot up from his chair. “I had intended to announce your engagement to John Davenport at the party this Friday.”
Ruby sucked in a breath. How could he plan an announcement before a proposal?
“Darling.” Her mother stood and took Ruby’s hand, her face softening ever so slightly. “John is a good man, from a wonderful family. Your marriage to him could save this family. Together, the Tremaines and Davenports can be the example of what’s possible here. I do hope you are trying.” Her tone was supportive and yet her fingers were tight around Ruby’s hand.
“I am, Mother,” Ruby said, keeping her voice controlled and stepping out of her mother’s reach. How could she even ask Ruby that? Ruby had been trying with every modest smile and well-timed laugh, with every arch of her eyebrow or accidental run-in on the estate grounds. How could she explain to her parents that perhaps no matter how hard she tried, it may not work out the way they’d planned? No one asked her if she wanted to be the face of Black progress. They were gambling what they had—her future and their own—to convince a city full of people that the Tremaine family’s success could be easily replicated.
With her heart in her stomach, Ruby left the room, wondering who wanted her engagement more.
CHAPTER 5
Olivia
“Make sure you bring this right inside.”
“Yes, Mama.” Olivia’s arms ached from the weight of the basket she held. Her mother had arranged the muffins for the soup kitchen on the South Side.
Mrs. Davenport added two more muffins to the basket. “It’s important to help those with less, Olivia. Your father and I wouldn’t be where we are today without help along the way.”
Olivia straightened. “I know.” It was a beautiful afternoon, perfect for walking by the lake or a ride in an open carriage. Then her mother had asked her to make this trip downtown. Technically it was Helen’s turn, but she’d disappeared some time before breakfast. Olivia was more than a little annoyed, though she chided herself for the feeling. Of course her mother could depend on her.
“I’ll see that these get to the volunteers.”
Emmeline Davenport pressed her hand to Olivia’s cheek. It was all the encouragement she needed. The basket bounced off her hip as she left the kitchen for the stables. Just outside the door, Tommy was readying the horses.
“Miss,” he said, taking the basket and offering her a hand into the horses-drawn carriage. She settled into the soft leather with the basket beside her. Freeport Manor disappeared between the trees.
In the city, restaurants and shops blurred by. Soon they were on South Street’s scaled-down version of State Street, full of boutiques, markets, and Black-owned businesses, including salons, law firms, and a hospital. Before Amy-Rose began styling the Davenports’ hair, Emmeline and her daughters made a day of shopping and visiting the salon. Olivia had never seen so many people who looked like her in one place. Some were formerly enslaved people like her father. Others were born free back east like her mother. All were hoping to build a new life in a city that offered opportunities to remake oneself. Here, music seemed to be the dominant sound as brassy jazz permeated the air like fresh baked bread. Men traded information outside the barbershop as they got their shoes shined, and mothers held their children close. It excited her and, if she was being honest, made her nervous, all at the same time.
Olivia stepped out of the carriage with the basket in hand. “I’ll drop these off and be right back,” she said to Tommy over her shoulder.
Visiting the community center was always humbling. She knew her life was much different from those of the people who lined up for canned goods or a hot meal.
“Miss Olivia, nice to see you again.” Mary Booker organized the clothing and food drives and oversaw the soup kitchen.
“Hello, Miss Mary.” Olivia placed the basket on the table behind the buffet.
Mary leaned over her shoulder, her hands buried in an apron. “I bet those taste as good as they smell. Thank your mother for us.”
“Of course.” Happy to be rid of her small load, Olivia took in the room. The walls were unadorned, and empty chairs sat under many of the tables. She remembered how vibrant the room had been for the Easter celebration three weeks ago. The room was far less crowded than usual. “Am I late or early?” she asked.
“Neither. Everyone has someplace better to be, it seems.” As Mary spoke, a young man brought his tray to the table and hurried out the door.
Olivia said goodbye and told Mary that her sister would retrieve the basket next week.
On her way out, she spotted a group of Black men and women about her age. They whispered in a corner, laughing nervously. Curiosity gnawed at her. Of course Olivia had friends—she had Ruby, and her sister, and Amy-Rose, and a few other girls with whom she could have a chat—but something about seeing this group of friends whisper and laugh stirred something in her.