The Davenports(93)

She didn’t wait for him to answer. She couldn’t. Though Mr. Davenport treated her kindly and hadn’t meant for her to hear, his words cut just as deep as John’s reaction. It was another reminder that people like her never knew where they stood. The uncertainty that accompanied her into unfamiliar places still plagued her, even though she’d mastered her mother’s ability to act like she belonged everywhere.

Deep down, Amy-Rose feared there was nowhere she belonged.

She looked at John, furious that he had shaken her resolve to leave with a promise and a gift. How could she have let herself fall for him so thoroughly? Her anger turned cold and bitter as the hurt she felt turned inward. You let him, she told herself. She had thought there was a chance. That as long as she had John on her side, they’d weather any obstacle thrown at them.

“Every time I leave through those gates,” she said, pointing to the entrance of the estate and struggling to keep her voice steady, “I brace myself for the stares, the comments, the slights. Most of the time, it’s not needed, but I’ve learned the hard way that it’s better to armor my skin than to be caught off guard. I am Black and white, and sometimes, in some spaces, neither. But I thought, here, with you, I could remove that armor. I wouldn’t feel the need to scrub the freckles off my face, make myself small, or apologize for what I look like or the work I do here. Apologize for who my father was. I could just be me.”

Amy-Rose steadied herself. “You didn’t stand up for me; worse, you didn’t stand up for yourself.” She was already backing away, out of his reach, with his friends calling his name in the distance. John looked torn.

No, he isn’t ready.

“I feel sorry for you.” She heaved a breath between words. “You can keep your building and turn it into a store, salon, or a showroom for your automobiles. I don’t want it,” she said, and left before he could see her fall apart.





CHAPTER 43


    Olivia



Olivia circled the ottoman and sat on the suitcase. Narrowing down the “essentials” to a single unit of luggage had proven difficult—she was leaving home—so difficult, in fact, that against her better judgment, she had pulled on the slippery ivory gown and made an appearance at the ball. Her presence would have been missed, she told herself.

She had briefly seen Helen, puffy-eyed but stoic. Something had happened, but Helen had refused to discuss it. Her sister’s hands had shaken while she flatly refused Olivia’s offer to stay. In fact, she nearly chased her out of the ballroom.

“What’s going on?”

Mrs. Davenport stepped into Olivia’s room, her mask dangling in her hand at her side. Its intricate gold pattern matched the crown woven through her hair, standing bold against the deep burgundy of her gown. She looked like a queen. A tired monarch. Her gaze flitted around the room and settled on the suitcase under her daughter. She walked farther into the room.

Though Olivia had replaced the items she pulled out when packing, she could hardly hide the bulky luggage case. As her mother made her way to the vanity, Olivia took one long breath after another. Her body hummed with anxiety, twisting her stomach in knots. She had hoped to be gone, but maybe this was better. Helen wouldn’t be left to pick up the pieces while dealing with whatever else she now had going on.

“This is a train ticket to Philadelphia. Olivia, explain, please?”

“I’ve decided to travel south with some of the activists I’ve met.” She watched shock change to determination on her mother’s regal countenance. “I know this isn’t what you and Daddy wanted for me, but this is the life I choose.”

“You mean, the young man you choose.” Her mother sighed and placed the ticket back on the vanity. “I was young once too.” Her mother gave her a sad smile.

“I won’t deny that along the way, I fell in love.” Olivia walked up to her mother. “With Washington DeWight, and the work he does. Mama, our family philanthropy only goes so far.”

“It’s dangerous, Olivia.”

“I know.”

“No, you think you do. You may think the worst that could happen is a beating, jail.” Mrs. Davenport shook her head. “You were too young to remember the bricks wrapped in threats when the carriage business began to leave others in the dust. After the riots in Springfield, Black-owned business here were attacked. We didn’t redo the showroom for the aesthetic. Someone threw a flaming liquor bottle through one of the windows.” Mrs. Davenport sighed. “Perhaps I should have heeded Mrs. Tremaine and not have sheltered you children so much.”

Olivia’s heart raced. She watched the pain of the memories flit across her mother’s face. She felt cold, despite the balmy night air wafting in through the window. The commotion from downstairs faded into the background.

“Before John was born, your father and I tried to do what you and Mr. DeWight are doing. We marched.” She grabbed her daughter’s hand. “But there are other ways to affect change without risking your life. And with better results.”

“Why haven’t you told me this before? You and Daddy keep so much hidden.” Olivia tried to shake away the bubbling anger. “Instead you had us tutored here. In town, we practically flaunt our wealth in circles where we are sometimes the only people of color, where our best is better than everyone around, and some still look down their noses at us. Then we cross over to the South Side. Where we are as likely to be praised as cursed. A basket of pastries or a check in hand when all our people want is a chance.”