Chicago, 1910
Summer
Chapter 1
Ruby
Ruby Tremaine stretched up on her toes to get a better look at the crowd. She clasped her signature necklace in her hand and hummed to the music played by the band in the corner of the Tremaines’ famous garden. Behind it, the maze entertained her guests, the soft sound of the fountain at the center filling the space between songs. The patio served as a dance floor, shaded by the large tent raised to shield them from the hot summer sun. Though the current heat wave was one for the record books, it was a nice day, if a little humid.
And all the parents are getting along, she thought.
Harrison Barton slid to her side, slipping his arm around her and curling her body into his.
“Harrison!” she exclaimed, surprised, a little breathless.
“What?” he asked, face bright. “Everyone’s here to celebrate our engagement. I think they
know we dance.” He moved her to the music, and she slipped into rhythm, holding his gaze, his eyes a pale brown like coffee with rich, rich cream, and fringed with green. It had been three weeks since the masquerade ball the Davenports had thrown for her father’s campaign. The black-tie affair was certainly a night to remember. Attended by the city’s elite, wealthy and influential white and Black scions of business and politics had rubbed elbows, offered their dedication and dollars, and toasted her father’s ambition to become Chicago’s first Black mayor.
It was all anyone had talked about for weeks before and after. The night was etched in Ruby’s mind too, though for other reasons—Harrison’s face when he realized their coupling had begun as a scheme, the look in his eyes. It still haunted her. And yet, incredibly, Harrison was her
fiancé!
“Your father is calling you,” she said to him.
He twirled her. His energy was infectious and dispelled her awful memories of that night, filling her instead with a joy that spread like sunshine.
He pulled her close and gave her a quick peck on her cheek. “I’ll be back in a moment,” he said, before walking to where his family stood.
Ah! She loved the sound of it.
Fiancé. His laugh floated over to her. The sound of her family, the chatter of her friends—all of them gathered around to celebrate her. It made Ruby’s face hurt from smiling. She was going to savor every moment of this party. For a few hours, she could avoid the disappointed looks from her parents, masked now for their guests, and simply exist, a happy bride-to-be.
“It’s beautiful,” said Olivia.
Ruby turned to her best friend, the elder of the two Davenport sisters, and took the glass of champagne Olivia offered. Olivia’s yellow gown offset her rich brown skin, and the warmth in her almond-shaped eyes deepened now with the reassuring look she gave Ruby.
“It is, isn’t it?” Ruby took in the fresh-cut flowers cascading from three-foot vases. The linen-covered tables held delicate rose arrangements of fragrant petals ranging from dark red to white, with every shade of pink between. Ruby’s parents had swallowed their pride and allowed Harrison to help pay for the decorations and the staff, who now waited on the one hundred or so guests. She took a quick sip of champagne and let the chilled, fizzy drink melt through her like an ice cube in hot tea.
Mr. Barton, Harrison’s father, was easy to spot, not just because he was one of the few white gentlemen, but because he stood a foot taller than most of the men there. He and Harrison were the same height and both quick to smile. Mr. Barton’s hair showed streaks of white, his eyes a watery gray. Harrison’s brother was nearly as tall, his skin the same shade as Harrison’s, and eyes a deep brown like their mother’s. Mrs. Barton, too, was tall. Her hair had been woven into an intricate braid on the crown of her head. She stood straight-backed and smiled easily. The lines at the corners of her eyes suggested a life of laughter.
“I fear my sister has frightened Harrison’s back to her mother’s skirts,” said Olivia.
Sure enough, the youngest Barton sibling stood at her mother’s elbow, looking like Anna Barton’s miniature double, their mahogany skin smooth and glistening in the heat. “What has Helen done?” Ruby laughed.
“I only attempted to warn her of the perils of parties like this, and the cunning of gentleman suitors.” Helen Davenport appeared at Ruby’s other side, staring fiercely at the entrance of the maze.
Ruby considered the decisions that had brought her to this moment. She’d played Harrison Barton and John Davenport off each other to win John’s affections. Her plan had been flawless—except that she’d fallen for
Harrison in the course of it. The plan had not worked, thankfully. Though the memory of the ruse left her feeling sour. “Gentle
women can be just as cunning,” Ruby said now.
Helen chewed her lip. Her focus dropped to the sweating glass of sweet tea in her hand. Ruby gave the younger Davenport sister a comforting squeeze around the waist.
“If only we could see what was around the bend,” Olivia said. “You’ll recall that I entertained a fake courtship, trying to appease Mama and Daddy.”
Helen smiled ruefully. Ruby let out a sigh. “I know better than most,” she said, “what one will do to please one’s parents.”
Ruby saw Olivia’s gaze drift to where Ruby’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Tremaine, stood, her father, large and imposing, and her mother, who looked like she could easily pass for Ruby’s sister. “Have things improved at all?” Olivia asked.
“No,” Ruby huffed. “They’re overly polite to Harrison and his family. Well, most of the time. And when it’s just the four of us, the silence is heavy enough to crush us all.”
“When the next set of campaign results are announced,” Olivia said, “it’ll smooth things over. The group I meet with are very enthusiastic about your father’s chances and”—she paused, a firm set to her lips—“to have a Black mayor would do wonders for the change we’re trying to champion. Just look at all Mr. Armstrong has done in Boley, Oklahoma.”
“You’ve never been to Boley, Oklahoma,” Ruby and Helen said at the same time.
“Neither have you,” Olivia replied, ignoring her sister and bumping Ruby with her hip. “It’s thriving under the care of a Black mayor, so much so that its reputation precedes it.”
Ruby looked at her parents, lifting her chin. “I certainly hope you’re right.” She smoothed the front of her dress, a pink so pale, it appeared white against her russet-brown skin. She’d chosen it especially for this occasion. Harrison Barton, whom she loved, was smart, caring, and understanding. Her scheming hadn’t scared him off. He’d seen the real her despite it. And Ruby wasn’t about to let anything stand in the way of this day or her happiness. “I’m to marry the love of my life,” she murmured. The wedding date had been set for late August, two months from now.
Olivia nearly squealed. “I can’t wait to start the real planning,” she said over Helen’s noncommittal grunt.
Ruby blinked, realizing she’d spoken aloud, and smiled.
“How is Harrison? Does he have any preferences?” Olivia asked.
“He’s taking everything in stride. He wants something small—an intimate affair.” Ruby’s smile grew. “Here he comes now.”
Olivia laughed. “I’m so happy for you, my friend, though I wonder if he knows how much thought you’ve
already put into the day.” She squeezed Ruby’s hand.
“I think that’s an understatement,” said Helen into her glass of sweet tea.
Olivia threw her sister a look before turning her smile back to Ruby.
When they were younger, Ruby and Olivia had spent afternoons planning their wedding days. They would be grand affairs, attended by Chicago’s elite. Ruby had imagined Olivet Baptist Church filled to bursting, and a reception that kept her the envy of every girl for the rest of the season.
“Your gown will have a train as long as the aisle,” Olivia recited now, “flowers spilling over the pews—”
“As if I walked through a sunlit meadow,” finished Ruby with a smile. On her father’s arm, she would shine—so beautiful, her mother would need to keep a handkerchief pressed to tear-streaked cheeks.
“Yes!” Olivia sighed. “All eyes on you.”
Perhaps Olivia was still right. But
Ruby’s eyes would be on Harrison. He stopped beside her now and leaned in to place a soft kiss along Ruby’s jaw. She felt the heat from his touch blossom and blaze a trail down her neck. The sunshine filling her turned molten and delicious. She shivered despite the heat.
Harrison nodded to Olivia and Helen, eyes smiling. “Hello, Miss Davenport. Miss Davenport. I heard you played an important part in ensuring this day went smoothly. Thank you.”
“Yes, well, most of the details were decided ahead of time,” Olivia said, giving Ruby a knowing look.
“Hush!” Ruby teased, pulling out her fan and whipping up the air around her. Her mother and Mrs. Barton were making their way over now, and were nearly upon them before Ruby had time to compose herself.
“I’m going to get some cake,” Helen announced, having heard their wedding dreams countless times.
“Harrison,” Olivia started, pulling her gaze from her sister, “will you continue with the summer league? We know how you enjoy playing.”
“I’ve retired from baseball.” He looked at Ruby. “I’ve found a more enjoyable pastime, but I do like watching the occasional game. The Leland Giants look impressive this year. Rube Foster sure knows how to put a team together . . .” He trailed off, grinning at the politely blank look on Olivia’s face. Ruby tried to contain her giggle, turning to bring her mother and Anna Barton into the conversation.
“You will make a lovely bride,” said Mrs. Tremaine, stepping into the conversation as if with two left feet. Her fan was the same shade of dove-gray as her dress.
“Indeed,” said Mrs. Barton, “a beautiful bride.” She smiled at Ruby in a warm but guarded way that made Ruby’s stomach flip.
“Thank you,” Ruby said. She hugged her soon-to-be mother-in-law, welcoming the smell of powder and freesia.
“I’m looking forward to getting to know you better,” Mrs. Barton continued. “All of you. I understand that now is a hectic time in the Tremaine household, but a dinner is in order.”
“If things go according to plan, Mr. Tremaine will be far busier than he is now,” Mrs. Tremaine said, standing straighter, her attempt to soften her words with a smile dampened by the arch of her brows. She ignored Ruby’s stare.
“Of course, we will all soon be family,” Ruby said, closing her fan. She placed her free hand gently on Mrs. Barton’s forearm and said, “We always make time for family.” Ruby eyed her mother, who eventually nodded a response.
Ruby sensed Harrison shift beside her and wished they could vanish into a quiet corner.
Maybe we should elope? she thought.
Disappear into marital bliss. A girl could dream.
Mrs. Barton reached for Harrison’s tie and adjusted it. “We could host it at your house,” she said to him.
Ruby had only been in the foyer of Harrison’s town house, but she knew it to be smaller than her parents’ home. And she could see this was not lost on her mother either. Mrs. Tremaine was about to step in when the band changed pace and played a jaunty tune.
“Shall we?” Harrison asked, holding his hand out to her.
Before Ruby could answer, Olivia had plucked the champagne flute from Ruby’s hand and begun asking Mrs. Barton about her trip from South Carolina.
“Excuse us,” Harrison said to their mothers, and whisked Ruby to the center of the patio that doubled as a dance floor. He spun her around, her skirt swaying at her ankles. The music was loud and joyous.
“Thank you,” she said.
He held her close. “No need to thank me. We’re in this together.”
“Do you think they’ll ever get along?”
“Eventually. I hope.” He pulled back enough to see her face and studied her expression. “Hey, you and me.”
“Yes.” Ruby nodded. “You and me.” She dropped her head to his shoulder, and even though the song was fast, they swayed to a rhythm all their own.
When the song finished, they made their way back to the refreshments.
Barton!”
Ruby and Harrison turned.
Striding toward them was a tall, handsome gentleman with neat waves in his hair and an impeccably tailored suit. Its light color complemented his umber-brown skin. He had brown eyes that sparkled and a grin that suggested he was always on the make, looking for the next young lady to charm. Harrison embraced the newcomer, laughing as the young man loudly clapped his back.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” said Harrison. “I wasn’t sure you’d make the long journey.”
“And miss your prenuptials party? You’re the brother I never had. The trouble we could have caused if the cards fell differently. Still.” He lowered his gaze as it passed over Ruby and shook his head. “Ain’t no way I was missing this.” He pressed a handkerchief to his brow. “There’s no better way to end the summer than with a wedding.”
“Thank you, my friend.” Harrison turned to Ruby, his hand reaching for hers. “Ruby, this is—”
“Carter, Edgar Carter. I am Barton’s oldest friend, and keeper of all his secrets.”
Ruby eyed her fiancé. “Keeper of secrets, you say?” The two men laughed, a sweet harmony. “I think we should set aside some time to talk, Mr. Carter.”
“Just Carter, if you don’t mind, Miss Tremaine. All my friends call me Carter.”
Ruby hesitated. An encouraging look from Harrison settled her nerves. “All right, Carter.”
Carter took Ruby’s hand and pressed the back of it to his lips. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance. And once my sister is done catching up with her new friends, I’d be happy to introduce you to her as well.”
Harrison straightened and looked around the garden. “Odette is here?”
“I am.”
Behind them stood a young woman, as beautiful as her brother was handsome. Her catlike eyes and tiny bow of a mouth captured Ruby’s attention, and her brown skin seemed to glow from within. Odette Carter wore an empire-waist dress, a shade darker than Ruby’s. Its lace hem was dangerously short, and she pulled at the long string of pearls layered around her bare neck. It was daring and borderline scandalous. And Ruby loved it. Unfortunately, Odette was flanked by Bertha Wallace and Agatha Leary. Agatha had pursued not only John Davenport but also Harrison last spring. Ruby held her composure and refocused on Odette, surprised to find the young woman’s eyes on her.
With her fingers still tangled in her pearls, Odette said, “You must be the bride!” Then she threw her arms wide and embraced Ruby, enveloping her in a cloud of perfume. “Let’s be friends.”
Agatha and Bertha whispered to each other, their smiles wide. Ruby felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise.
Odette pulled back and held Ruby at arm’s length. “Love your dress!” Beside Ruby, Harrison laughed at something Carter had said.
“Thank you,” Ruby replied, pulling her gaze from Carter and the other two women.
Harrison beamed. “Ruby has quite the eye.” He slipped his hand into hers, threading their fingers together and gently pulling her to his side. His presence smoothed the sliver of unease that had pricked her. She looked from him to the new quartet and back to her groom.
Her fiancé.
Her future.
Chapter 2
Olivia
Olivia Elise Davenport, smile wide, watched her best friend greet the other guests. The centerpieces were shades of red roses—splashes of Ruby’s signature color everywhere. She will be someone’s
wife! Olivia shook her head. This was the desired outcome after all they’d learned from their mothers and governesses. Of course, it had been their parents’ wish that the Tremaines and
Davenports be united through marriage. And at one time, it had been Olivia’s too. But to see the joy radiating from her friend—and to know her own heart too—Olivia understood that such things did not come from planning or plotting.
Her own course had been unexpected, yes, but Olivia knew her day would come. Just not yet.
From her spot under the tent, among the blooming pink flowers and neatly trimmed hedges, she watched the couple and allowed an image of Washington DeWight to fill her mind. His strong jaw, honey-colored eyes, and high cheekbones. She was transported back to their evening on the restaurant rooftop, not long before he left Chicago. The air had been filled with the savory steam of food cooking below, and music from a nearby bar wafted on the crisp spring breeze. As the sun set, it filled the Chicago skyline with bright oranges and golds. He’d held her close, his cheek pressed against hers, as they’d danced to the faint rhythm. She recalled the heat that had bloomed under the palm of his hand, splayed across her back.
Her memory painted a clear picture, and his letters—the passion in them, each one ending with some declaration of his affection for her—convinced her the distance between them only existed in the physical sense. He signed them,
Until we dance again, WDW, which always made her smile, recalling their first dance together—the glint in his eye, his mischief. How much their relationship had changed since they’d first met. She wondered if he kept her own letters.
“So strange,” said Helen.
Olivia gasped. “Don’t frighten me like that. Helen! How are you so quiet? I thought you went to get cake.”
“The table is too crowded,” Helen said, eyeing their parents, who had gathered around the desserts. Then her face split into a grin. “I’m quite like a cat. How else do you think I sneak off to the garage undetected?”
Olivia snorted. They both knew she’d been caught more than once.
Helen’s eyes flitted across the spectacle. “To think—this was almost you, Livy. Good thing you have such discerning taste.” She pretended to ignore Olivia’s look. “Though I expect Mama and Daddy would have turned your engagement party into a circus.” She sipped her sweet tea.
Olivia stared at the sweating glass, her own throat dry. It was still hot, even as the sun lowered. And the crowd was large, consisting of Chicago’s prominent families, all of them known to Mr. Tremaine in his efforts to run for mayor, and to the Davenports in their efforts to support him. All these people—at what might have been her wedding.
Olivia agreed with her sister about the circus part, but said, “I think they would have held mine at Freeport if I’d asked. In the ballroom. Maybe made it a more intimate affair.”
“And forgo your own long-planned spectacle?” Helen handed Olivia her cold glass of tea. Olivia took a sip, grateful, and handed it back.
The idea of her childhood dreams made Olivia smile.
She glanced at her sister quickly. At one point she and Helen had shared an affection for the same gentleman—Jacob Lawrence, he of the neat mustache and London family fortune. Or so he’d led them to believe. Olivia’s engagement to him had been expected, but she had moved on from Mr. Lawrence before the truth came out. She’d found the right person for her in Washington DeWight. The outspoken Southern lawyer surprised her, challenged her, from their very first meeting at Samson House when he’d passionately addressed the crowd. It was there that she’d begun working with Chicago’s growing group of civil rights activists. But like she’d told Washington in her letters, she hadn’t quite mustered the courage to take the stage as he did. For now, she followed the lead of others, and volunteered when she could at the community center. It was something.
Just not enough.
“Are you planning to leave now that Ruby is getting married? To join Mr. DeWight in Washington, DC?” Helen’s eyes had softened, but her gaze was steady.
Olivia took in her sister, who looked so much like their father—same proud nose and perceptive brown eyes. “No, not yet. He’s only just arrived in Philadelphia, and my reasons for staying are still my reasons. Chicago is our home. There’s so much work to be done and I want to be a part of it.” Though Chicago was not segregated like the South, there were spaces where the color line was evident, where citizens’ prejudice bled into her everyday life.
Like when simply shopping for fabric. “Life can’t be just about work, Livy. What about love?”
The question from her sister surprised Olivia, with Helen’s own heart so recently broken.
Olivia thought about this city that had given her parents a second chance, the opportunity for her and her siblings to thrive—the booming downtown, the arts and culture. “Who said my decision wasn’t for love?”
Before Helen could respond, Olivia saw John detach himself from a rowdy group of friends, his bearing serious. Gone were his easy smile and the dimple that set girls’ hearts fluttering. “I’m ready to leave,” he told his sisters. He shoved his hands in his pockets. His eyes searched the garden, looking for someone they all knew was not there.
“Thank goodness,” said Helen, tipping back the last of her sweet tea.
“Don’t you think
you should stay?” he teased.
“If you leave me here, John, I’ll—”
“This is a party!” Olivia interrupted. “You
are allowed to enjoy yourselves. You’re both being rude.”
John held up his hands. “How am I being rude?”
Helen smirked and answered first. “Because you’re an eligible young man who hasn’t danced with a single girl here. All the mamas in the room are having fits!”
“My sincerest apologies to all the mamas, but I need to get out of here and back to the garage.” He looked toward the door.
Though they would not admit it, Olivia knew her brother and sister were throwing themselves into their interests instead of their feelings. A family trait, it would seem.
“And the sooner the better. Livy, enjoy yourself. Don’t forget to dance with your
date.”
They all looked to Everett Stone, a Davenport Carriage Company lawyer, who now spoke with their parents at the desserts table. Olivia felt her face pinch. She wasn’t sure if Mr. Stone himself knew the strings her parents attempted to pull behind the scenes. His face was sharp, square angles—a chiseled sculpture of a young man who garnered almost as much attention in public as she did. And that was the last thing she wanted—more attention. But the challenge in her siblings’ eyes felt like a pebble in her shoe.
“You’re right,” said Olivia, smoothing her features and her pale yellow dress. “It would be
rude not to.” With a pointed look to her brother, she walked to where Mr. Stone stood. He wore wire-framed eyeglasses and tracked her movements with a curious gaze under thick, powerful brows. Despite Mr. Everett Stone’s quiet appeal and striking good looks, her parents’ attempt at matchmaking hindered Olivia’s plans: Not only was she not enticed—and her mother knew it—but she’d thought she’d have more time to volunteer at the community center. Now she found herself at square one—entertaining in the family parlor under her mother’s watchful gaze, which fell on her now.
Olivia felt rather than saw Mr. Stone rustle beside her. His arm brushed hers, warm and solid. She caught a whiff of mint. It was a calm and soothing scent. Despite her parents’ relaxed demeanor, goose bumps rose on Olivia’s arms. Nearly as soon as Mr. Lawrence’s letter had arrived for her family, excusing himself for the rest of the summer for an emergency back home in London, Everett Stone had appeared at the place setting next to hers at the Davenport dinner table.
Olivia suspected her mother took her choice to stay in Chicago as a sign that she and the Alabama lawyer, Mr. DeWight, were through, as thoroughly as she and Mr. Lawrence were through. But to Olivia, Washington’s train pulling away was not the end of their story. She didn’t know what the future held for them but . . . she knew her day would come, and she hoped when it did, it would be with Washington DeWight.
She folded her arms against her chest now, seeing the way her parents studied her and her new suitor. The first thing she’d noticed that initial evening at dinner was how deliberately Mr. Stone held his knife and fork. She later realized that he did everything this way. He was not impulsive or animated. He was a lawyer, like Washington; unlike Washington, he was a lawyer for the carriage company and other Black small business owners. Worthy work. But compared to Mr. DeWight,
The complete opposite, she thought.
She again pictured Washington, his disarming smile, smooth laugh, that Southern lilt that kept her and everyone entranced. Crowds had flocked to Samson House or the steps of the courthouse to hear him speak, and to stand at his side to demonstrate their allegiance in discontent. Olivia had been one of them. In the days after he’d left, she had been inundated with letters from other activists who’d stayed in the city rather than traveling with Mr. DeWight to Philadelphia, and then on to Washington, DC. They had asked the same question she did:
What’s next? Now, just as she settled beside her mother, Mr. Stone offered his hand. “Would you like to dance, Miss Davenport?” She glanced at her parents, who did a poor job at looking engrossed in conversation.
“I’d like that.” She tried to sound convincing as she took his warm hand awkwardly in hers. They joined the other couples, including Ruby and Mr. Barton. Mr. Stone put a hand on her back and drew her into the gentle cloud of mint that enveloped him. His touch was light as he moved them smoothly over the uneven surface of the patio.
“Do you enjoy parties like this?”
“Yes,” said Olivia. “I know some find them frivolous, but I do enjoy them.” She followed Mr. Stone’s gaze, which traveled around the space and settled back on her parents, her mother laughing at something her father must have said. When their eyes met again, the corners of Mr. Stone’s perked up before focusing on where their hands met.
“This is my first at this level of”—he paused—“grandeur? It was kind of the Tremaines to invite me.” Out the corner of her eye, Olivia saw him nod, as if to himself. “I wouldn’t call it frivolous if it allows two people to find a moment of peace and happiness.” He chuckled. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say your mother blushed when your father kissed her hand earlier.”
Olivia couldn’t help but smile. She had observed more than a few such moments over the years. When they thought no one was watching, her parents were more affectionate.
Maybe they’re just trying to ensure I have the same? she thought, though the idea didn’t ease her mind, not given her present company.
“I think it’s wonderful,” Mr. Stone said, “that you are surrounded by close friends and family.”
“I do count myself lucky.” Speaking of, John and Helen were no-where to be seen—not that Olivia needed them to witness her “fun.”
Stop being so stiff, she chided herself. Olivia forced herself to relax to the music and follow Mr. Stone’s lead. He seamlessly transitioned them from the slower number to the faster-paced song that followed. He was lighter on his feet than she’d imagined. For a moment, she lost track of the people around them and the warm night air that made her dress cling to her back. She let her thoughts fade and enjoyed the rhythm. When her heel caught a gap in the brick patio, Olivia stumbled, her world tilted—and came to a sudden stop.
Mr. Stone held her firmly in midair. His right hand splayed across her ribs while his other encircled her waist from behind. Olivia tilted her head up to see his brow furrowed above the brim of his wire-frame eyeglasses.
Her lips parted slightly, his touch sending an unexpected jolt down her spine.
“Miss Davenport?” His grip was firm and steady. Over his shoulder, she saw her parents studying this interaction. “Are you all right?” he asked. He lifted her, too high. Her toes grazed the ground.
“Yes,” she said. “You may put me down.”
He released her quickly. “Forgive me,” he said. He withdrew until only their hands touched, his still warm and assuring. He cleared his throat. “Are you enjoying the celebration?”
She nodded. “I am very happy for Ruby.” Olivia felt her mind clear. She stood straighter and stiffer, glancing up at Mr. Stone, allowing him to tuck her hand into the crook of his arm and escort her to her parents. The mint and leather scent of him mixed with the vibrant scent of the centerpieces that floated on the summer breeze. Together they made a pleasant combination.
“I very much enjoyed our dance,” he said, turning to her. He still held her hand, nestled in the crook of his elbow. He looked at her steadily.
Olivia straightened and, somewhat abruptly, slid her hand away. “Yes, a lovely dance. Thank you, Mr. Stone.” She saw Ruby speaking to Agatha Leary and Bertha Wallace, plus an unfamiliar set—friends of Harrison’s, no doubt. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, ignoring the disappointment that alit briefly on Mr. Stone’s face as she turned and made her way to the bride-to-be.
Pulling up the moonlit, tree-lined drive to Freeport always swayed Olivia into a sense of calm. The rest of the party had passed without incident, Olivia having decided to avoid the crowd after all, and make a temporary home of a settee under the starlight. Her feet ached from dancing. All she wanted now was to soak them in salts and fall into bed.
John’s automobile was parked at the bottom of the porch stairs. He and Helen had traveled home together, arriving well before Olivia and their parents.
As the carriage rolled to a stop, Mr. Davenport shook his head. “I don’t understand why he leaves that thing all over the place like an overgrown toy.” He closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his proud nose. Then, bracing himself with his cane, he exited the carriage and extended his hand to his wife. Olivia descended quickly after them, and relaxed as she approached the grand staircase of Freeport Manor’s wraparound porch and ornate entrance.
Home, at last. “Olivia,” her mother called from inside. “A word before you go to bed.”
Unable to stand the throbbing in her toes, she kicked off her shoes, relishing the cool polished parquet beneath her feet, and followed her parents to the library.
“I think you should sit, dear.”
“Is this about missing the charity luncheon? I promised my afternoon to Mrs. Woodard.” A friend of the reverend, Mrs. Woodard organized many of the community events. She and her mother were members of some of the same social clubs, and both placed a good deal of importance on charitable work.
“It’s not that,” said Mrs. Davenport.
Dread tingled along Olivia’s scalp. Her mother only called her “dear” when unpleasant news was on the horizon. Mr. Davenport walked to one of the high-backed chairs beside the empty fireplace. He held on to his knee, his other hand braced on his cane to lower himself to the seat. Olivia sank into the chair opposite. Her eyes found her mother, now standing at her father’s side. They looked like a portrait.
Mr. Davenport cleared his throat. “We understand, Olivia, that Mr. Lawrence left quite an impression on you before he departed for London. He is an intelligent, sophisticated young man.” Her father’s words came out deliberately and . . . reluctantly, Olivia thought. She studied him. She had long since abandoned thoughts of Jacob Lawrence, of course, as her feelings for Mr. DeWight had grown. But her father didn’t know any of that. Brief eye contact with her mother confirmed it. Mrs. Davenport had not shared her daughter’s wishes—nor her previous plan—to leave with Washington DeWight the night of the campaign party three weeks ago.
“With him out of the picture,” continued Mr. Davenport, “we would like you to refocus.”
“Daddy,” she said, shocked.
Mrs. Davenport took a step closer to Olivia. “Hope visits us in many forms. So does happiness. We couldn’t help see the chemistry between you and Mr. Stone this evening. He has expressed an interest in getting to know you better. And,” she said, raising her voice slightly, silencing Olivia’s protests, “we think this is the best match for you.”
“Match? But I—thought I would get to choose.” Hadn’t she found her match in Mr. DeWight? Hadn’t she told her mother that very thing? Hadn’t this pairing been just a temporary show to keep up appearances?
“Olivia,” her mother continued, “Everett Stone is a very eligible bachelor, and after the broken engagement with Mr. Lawrence, we don’t see”—here her mother gave her a pointed look—“another option. Mr. Stone will make a kind and caring husband.”
Olivia did. She saw another option. But he was in Philadelphia, en route to the nation’s capital.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. Her vision was suddenly blurry. Her nose stung. She would not entertain the idea of another engagement, not with a person she didn’t want.
“You must marry. Someone,” her father said.
“No,” Olivia said, a desperate ring to her voice.
“Be reasonable,” said her mother.
“I am
always reasonable.” Olivia stood. She felt her fists shaking at her sides. She turned and, to her own astonishment, left the library without another word.
I said no. When have I ever said no? Olivia couldn’t remember a time when she had so openly defied her parents.
She stumbled through the dimly lit halls, her feet taking her to her room, her mind elsewhere. She wasn’t sure how much time passed. Vaguely, she remembered her siblings poking their heads through her cracked door, brows furrowed, faces there, then retreating. At some point, she’d settled at her desk. Now with a trembling hand, she pulled a fresh sheet of paper from under Washington’s letters in her desk. She stared at the blank sheet. The last thing she wanted was to make him worry. Or distract him from his work. From deep inside the desk, she retrieved her journal and used the silk ribbon to reveal a fresh page.
I cannot believe this is happening again. Chapter 3
Amy-Rose
The motorcar came to a violent halt at 127 and 129 West 53rd Street. Amy-Rose Shepherd readjusted the hat on her head as the driver stepped out to assist Mrs. Davis. Rising above them, the buildings of New York City’s Tenderloin reminded her of home. These brownstones that made up Marshall Hotel beat at the center of business and culture in NYC, where Black and white folk mingled to enjoy music, drinks, and the exchange of ideas. Every street corner in the Tenderloin felt like Great Central Market, with crowds of people, motorcars, and carriages. Her mentor insisted
this was where Amy-Rose would get the most support for her hair care business.
Since arriving in New York from Chicago, they had dined with sophisticated entrepreneurs while listening to Black musicians play soulfully to mixed crowds. She’d attended the theater. She’d walked the sun-dappled paths of Central Park. And she’d visited an array of vendors who could provide her the raw materials to create her product line. All of it brought her one step closer to her dreams.
Amy-Rose took the driver’s hand now and exited the automobile. Heat rose from the pavement. She felt a line of perspiration slide down her back. Today she had to be in top form. It was her biggest chance yet to secure the capital she’d need to progress forward with her salon. She stared up at the building before her, picking at a loose thread near the wrist of her glove.
“My dear, relax.” Mrs. Davis placed her own gloved hand on Amy-Rose’s arm.
Amy-Rose offered her mentor a shaky smile. Mrs. Davis had been nothing but kind to her—generous beyond measure. In Chicago, the business-savvy widow had noticed Amy-Rose’s talent for styling hair, and had taken an interest in the young woman’s dream and drive to sell her hair care creations. Only a few weeks ago, Amy-Rose had traveled halfway across the country in luxury at her mentor’s side. Mrs. Maude Davis was one of the wealthiest Black women in Chicago. She’d been widowed three times, and had used whatever money that was left to her to make smart investments into the city’s South Side. Investments that proved fruitful. For their journey east, Mrs. Davis had bought out an entire train car for her and her staff, a feat Amy-Rose suspected required some bribing. Oh, but she did enjoy watching the country fly by from the window!
It had also given her more than enough time to think about what—and whom—she had left behind. She’d rushed out so quickly, she’d only time to write one letter. To John Davenport. There on the train, Amy-Rose had felt a sharp pinch in her chest thinking of him. They’d spent hours at Freeport talking about their futures, their dreams. She knew her feelings for John, ones she kept close, were reciprocated. She knew he loved her too. She didn’t need to open the parcel he’d sent or any of his letters to know that. But in the end, it hadn’t been enough.
She’d sat up straighter on the train then, remembering that John was not the only person who loved her. She’d written to Helen, to Olivia and Jessie and Mrs. Davenport, of course, once things had settled. Their letters in return had kept her grounded. They eased the feeling that she had run away from her problems rather than strode, dignified, into her future.
Can’t both be true? She’d
had to move on. She’d had to put some distance between her and the loss of the Chicago storefront she had worked so hard for, and her dreams of John Davenport at her side.
“Do not tell me you are thinking of that young man again.” Mrs. Davis frowned now from beneath her truly wonderfully extravagant hat. “We do not have time to wallow, Miss Shepherd. Look around you and drink this in.” Mrs. Davis’s shoulders rose and fell with a deep, satisfied breath. “The time we are given is limited.”
She was right. Amy-Rose breathed deep and closed her eyes. When she exhaled, she’d returned to the present. The Black-owned hotel before them was only a few blocks from Mrs. Davis’s Manhattan apartment. It would not have done to walk, though. They’d had to arrive in style so as to impress possible investors. Amy-Rose had been outfitted in the latest fashions while living with her new benefactor in an opulent brownstone where
she now had staff that waited on
her! Today, the exaggerated shape of her jacket accentuated her waist and, when buttoned over the straight skirt, it made her feel polished and powerful.
“Miss Shepherd, are you getting cold feet?”
“Not at all,” Amy-Rose said, and meant it.
“Good,” said Mrs. Davis. “We have people to meet and product to sell.” She picked up her skirt with her free hand and gestured to the hotel with her ivory-laced parasol. The same color of her dress and hat, the pale shade made Mrs. Davis appear all the more genteel. Even her slight misstep forward appeared graceful.
People forget, delicate flowers have thorns, she’d told Amy-Rose over tea one afternoon.
And roses can draw blood. Amy-Rose puffed up her chest and followed her patroness.
Two stoic men, dressed in black livery despite the oppressive heat, opened the doors to the hotel’s paneled foyer. It was like walking into a dream. Her heels clacked against the polished marble. White columns stretched up to the high ceiling. Large oil paintings in meticulously carved wood frames hung below the soft white light of golden sconces. Music wafted from down the hall, and one of Mrs. Davis’s maids stepped on her heel. “Ouch!” Amy-Rose hadn’t realized she’d stopped walking, causing the girl to crash into her.
“Apologies, miss,” said the maid, who looked no older than Amy-Rose herself, maybe eighteen or nineteen. The young woman’s hair was braided away from her face, revealing a clear, slightly perspiring terra-cotta complexion, and secured in a bun at the nape of her neck. In her left hand, she gripped the handle of the small cart of Amy-Rose’s hair products.
“It’s all right, Sandra.” Amy-Rose pulled on the strings of her handbag, fighting the urge to take the cart herself and send the girl down the street for a cool drink. But now the young woman’s eyes were bright, focused on something over Amy-Rose’s shoulder.
A group of Black women, dressed in the year’s most popular silhouettes, had just strolled past them. Their hair was neatly pressed and swept up. Loose, manipulated curls framed their faces. They walked with a speed Amy-Rose had come to associate with New Yorkers. The shortened hemlines of their skirts swayed well above their glossy brown ankles. Amy-Rose admired them for a moment.
Then she stood straighter. With her chin up, she made eye contact with each person who looked her way as she walked to the exhibition hall. Amy-Rose refused to let anyone, or anything, prevent her from making the best of this opportunity. She belonged here. The puffy sleeves that hindered her from completing menial tasks proved it.
“Miss, should I go on ahead and prepare your table?”
“No!” Amy-Rose’s voice escaped, much louder than she intended. “No,” she repeated, more ladylike. “Thank you, Sandra, but I’d like to do it myself.”
Excitement thrummed through her veins. Amy-Rose grew highly aware of her surroundings. Women from all over the city and as far as New Haven, Connecticut, had gathered in the ballroom of the hotel to view the wares of several female business owners. Handmade leather goods were displayed alongside hats and elaborate fascinators. The scents of cosmetic creams and ointments mixed with the fruity tang of jarred jams and citrusy perfumes. Rainbows of silk added a splash of color under the warm gaslight chandeliers above.
Beyond the fabric vendors were the pastry chefs. Cakes and truffles arranged on tiered platters made Amy-Rose’s mouth water. As did the breads that sat on beds of parchment. The women on either side of Amy-Rose’s own space displayed grass baskets and beaded necklaces. It was time for her to show her own wares.
Across the crisp white linen of the table, Amy-Rose staged the jars she had stayed up every night preparing. She had pored over the notes in her book and tried new extracts from the imported fruits Mrs. Davis had been able to procure. The most difficult to obtain had been the hibiscus leaves her mother had used in Amy-Rose’s hair when she was a child in Saint Lucia. The smell always brought memories of her mother closer—getting her hair washed over the kitchen sink, her mother’s strong hands massaging her scalp with a roughness that made her wince but would be so welcome again if only it were possible. Memories like this fueled Amy-Rose. She would succeed. And now she had the hibiscus spread to prove it.
“My, do these really work?” A woman about Mrs. Davenport’s age sidled up to the table with a gaggle of women behind her. She lifted a jar of pressing cream and eyed it suspiciously. Her gaze seared Amy-Rose. “This gonna make my hair look like yours?” The women behind her laughed. The ladies of New York’s influential Black society had made their way through the banquet hall. While setting up, Amy-Rose had tracked their progress through the room, buying up wares and sending their parcels ahead with the staff. They were the wives of prominent leaders, the growing middle and upper classes and entertainers Amy-Rose hoped to persuade to support her. And thanks to the strings Mrs. Davis had pulled, her booth was set in a prime location with heavy foot traffic.
Now Amy-Rose faced their scrutiny. She resisted the urge to touch her own brown curls, which hung down the middle of her back, secured with a tortoiseshell barrette. Her mixed heritage produced a unique texture that she could not bottle, and it sometimes prompted equally unpredictable reactions from strangers. Her freckled, medium complexion and hazel eyes had made her stand out in Freeport, but here, as in downtown Chicago, she marveled at the diversity around her.
“What about it, miss? This gonna make my hair like yours?”
Amy-Rose smiled her best smile, the way she’d seen Olivia do in the shops downtown, or when Amy-Rose herself had walked to Binga Bank to deposit her savings for her now lost storefront. “It won’t,” she said honestly. “This is exclusively made to protect the hair before applying a hot comb. It reduces damage to the strands from the heat.”
The woman huffed. She placed the jar back on the table and took a step back.
“But,” Amy-Rose said, “if I were to style your hair, I would use . . .” She let her voice trail off as she considered her spread of products.
“And what makes you think you can
style my hair?” The other woman cut in.
“Ma’am, I am a professional.” Amy-Rose knew the woman meant to challenge her. She felt rather than saw the other women follow their captain’s lead, now scrutinizing Amy-Rose’s wares. “This,” she finished. She presented the woman with a leave-in oil. “This product will hydrate your natural texture. Combs will glide through your strands and make styling much easier. Over time, you’ll see that your hair will be healthier and shinier.”
“Are you saying my hair looks brittle?”
Amy-Rose blushed. The woman fisted her hands on her hips, a haughty tilt to her brow. Amy-Rose knew that her next decision would make or break her. The other women hung on their leader’s every word. They would look to her before making any purchase. This woman’s opinion mattered—and it was just what she needed to get more people on board. “I’m suggesting,” Amy-Rose said, “that you take great pride in your hair. It’s your crown, and you would have it be as polished as possible.”
Then she held her breath.
Did I go too far? The woman threw a meaningful look over her shoulder to her friends. When she turned back, Amy-Rose thought she would faint from the anticipation.
“I’ll take three.”
Amy-Rose quietly exhaled. “Of course.”
After that, women flocked to her table. They peppered her with questions and requests for advice. She chatted with other vendors. Each sale was confirmation she had what it took to get this business off the ground. She thought of her mother, the ache of her loss, soothed by the promise of all she was on her way toward achieving.
By the end of the trade show, Amy-Rose’s feet were so swollen, she thought they might burst out of her shoes. And she felt wonderful. The table was empty except for a few sample jars, and she had pages and pages of orders. Orders! She could hardly believe it. She stood taller and smiled to herself, feeling a flutter in her chest. This was what she had dreamed of.
John would be happy for me. Amy-Rose was caught off guard whenever thoughts of John slipped into her mind. She wanted to tell him her good news, to have him by her side in this moment.
No, she reminded herself.
This moment is yours. You worked hard for this. She straightened and focused on Sandra taking another order. A whistle came from over her shoulder.
Amy-Rose turned and found a young man, maybe a year or two older than she was, rubbing his chin. He picked up a sample jar of a deep conditioner and smelled the contents. It was one of her favorites. Figs and aloe.
“You are going to be a very rich woman,” he said. He placed the jar back on the table and hooked a thumb in his belt.
“Excuse me?”
“I watched you. You’re a natural. Clear-voiced. Passionate. And you have an in-depth knowledge of the product.”
“I made them myself. They’re my recipes.” Amy-Rose’s smile faded at the way his face changed. “What? You don’t believe me?”
“Oh no, I believe you. It’s just,” he said, and cleared his throat, “these old birds will clean you out if you’re making each of these yourself. Unless you have a small outfit in an attic somewhere?”
Amy-Rose thought of her attic room at Freeport Manor, the room she once shared with her mother. It was miles away. Now she worked out of the study and kitchen in Mrs. Davis’s brownstone. But it was just until she was established. She hoped one day to need a bigger facility. “I don’t, yet, but I will have what I need.”
His lip twitched and he tipped his hat to her. “I’m sure you will.”
Copyright © 2024 by Krystal Marquis. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
