Chapter 11 Amy-Rose

Chapter 11

Amy-Rose

The room spun slowly around Amy-Rose from her seat at station one. The salon’s renovations were complete. She’d mopped up the last of the sawdust and staged her hair care line on the display shelves. Mrs.Davis had charged her personal decorator to remodel the space, with Amy-Rose’s preferences in mind. Its emerald-and-gold wallpaper had a regal, feminine air. Crystal chandeliers created a dazzling effect on the hardwood floors as the summer sun poured through the large bay windows. It was welcoming—and a bit stifling despite having the front and back doors open for a cross-breeze. But cozy and ready for business.

Clara Shepherd, Amy-Rose’s mother, would be dancing in the way she did that made Amy-Rose giggle. It would be a dance of joy and pride, emotions that alternated, for Amy-Rose, with the grief of the past week. The pain that accompanied thoughts of her mother were compounded now by the loss of Mrs.Davis, who didn’t even get a chance to see the finished salon.

Amy-Rose stopped the chair opposite the mirror. Her eyes were puffy, the back of her throat scratchy. Mrs.Davis wouldn’t want her to wallow. After a shuddering breath, she wiped her tears and grabbed her belongings, then locked up.

From across the street, Amy-Rose turned back to look at it. Her dream come true. When she had returned from New York and opened the desk in the salon’s office, she had found the deed to the property in her name. The salon was hers—the whole building now belonged to Amy-Rose. As elated as she was, Amy-Rose couldn’t ignore the fact that Mrs.Davis had known she was ill and chose not to confide in her. She still reeled at how neatly everything for her mentor’s funeral had been laid out, all of it specified in detail by Mrs.Davis ahead of time. Amy-Rose had moved through the event as though through a fog, remembering her manners, and leaning on the support of her friends and Mrs.Davis’s staff as the older woman’s countless friends and acquaintances paid their respects in a packed service at the Olivet Baptist Church.

The salon’s grand opening would be a quiet affair in respect to Mrs.Davis. Olivia had taken on the task of spreading the word. Amy-Rose just didn’t have the energy. She hoped she’d find comfort and distraction in styling the hair of her new clients. It’s what her mother and Mrs.Davis would have wanted.

Finally, Amy-Rose turned and began walking to Mrs.Davis’s house. She let her feet guide her, freeing her mind to wander. It had been strange living in the house alone these days, with just Mrs.Davis’s staff. Now it rose up before her, grand and opulent, like Mrs.Davis herself, and Amy-Rose had to smile. She passed through the iron gate and up the limestone steps. The three-story town house had a brick face and intricate corbels flanking the rounded posts of the narrow porch. Amy-Rose let herself in and removed her hat. In the foyer was a hat she did not recognize. A purse. And a pair of gloves. Perhaps they belong to Sandra?

An angry sound erupted from her stomach. Amy-Rose placed her things next to the foreign items and headed straight for the kitchen.

“Hello.”

Amy-Rose halted at the doorway. Her heart spasmed at the person standing at the sink. For a moment, she thought Mrs.Davis had returned. She had forgotten that the older woman, who had taken her in and shared her home and wisdom, was gone. Her mouth went dry.

“I bear a striking resemblance to my mother, or so I’m told, though they must not be right. I’m hardly that old!” The woman standing before Amy-Rose shook her head and placed a saucer and teacup into the sink. “You must be Miss Shepherd.”

Only now did Amy-Rose notice the scent of thick, cloying perfume in the air. Finding her voice, she said, “I am, yes.” She licked her lips. “I’m sorry. You said, ‘mother’?”

“Yes, Maude Davis was my mother.” The woman—she looked to be in her early thirties—leaned back against the sink. Her skin was the same deep brown as Mrs.Davis’s. Her clothes understated—the complete opposite of Mrs.Davis’s over-the-top style. Her hair was styled straight and twisted into a coif on the crown of her head. “My name is Ruth Davis. I was her only child,” she said, eyeing their surroundings as if she were taking inventory.

“I didn’t know Mrs.Davis had any children. There are no pictures. She never—”

“Talked about me?” Miss Davis scoffed. “Yes, well, it’s been years since my mother and I spoke.” When her gaze settled back on Amy-Rose, they were cold. “What are you doing here?”

Amy-Rose frowned. “I live here.” Her voice cracked. “I lived here with your mother.”

Ruth Davis shook her head. “Not anymore.”

···

The hired carriage bounded up the drive to Freeport Manor. Amy-Rose picked at her fingernails in the light from the setting sun slanting through the open window. It was all she could do not to pull at the threads of her new dress. The trees stood sentry, as always, bowing toward the carriage, as if ushering it along, the main house growing larger through the windows. She couldn’t help leaning against the carriage door to get a better look. The familiar lines of the manor house, and the sounds—they stirred up both apprehension and comfort. The gravel path shifting under carriage wheels. The cooing of the mourning doves that nested in the roof of the stables. The horses whinnying inside it. All of it overwhelmed her nearly to the point of tears.

“Nice set of bricks,” said the driver.

Amy-Rose pulled back and nodded. “It was home.” She attempted to quiet the butterflies in her stomach and blink back her tears. As the driver unloaded her bags, she approached the grand stairs to the wide, welcoming porch. Amy-Rose kept her eyes straight and not on the garage to her left, where he could be working. John. His possible proximity made this return so much more difficult. She stared at the carved front door. Then she stepped backward down the stairs, walking instead to the familiarity and comfort of the side entrance, her eyes glancing in the direction of the stables and garage. The gravel path shifted beneath her heels as she approached the side entrance.

The door to the kitchen swung in easily. Amy-Rose inhaled the smell of freshly baked bread. The room was warm and empty. Jessie and Ethel, whom she expected to be here, were nowhere to be seen. The counter was clear and all the pots and pans were neatly polished and put away. She ran her hand over the smooth surface of the counter and paused where she used to sit for hours, sketching her dream salon and recording all the variations of her hair care recipes. This is where her dream was born. And now, you’re back.

“Amy-Rose!” Olivia entered the kitchen and immediately threw her arms around Amy-Rose’s neck. Her momentum sent them swinging in a wobbly circle, skirts flaring. Olivia pulled back at last and held her by the shoulders.

“Thank you, again, Olivia,” Amy-Rose said. “Really.”

Olivia’s brow wrinkled, then she covered her face with her hands. “No thanking me! This was your home once. It can be again. If you want it to be.” Amy-Rose’s stomach flipped at her friend’s words. There was a time when they could have meant something else. Her gaze drifted to the direction of the garage as they moved through the house.

Olivia looked around. “Where are your bags? Did you come in the kitchen door?” Amy-Rose smiled sheepishly, and they walked around to see Edward had carried the trunks and bags in from the porch. “I am so very sorry”—she hugged Amy-Rose again—“about Mrs.Davis. It was a beautiful service for an extraordinary woman. I’m here if you’d like to talk. About anything.” Her friend then did a little hop and hugged her quickly for the third time. “I can hardly wait for your grand opening.” Olivia sighed. “I’m convinced yours will be the most successful business in the city. All the gossip is already saying it’s the place to go.”

“Thank you again, for helping me organize it—” Amy-Rose stopped before the tears she felt verging could spill over. She took a breath. “Is Mrs.Davenport in?”

“This way.” Olivia tucked Amy-Rose’s hand under her arm and led her to the sitting room at the end of the hall. It was a bright room with large windows and overstuffed chairs. It’s where all the family’s guests were received. Mrs.Davenport sat on one of the love seats, embroidering, her small dog at her feet. “Olivia. Amy-Rose!” She stood, her needlepoint forgotten, to embrace Amy-Rose. The young woman stiffened. Though they’d embraced at Mrs.Davis’s funeral, the affection still caught her by surprise. Before that somber day, she couldn’t remember the last time the Davenport matriarch had held her. Was it when her mother had passed?

As children, Amy-Rose played alongside the young Davenports and Ruby. She recalled a scraped knee after a fall from a tree, a challenge initiated by Helen, that Emmeline Davenport had treated herself. She had held Amy-Rose then and commended her on her bravery. This place, this family, would always feel like home. Amy-Rose relaxed and melted into the hug. Her eyes stung anew.

Mrs.Davenport said, “Maude was a dear friend, and I imagine this has been an even deeper cut to you. I know she adored you and would have very much enjoyed seeing you open your salon, being a part of your life.” Mrs.Davenport exhaled loudly and gestured for them to sit. “Running a business is rewarding and just about as difficult as you’d think.” She studied Amy-Rose, long enough for her to start to fidget. “You’ll do a fantastic job, Amy-Rose. And I will be here for you every step to help, however I can. Maude and Clara wouldn’t want it any other way.”

For a moment, Amy-Rose was speechless, full of surprise. Olivia settled her on the love seat opposite Mrs.Davenport and sat beside her. “Thank you, Mrs.Davenport,” Amy-Rose said at last. “I’m looking forward to the hard work. And I appreciate you welcoming me back into your home. I apologize for any inconvenience—”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Olivia. “You are always welcome here. I told you.” She turned to her mother, who nodded firmly.

“Thank you.” Amy-Rose licked her lips. Her mouth felt dry, her chest tight. She had wondered what would happen if the Davenports had turned her away. She took a breath and spoke more quickly now. “I promise to be of no trouble. And I can pay for my own lodgings and any other expenses my stay might incur.”

“Olivia is right,” Mrs.Davenport said. “You are welcome here.” She stood again and held out her hands to Amy-Rose. “Your mother found us at a time when we had few friends. The carriage business was booming, but the city was struggling. It took a lot of Mr.Davenport’s and my time to build ties with the community. Your mother helped watch over our most prized accomplishments. Our children. She was a friend to me.” She swiped away a tear and drew Amy-Rose close. “And a superb mother to you. We are so glad to have you back.”

Amy-Rose didn’t know what to say. She was grateful when Olivia handed her a handkerchief.

“Mrs.Davis will be missed,” Mrs.Davenport continued. “And you may keep your money. Save it for your salon. I can’t believe that woman pushed you out.” She looked like she would say more but held her tongue. “Let’s forget about that ugly business. You’re here now and have wonderful things ahead.” Mrs.Davenport smiled, the dimple that she and John shared revealing itself. Amy-Rose smiled back, finding her words again.

“I am so grateful, Mrs.Davenport, for your hospitality. I will bring my bags up to my old room.”

“Edward will see to your belongings, Amy-Rose. You can stay in the blue room upstairs. You are no longer staff, dear. You’re our guest and will be treated as such.”

Behind her eyes, Amy-Rose felt the beginning of fresh tears. As if sensing her distress, Olivia stood and pulled her free of Mrs.Davenport. “I know some people who will be very happy to see you.” With a vigor hidden beneath etiquette and lace, Olivia pulled Amy-Rose from the room. “I just saw Jessie and Ethel come with the laundry.”

Amy-Rose glanced out the window and saw Hetty, a straw basket on her hip and twirling a leaf between her fingers, a stark relief framed by the golden glow of the setting sun.

“Thank you again, Mrs.Davenport,” Amy-Rose said over her shoulder. She tried her best to steady her breaths as she and Olivia ran down the hall, past Mrs.Milford and her stony expression.

They burst through the swinging door to the kitchen, startling Jessie. “Child, if you were trying to send me—” Her words stopped when she saw Amy-Rose. “Ethel! Hetty!”

“Hello, Jessie,” said Amy-Rose, a bit weepy. Her words came in a muffled jumble, nearly smothered in the cook’s shoulder, which smelled like curry and a hint of vanilla. Amy-Rose inhaled sharply, missing the warmth of the kitchen and Jessie’s eager embraces. Maybe this was still home? She sniffed and blinked away tears.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d ever step foot back in this house.”

Amy-Rose’s face grew hot. They all knew the circumstances under which she’d left. “You can rest assured that I’m here now. I wish I could have visited sooner.”

Ethel came from the door leading to the servants’ stairs, with Hetty close on her heels. Her hug was gentle and reassuring. Hetty’s was quick and tight. She pressed her lips into a thin line and then signaled to Olivia. The pair stepped back and began speaking together in hushed tones.

Olivia broke away to squeeze Amy-Rose’s arm. “You’re in great hands, but you already knew that.”

Amy-Rose swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded. This was the family her mother had left to her. And they would be the ones to see her through.

···

With the last blouse secured in the large wardrobe, Amy-Rose looked around the room she would call hers—but only until she could get back on her feet. Her gaze fell on a few of the boxes still left to unpack. Atop them were the letters and package John had sent her while she was in New York. She approached them with caution. She picked up the package, tugged on the twine around the thick brown paper. It was heavier than she remembered. Maybe that’s just your imagination. Or maybe they hold something too heavy to carry just yet?

Amy-Rose tucked it to her chest and thumbed through the envelopes containing John’s letters. Her fingers itched to tear them open, the way they itched to pin a stubborn lock of hair that refused to curl the right way. It was her heart that held her back. With a huff, she pulled open an empty dresser drawer and shoved the bundle of letters and package inside. Out of sight is where it belongs for now, she thought, and studied the walls. This suite was known as the blue room for the pale-blue-and-cream paper that decorated the walls in a delicate damask pattern. The canopied bed was made with rich, dark blue linens and a duvet as thick as a cloud. She had always wondered what it would have felt like to slip between the silk sheets of this room and place her head on the cool pillows.

And she was nearly ready for bed. Amy-Rose grabbed the satin robe Mrs.Davis had convinced her belonged in her closet and threw it over her shoulders. She’d just get a glass of water. Amy-Rose opened her door to a silhouette in the hallway.

She recognized his profile before he even completed his turn.

John Davenport stood in the hall. He went completely still. Then he took a few steps toward her, stopping in the glow of fading light from the hall window. He was so close, she could reach out to touch him. He wore a sleeveless shirt; his work shirt was a balled-up mess in his fist. His pants sat high on his waist, loose against his long legs. She found herself surrounded by the smell of his cologne, balsam and bergamot, with the tang of oil and sweat. It was distinct, a scent she associated with him and all the feelings she’d tried so hard to suppress these many weeks.

“Amy-Rose,” he said quietly. He took a step back then. She could hear the surprise in his voice. It was the moment she’d both been dreading and hoping for all evening. Their first encounter at Mrs.Davis’s funeral was a blur. Except when their skin had touched. His hand around hers when he offered his condolences had been rough and warm. At the time, all she could do was nod. Since then, she’d rehearsed what she might say a million times.

But now that she saw him, Amy-Rose forgot it all. How can I be calm with him looking like that? With him even just standing here? Every fiber of her felt pulled toward him. But she stood straighter. She rolled her shoulders back. After a moment, the words began to surface. Their lives were wrong for each other, she would explain. They’d rushed into things, and the heartache they’d suffered was for the best. Perhaps Mr.Davenport’s practical assessment was the right one.

No.

Amy-Rose refused to accept that the one thing she could not control would be the deciding factor—the only factor—in how people saw her, or in how she chose to navigate the world. She was more than the daughter of a slave owner . Mr.Davenport knew this. And so did John.

All she had to do was open her mouth and speak it.

John pulled his hands from his pockets. He held them up, as if to pacify himself or her—she wasn’t sure. She noticed his fingers, long and slender as ever. But his lips pursed. He was going to speak. She couldn’t stand to hear him exhale her name like that again.

“Good night,” she said quickly, and disappeared into her room before he could utter a word. Tonight, she would just have to be thirsty.