Chapter 12 Helen

Chapter 12

Helen

“Would you please pass the sugar?”

The younger Davenport daughter blinked her vision clear. “Did you say something?”

Mrs.Milford sighed. “Oh, it wasn’t so bad. There’s no need for you to ignore me.” She lifted up from her seat to reach the sugar.

Helen looked around. She felt like she was coming out of a daze. She and Mrs.Milford sat at their regular table at Marshall Field & Company’s busy tearoom. As Helen’s tutor, Mrs.Milford had a few weeks left to get Helen ready for her debut. Her parents would only hold off marrying her for so long, whether or not her sister was wed.

Ugh, Helen thought. The last thing she needed was a white stuffy dress and a series of parties thrown in her honor where a parade of boys she’d known her whole life, most of whom had already been dismissed as matches for Olivia, gawked at her. And to what end? So she could be stuck inside some house, away from any motorcar or carriage or personal ambition?

“Had I known that co-ed dance lessons would be so poorly received, I would have suggested them sooner,” Mrs.Milford continued.

Helen sat up. “Sooner?” Her toes ached at the memory of the morning. Not only had she had to endure Mr.Greenfield’s two left feet, but also her mother’s friend Mrs.Johnson. Olivia had warned her that the woman had often accompanied their mother on Olivia’s chaperoned dates after her debut, and that her keen eyes and loose tongue were not to be trifled with. It was Mrs.Johnson who had suggested that a choreographed dance, including both young men and women, was just the thing Helen’s party needed. And her mother had agreed ! The instructor practically floated with glee and immediately ended the lesson that morning so he could plan.

“Yes, by now you would be used to dance lessons, and as amenable,” Mrs.Milford went on, “as you have been to everything else.” Helen’s tutor gave her a level look. Dressed in black, Mrs.Milford exuded a foreboding presence that concealed her dry humor and surprisingly advanced notions despite her primary role as etiquette expert. Having lost her husband in the Springfield Race Riot two years ago, Mrs.Milford asserted that her charges gave her purpose.

“But I know how to dance well enough, Mrs.Milford. Lessons will cut into my time working on the motorcar. We need to at least match the top speed of the Ford and Studebaker. And now there’s this whole business of a performance?” She met her tutor’s stern gaze, undeterred. “I’ve only just gotten John to show the appropriate level of enthusiasm for my idea. Now we’re finally working on it, and—” She cut herself off, seeing the woman’s eyebrow lift.

John loved automobiles too much not to give in to the allure of having one with the Davenport name on it—his dream as much as hers. After she’d caught him up on her conversation with Mr.Swift and endured his lecture about sneaking off to woo strange men with endorsement deals, he’d finally come around. Even as she tea’d with Mrs.Milford, John was gathering what they needed. And Helen was stuck here. She felt the urge to slouch but kept her back straight. “I just want it so badly.”

“Desire is a strong emotion. We must not let it us blind us to all else.” Mrs.Milford had reluctantly agreed to assist Helen in her pursuit of her own interests, saying it was far easier than searching for her hiding spots, of which there were many. It also saved Helen from more lectures. Though, even with her father abroad, time for those interests had been difficult to come by. Her mother insisted on her presence at various functions with other well-to-do ladies. Just yesterday, they called on a young woman and her mother. The father owned the tannery where Davenport Carriage Company sourced leather for the carriage interiors. A good connection to have, she supposed, but Helen would have sooner preferred to meet the gentleman himself than to have tea with his wife and daughter.

Mrs.Milford’s eyes softened in her long face. “Being patient is difficult, Miss Davenport. And I know you feel that if you don’t prove now you can run the business, that it will never happen. I promise, that is not the case. You are too stubborn for that.”

Helen’s laugh joined Mrs.Milford’s. It felt good, this release. She was grateful for the understanding her companion had for her plight, one most girls her age and status did not share. Helen wasn’t ready for the version of adulthood her parents had in mind for her. And she had to admit, when she’d first seen Mrs.Milford in her somber attire and hair pulled back tightly, she’d feared the worst from this woman too. But their trips to parks and museums had piqued and sated Helen’s curiosity, as had their teas and lunches and conversations. Still, Helen knew Mrs.Milford’s true purpose was to prepare her to find a husband and to make her a good wife, two things she was wholly uninterested in. Especially not since… him .

As if reading her thoughts, Mrs.Milford said, “Cheer up. I am sure there is an eligible young man out there perfectly suited for you. This need for tinkering will pass and you will find interests in common that will unite you.”

Helen suppressed an eye roll. Tinkering , as her tutor put it, was not an interest she would outgrow.

Mrs.Milford continued. “I know you did have a certain person in mind, Miss Davenport, but you’re young. You have plenty to look forward to.”

Helen swallowed her next words. Jacob Lawrence and his easy smile appeared in her mind. She had thought she’d found the young gentleman who would take her for what she was. Someone who would understand what the Davenport Carriage Company meant to her. What she could do for it. One who would love her and all her quirks and insecurities and ambitions, finding them essential, not terrifying—things to embrace, not run from.

“Yes,” Helen said. “Perhaps I will find someone who will toss a wrench into my future—in a good way. Like, an actual wrench. But until then, I think it’s perfectly well and good to try to do as much as I can to secure a foothold in the family business.” Now Helen did slouch in her chair, making a point to not see Mrs. Milford’s disapproving glare over the low floral centerpiece. She was still slouched when she saw her mother and Olivia making their way to the table.

Helen sat up. “Hello, Mama.” She gave Olivia a look, which her sister pointedly ignored.

“Hi, darling.” Mrs.Davenport took a seat between Mrs.Milford and Helen. Olivia sat on Helen’s other side. They dropped several bags and packages tied with twine at their feet.

“What’s all this?”

“They’re decorations for your party,” said Olivia, giving Helen a wide-eyed look as she unpinned her broad hat decorated with bright red roses. Helen felt a pang of guilt, knowing she should be making more of an effort to help plan this event. “And I spotted just the dress to pull the whole theme together. I made sure I got the brightest, largest floral patterns I could find for you. Oh, and so many frills—the more frills, the better.”

“Ha, very funny, Livy.” Helen watched her sister shrug and inspect the sandwiches on the serving tower. “You are joking, right?”

Olivia turned to her slowly, her eyebrows arched and a wicked smile on her face. “You’ll just have to see.”

Helen’s head whipped to where Mrs.Milford covered a chuckle with her hand.

“Mama,” said Helen.

“Girls,” Mrs.Davenport said. Olivia and Helen both straightened at her tone. They were in public, in Marshall Field’s grand tearoom, where their behavior would be noted. Mrs.Davenport cleared her throat before speaking again. “We brought a few swatches of lace for you to look through too, Helen. For your dress.” She reached for a small triangle of bread and smeared it with butter.

“But not a floral dress, right?”

Olivia, her ever-dutiful sister, stood to pour the pair a cup of tea and refresh Helen’s and Mrs.Milford’s. “You seem suddenly very interested in your dress,” she whispered.

“No,” her mother said, with the corner of her mouth twitching. “Not floral.”

Her words, though reassuring, did not ease Helen’s concerns. “Mama, I don’t think I’m ready.”

“Helen, it’s only a party.” Mrs.Davenport looked tired.

Only a party? If only it were only a party. That may be what it looked like to the guests, and what it felt like to her mother, but to Helen it signaled the beginning of the end. Mrs.Milford thought she was dramatic. But Helen knew better. A party to “introduce her to society” only meant she was available for courtship. It only meant that young men would feel that they had the right to invade her personal space and time. It would be only the end of her having any control whatsoever over her own life.

Helen looked up at the high ceilings as if they were about to fall on her. If Olivia couldn’t keep their parents from meddling in her love life, what chance did Helen have? Her chest tightened. The macarons she had eaten threatened to see their way back to daylight. She was a moment away from excusing herself from the table, her grip clammy around the arms of her chair, when she felt a hand on hers. Livy . She didn’t dare look up at her sister for fear she might cry. But the gentle pressure grounded her. Sure, Olivia teased her. She also stepped in as often as she could so that Helen could take her time.

Helen was grateful.

“I know you aren’t looking forward to being the center of attention.” Her mother watched her expectantly. “We all know there are other things you’d rather be doing.” She took a sip of her tea, then met Helen’s gaze. “This is important too.”

“I know it is. And I’m not ready,” Helen repeated. It felt good to have the words out even though the moment of silence that greeted them confirmed that the party would not be postponed.

Mrs.Davenport patted Helen’s other hand under the table. “Most people don’t get to prepare for the important events in their lives. Sometimes they don’t know they’ve lived them until they’re over. Enjoy it now before it’s too late.” With a final squeeze of Helen’s hand, her mother leaned back in her chair.

Helen retreated from the conversation. Mrs.Milford changed the subject, asking her mother and Olivia about their afternoon. Her tutor listened politely. Helen tuned them out, focusing vaguely on the cake stand, when she heard a familiar name whispered behind her. Helen glanced over her shoulder, but a column obstructed the speaker.

She tilted her chair back.

“Oh yes, I heard he’s returned from London. Jacob Lawrence, yes. And with a wife!”

The front legs of Helen’s chair crashed to earth. Her breath came in tight gasps. Jacob Lawrence. Back. With a bride?

“Her name is Etta James Lawrence,” drifted the speaker’s voice.

Spots clouded Helen’s vision. Before her head became too light, she again felt a pressure on her hand. Olivia held her fiercely. At her shoulder was Mrs.Milford and her mother. The older woman made it around the table with very unladylike haste. It took what was left of her strength not to blurt out what she’d just heard. Mrs.Milford and Olivia knew about the connection she and Mr. Lawrence shared. How they fell for each other this past spring despite his public courtship of Olivia and Helen’s own adamant refusal to entertain suitors. They also knew why she ended the relationship, breaking both their hearts.

Her mother had no idea.

In the corner of Helen’s vision, a group of young women walked past their table. The closest one turned and smirked at Helen over her shoulder. It was Agatha Leary, Bertha Wallace, Odette something—a new acquaintance of Ruby’s—and their friends following closely behind. The words may not have been meant for Helen, but they cut just the same. Was this her first glimpse into the debutante scene? Helen would have laughed under any other circumstances, but her world was tilting on its axis, and the firm pressure her governess applied to her forehead with a cold cloth kept her tethered.

“Breathe,” Mrs.Milford urged.

Helen did.