Chapter 14 Olivia

Chapter 14

Olivia

The vaulted ceilings of the Blackstone hotel created a cavernous, luxurious lobby. Olivia hadn’t been here since the night of the election results, a night so busy, she hadn’t properly appreciated the splendor of the newly built hotel. Now, on the arm of Mr.Stone, she took in the crystal chandeliers and lamps, the plush furniture and parquet floors as they made their way to the large dining room. The ma?tre d’ escorted her and Mr.Stone to a prime table, where she recognized men and their wives who often attended parties thrown by her parents. It was the first stop of the night Mr.Stone had planned for them. He’d picked her up in a sleek motorcar that he’d left with the hotel’s valet. Her mother and Mrs.Johnson had gone ahead in a carriage and sat far enough away now to give the illusion of privacy.

Mr.Stone eased Olivia’s chair under her as she sat, careful not to snag the beaded hemline of her powder-blue dress. His breath was cool against her skin. “I’m glad you agreed to dinner.”

Olivia unfolded her napkin and smoothed it over her lap. “Of course,” she said, remembering herself. “I’m impressed. A table at this hotel is difficult to acquire.” The dining room was not quite full yet, the tables nicely spaced to offer their guests privacy. The crystal glassware shimmered in the candlelight.

“I have a few connections of my own,” he said, eyes alight. He looked dashing in a dark suit that hugged his form. The cut complemented the sharp angles of his jaw. He held up a finger.

The waiter arrived immediately. “Champagne?”

“Please,” Mr.Stone said.

The suggestion was perfect, though how could he know. Her first piece had been published! It was signed “Anonymous,” but Olivia could not stop grinning. To see her words in print? What a marvel! She tingled at the thought of it sitting in the mailboxes and homes of countless subscribers and newspaper readers. Her words! Nothing could have brought her down from such a high.

Well, almost nothing.

This morning, Edward had confirmed that there had again been no letters from Washington DeWight. Her own most recent note, sent two weeks ago, had gone unanswered. She thought he’d have at least responded to the draft of her article she’d eventually sent on to the Defender. She had been unsure if she should sign her name to it, and had sought his advice in her last letter.

But she was proud of what she had produced—to lend her voice, if not her name, to the Cause. It was Mr.Stone who had given her the idea that she could be this voice of many. And it was her own idea to write what she had, and to remain anonymous. The guilt she harbored about her station and how it compared to those she wished to help lingered, yes. But the life of wealth and privilege she enjoyed would not outshine what she had to say.

“Is this too much?”

Olivia pulled herself out of her musings and smiled. “No, champagne is perfect.” She pushed away the distracting thoughts. Be in this moment. She decided to enjoy her quiet success and the company of the handsome gentleman across from her.

“Perfect? The night has only just begun.” He lifted his glass, bubbles exploding from the surface like sparks. “I had hoped to impress you and work my way up.”

“Yes, well, I suppose the task now is to maintain it.” The flutes created a singing note as they touched.

“I am not one to shy away from a challenge.”

“Is that so?” she asked.

“I would not have survived otherwise.” He leaned forward. “I was the youngest and smallest in my schoolroom. So, when I was dared to climb to the top of the tallest tree, I did—”

“Really?” she asked.

“Yes, and never said no to a footrace.”

Olivia laughed. “And did you win?”

“Most times. I was surprisingly fast and agile for being small. My mother was always dancing—I must have inherited some coordination from her.”

Olivia thought about how light he was on his feet. “?‘A two-step can save your life,’ mine likes to say, ‘or threaten it.’?”

Mr.Stone laughed. “Mrs.Davenport is an intelligent woman.” His gaze went far away, twinkling. “I convinced an older boy once, I knew the secret to the smoothest two-step. He called me a liar. That afternoon, after enduring some teasing about my height, I captured a small frog by the pond where we fished. When the teacher announced ‘Show-and-tell!’ I dropped it inside the collar of his shirt when she wasn’t looking. Don’t worry,” he added quickly, “the creature escaped unscathed.”

“And the dance?”

“It was captivating. You should have seen that child move.” He laughed. “I had to sprint all the way home. I don’t think I’ve run that fast since.”

Olivia could feel the joy the memory brought him. “We took our instructions at home,” she said. She and her siblings were tutored at Freeport. “Different tutors for mathematics, writing, and reading, the classics. Then John went away for university, returning at the end of his first year to learn about the carriage business from Daddy. What was it like—to be in a schoolroom with other children?”

Mr.Stone leaned back. “I learned my letters very early, read everything within grasp. I enjoyed it”—he groaned—“save for reading aloud to the class.” He adjusted his eyeglasses. “My voice was not quite so deep then. That footrace to safety taught me a valuable lesson—choose my battles wisely. ‘Precocious,’ is how they described me.”

“Clearly you were a proficient frog wrangler.”

“Indeed. And you?”

“Very little talent for frogs.”

“And for mischief?”

“I wouldn’t say I caused much, but I wasn’t above a well-planned heist to sneak treats from the kitchens. Especially before a party.”

“Having had some of Jessie’s famous desserts, I can’t fault you there, Miss Davenport.” And the way he looked at her…Olivia took a small breath.

The rest of the meal passed, full of laughter and sharing of memories. As an only child, Mr.Stone had read to pass the time during the school year. He had lived in Springfield, traveling to Chicago in summers to spend time with his other uncles and cousins until his father’s death made Chicago his permanent home.

“I imagine you had less time to be studious once you moved here.”

“My book smarts got us into enough mischief. I’d convince my uncle we were going to the library—we’d walk from his Bronzeville apartment to the public beaches.”

Olivia laughed. “You sound like Helen.”

Mr.Stone took a sip from his water glass. “I do admire her grit. Grit like that got me in as clerk in my uncle’s office after school when other kids returned south or north to the fields. Then later, it got me to university.”

Olivia smiled. “My siblings and I had to keep our pranks within the bounds of Freeport. We’d escape into the orchards when we should have been at our studies. Oh, what it must have been like to explore Chicago like that!”

“We got into a few scrapes, but we were always home by supper. And I always placed my studies ahead of fun.”

Olivia smiled. “Why am I not surprised? My mother said you graduated at a young age.”

He nodded. “I went to university year-round.”

“And your mother?”

Mr.Stone hesitated. Olivia stilled, noting a subtle shift. “I asked to live with my uncle. I think it hurt my mother to see me sometimes,” he said. “I look so much like my father did.” He adjusted the silverware at his setting. Hurt passed quickly over his features. “It’s why, at the end of my seventh summer, I stayed. I was thirteen.”

The next course arrived, and Mr.Stone continued. “Here I was, in Chicago now, still a short, skinny kid among all these bigger kids. And my aunt? She’s a warm person, but if you cross her—” Mr.Stone finished the sentence with a whistle, clear as a bell, but so low, only Olivia could hear.

“How’d you learn to whistle like that?” Olivia leaned forward, delighted.

Everett Stone put down his cutlery and made a show of getting settled. He straightened his tie, pushed his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose, and locked eyes with Olivia. “Lick your lips,” he said. “Take a deep breath.” His voice dropped lower, taking on a huskier tone. “And exhale.” He demonstrated it slowly as if he were teaching a classroom of students. Did he not know the way he pursed his lips made his jawline sharpen?

“Ah,” said Olivia, surprised by the breathiness of her voice. A nice, safe topic. That is what she needed now.

Everett Stone matched her posture. It was the most relaxed she had ever seen him. “You know, I recently took up riding again. Horses seemed so unpredictable. I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed it.”

“Each has their own personality,” Olivia said, “much like people. Chestnut is mild-mannered and enjoys strolling.”

Mr.Stone straightened in his chair. “A champion of people and animals. I am very happy to have made your acquaintance, Miss Davenport.”

“Likewise.” As soon as the word passed her lips, Olivia felt the way it rang up her spine, the truth of it. Mr.Stone was kind and funny. His resilience to overcome his childhood was admirable.

After settling the check, Mr.Stone took her hand and led her through the lobby to another hall. The music surged up to meet them. Olivia felt a need to release the excited energy humming beneath her skin. She inhaled deeply, gathering a lungful of Mr.Stone’s cologne and the mint leaves he chewed. It heightened the effects of the adrenaline coursing through her veins.

“I read your essay in the Defender, ” he said.

The heady tension Olivia felt snapped like a thread.

“Ow!” he exclaimed. They both looked to see Olivia’s foot on his.

“Apologies!” she said, stepping back. She felt her heart ram against the inside of her chest. Her ears rang over the band. She swallowed. “ My essay?” she asked. Her eyes darted to the couples around them.

“The one about the young woman arrested at the protest? Her cousin paid her bail and the officers still refused to release her. Any of that ring a bell?” he asked, a small smile tugging at his lips, his eyes warm.

Olivia stared at his shoulder as heat rose from her chest to her neck and up to her face. She had submitted her account of Hetty’s arrest anonymously to the paper, with Hetty’s permission. The words had come in fits and bursts. She had reworked each sentence several times, and when she’d accepted she could do no more, she’d sent it to Washington DeWight. After failing to hear from him, she’d taken a breath and sent it on to the Defender . The paper’s decision came sooner than she’d expected: It would be published. But are you sure you’d like to sign Anonymous? the editor had asked.

Yes. And she’d resisted the urge to ask Mrs.Woodard and every person she encountered at the community center today what they thought of the piece. And here was Mr.Stone, convinced with the utmost authority that she was the author. Olivia closed her eyes and calmed her breathing.

“The author of the article had information related to Hetty’s case that only someone very close to the situation could know,” Mr.Stone said quietly. “They described the situation with care and compassion. Your words were mesmerizing.”

Mesmerizing.

“?‘Women are expected to be the keepers of the home. Is not this country our home? We must not punish those who would see it swept clean, who would throw open the shades, expose the dark corners that need our care and attention.’?”

When she opened her eyes, he was looking at her with a strange expression. Olivia couldn’t quite pin it down. Oh, but to hear her words read back to her… He’d memorized them.

They’d stopped close to the entrance of the dance hall, the music beckoning them forward. Olivia swallowed hard.

“I know you read the papers,” he said quietly. “I’ve seen them tucked under your skirts when your father enters the room. Hetty spoke nothing but your praises when we met to discuss her case. You’re well-respected. And you may think what you do goes unnoticed, but I assure you it doesn’t.” Mr.Stone lifted his hand. It hovered below her ear, as if to catch her. Olivia had a mind to lean into his touch. He moved closer, slightly, his eyes locked on hers. Olivia felt a delicious tension building in her neck and shoulders. So, when he withdrew his hand, she rocked forward, then back on her heels. Her mind had cleared of everything except a desire to feel Everett Stone’s fingers at her jaw, to breathe in the heady scent of his cologne, to let the music fade to a hum in the distance as his lips brushed hers. Instead, she settled for the gentle pressure of his hand at the small of her back and his chin at her temple as he pulled her to him, and they swayed to the music.