Chapter 15 Amy-Rose

Chapter 15

Amy-Rose

The bell above the salon door was newly polished brass, just like the one in Mr.Spencer’s old storefront. Those days felt like a lifetime ago, and yet so fresh in Amy-Rose’s mind that her heart ached at the memory—finding the barber had sold the space to another, finding the bank had encouraged it. Now, in her renovated building, Amy-Rose felt this one was always meant to be hers. And tonight was her night. Outside, she knew Clara’s Beauty Salon fanned across the window in bold lettering above the image of a crossed comb and scissors. The gas lamps on the street would paint the building in warm hues and welcome her gathering guests to see the completed salon before customers filled the seats at the sinks.

Amy-Rose massaged the back of her neck and fought the urge to tug on her hair. She’d taken her time to achieve the effortless-looking knot at the crown of her head. She refused to be a salon owner with untidy hair!

Oh! Salon owner. How lovely it sounded.

“It’s time, miss,” said Sandra. Mrs.Davis’s former maid had carried out her late mistress’s wishes and ensured Amy-Rose had everything she needed to make this night spectacular. Though she had no background in beauty work, Sandra had been Amy-Rose’s first and most essential employee. Now Amy-Rose took one more glance around the room: gilded mirrors above each station, gaslight chandeliers above the waiting area, and the rich textured wallpaper, emerald and gold, to add depth and opulence to the space. It was more beautiful than she could have hoped. And with Olivia’s help, it was dressed gorgeously for her debut—fresh-cut roses in crystal vases, champagne service and hors d’oeuvres. A leather-bound appointment book reclined on a high-top table, with a rose-gold fountain pen poised to accommodate her first guests.

“Thank you, Sandra.” With that, Amy-Rose turned back to the door. It opened with a sigh, letting in the summer breeze and cheers from friends and guests who’d answered Olivia’s and Mrs.Davenport’s calls and Amy-Rose’s personal invitations. Her eyes looked heavenward, she breathed deeply, and returned her gaze to the crowd.

“Welcome!” Amy-Rose stepped aside and allowed the crowd that had gathered to fill the room. She greeted the Tremaines, the Andersons, Agatha Leary and her mother, along with a few working girls she knew, employed by families inhabiting the Davenports’ sphere. Also, women with their daughters and friends, and a few gentlemen they’d brought along. It was far more than Amy-Rose had expected. Relief and joy swept through her.

“Congratulations!” Olivia squeezed her wrist.

Amy-Rose hugged her. “Thank you.” She pulled away and looked at all her supporters, picking up jars of her samples, inhaling the rose, hibiscus, and other florals she incorporated into her treatments.

Beside her, Helen and Ruby looked around, smiles on their faces. Ruby stepped closer. “This is marvelous.” She held her hand out.

Amy-Rose grasped it gratefully, happy to know that any tension over their once mutual interest in John Davenport was over. “Congratulations on your engagement, Miss Tremaine.”

“Thank you,” Ruby said, “and call me Ruby.” She winked and excused herself to make space for Olivia and Helen’s mother.

Mrs.Davenport blinked away a tear of her own before leaning in for a hug.

“Amy-Rose! This is wonderful!” said Helen, at her mother’s side. Her embrace was the tightest, giving Jessie, who was next with Harold and Ethel from the Davenport household staff, staunch competition. Jessie’s tears nearly got Amy-Rose crying again. “Tommy gonna been sore he missed this.”

Amy-Rose’s childhood friend Tommy, Harold’s son, had tended the Davenports’ horses and invited her to relocate west with him earlier that spring. “He wrote me with his congratulations, Jessie. He and I will meet again. I’m happy he’s forging his own path.”

After Mrs.Milford’s greeting, Amy-Rose took a step back to admire the scene. Steadying herself, she plucked up a champagne flute and tapped it with her nails. The room quieted.

“Thank you for joining me tonight,” Amy-Rose said to her gathered guests, “for the unveiling of this long-awaited moment. I am very proud to present Clara’s Beauty Salon.” At the applause, her heart swelled. “I’d also like to say a special thanks to the Davenports and to the late Mrs.Davis. My mother would be proud of all of us. Please enjoy the refreshments, sign the appointment book, and try the samples. I am here if you have any questions.”

Mrs.Davenport raised her glass, and it occurred to Amy-Rose—perhaps if Mr.Davenport could have been here, he’d see how much she’d accomplished. But she shook the thought away. She had nothing to prove, not to anyone but herself—and she was convinced. Amy-Rose beamed, a feeling of triumph filling her chest. She raised her own glass high, nodding her thanks to Mrs.Davenport, and her guests joined her, drinking to her future success. No glass had ever tasted so sweet.

As everyone settled into their circles of conversation, Amy-Rose found herself searching the crowd for one face in particular. Though she had been trying to avoid John Davenport, she couldn’t help hoping…And before her heart could complete a disappointed dive into the pit of her stomach, she noticed a lone gentleman climbing the stairs. With his gaze focused on his feet, all she could see was the top of his hat. But Amy-Rose knew that hat. He’d come. John is enough, she thought. After the hours they’d spent on a bench at the edge of the garden at Freeport, talking about their dreams of success, she wanted to share this with him. Her grip tightened on the brass knob, the bell chiming above. The young man looked up.

“Oh—” she breathed. “Ben!” Her muscles clenched. She hoped she disguised the disappointment she felt.

“Amy-Rose,” he said. She remained speechless as he took her hand and placed a kiss on the back of it. In his free arm he held a bouquet of yellow roses. “They’re not quite as beautiful as you, but I couldn’t resist.”

“They’re gorgeous. What a—surprise! What are you doing in Chicago?”

“In town on business. I heard about Mrs.Davis when I checked in to my hotel. I’m so sorry, Amy-Rose. How are you?”

How am I? A close friend and supporter had died as she’d sat helplessly beside her. She’d lost her new home. And she’d finally realized her life-long dream of opening a salon named for her mother. It all left her breathless. “I’m taking it one day at a time and not one for granted,” Amy-Rose said at last. She accepted the roses he held out to her. “Thank you.” She recalled the last things Mrs.Davis had told her. Trust yourself, her mentor had said. I am so proud of you, my dear.

Benjamin King tipped his hat up. “My goodness! It looks like a picture.” He tucked her hand under his arm and they both stumbled as they stepped from the door in opposite directions. He laughed. “Well done.” He tugged Amy-Rose to the center of the room, where her guests chatted and admired the little touches that made the space her own: a map of Chicago framed next to one of Saint Lucia, a smaller frame at the register that held a photograph of her with her mother—one of the few she had. Before she could respond, he continued, “It’s all just as you described it would be.” He turned in a circle, appraising the space.

“Yes,” Amy-Rose said, something nagging at her. She turned to Ben. “Thank you for coming,” she said, and detached herself from him at the refreshments table. “I hope you enjoy the party.” She searched for a place for the flowers, wondering what sort of business would bring him all the way from New York to Chicago.

“Amy-Rose.”

She stilled at the voice. She would know it anywhere. It preceded the balsam and bergamot scent that followed her around Freeport Manor like the moon follows the sun. Amy-Rose set the bouquet down on the rear counter. When she turned, she felt a jolt pass through her.

John Davenport’s eyes shined as they locked onto hers. His dimple winked and was gone, teasing at the boy he’d once been, the one who’d held her heart more firmly as they’d grown. “Your salon is—” John paused, his tone filled with wonder. He finally shifted his gaze from her to the furnished salon around them. There was a satisfied smile on his face, dimple in full effect. “This is wonderful, Amy-Rose. I’m so happy for you.” He took an unexpected step forward, then stopped himself. He feels it too, she thought. A magnetic pull.

“When I didn’t see you with your mother and sisters, I thought you wouldn’t come,” she said.

“I wouldn’t miss this for anything.” He appeared shy. Time stretched, and the way he studied her face, he may as well have been tracing his fingers along her temple, her jawline, down the curve of her neck. She quelled a shiver, remembering his fingers, callous but gentle, against her cheek in the moments before his lips had last met hers, weeks ago in her attic room at Freeport. “How are you?” he asked.

“I can’t begin to describe how happy I am,” she whispered. And nervous .

Amy-Rose wasn’t sure when her eyes fluttered closed, but they flew open when she felt the barest whisper of his fingertips against the back of her wrist. John said nothing, his gaze intent on her, his hand lifted toward her face, frozen in midair for an agonizing moment, before it fell to his side, and he came to stand beside her, watching the celebration, his arm so close she could feel his heat through his shirt and jacket. They stood there together, admiring the scene.

···

“You’re procrastinating,” said Hetty.

Amy-Rose stared at her face in the cheval mirror, her arms full of linens. Hetty sat on the bench at the foot of the blue-covered bed. Having worked together as maids in the Davenport household, Amy-Rose feared that her friend would harbor some resentment at her change in circumstances. In the week and a half since she’d returned to Freeport, Amy-Rose had done what she could to avoid that—tending to her own needs, keeping her room pristine, and pressing her own dresses. But Hetty had been nothing but supportive and proud of her. Amy-Rose should have taken to heart Jessie’s words when she said that the staff were more than happy to see her success.

She was far less effective at that than she was at avoiding John. Though the girls assured her she was welcome at every family dinner, she managed to find an excuse to miss more than she attended. Thankfully, during the day, John was preoccupied with tending to the family business. The family business. Amy-Rose aspired to grow her salon as large as the Davenport Carriage Company one day, though she recognized the wedge that same company represented for her and John.

True to character, Hetty herself had confronted Amy-Rose’s strange behavior. “What do you expect us to do when you and Mr.John wed?” her friend said now, rolling her eyes and holding her arms out for the linens balled up in Amy-Rose’s grasp. Then Hetty scolded her for missing meals with the family. “It’s bad form since you’re a lady now,” she teased. “You never let your hair down.”

Amy-Rose added an unnecessary number of pins to her hair. “Hetty, ladies don’t wear their hair down,” she said, ignoring the observation. “Mrs.Johnson will be at dinner tonight, and she is the most… opinionated person I’ve ever met.”

Hetty stood and said, “Turn around. You missed a button.” She dropped the linens on the bench and walked to where Amy-Rose sat.

Amy-Rose obeyed. For the third time, she considered changing. She wore a white linen blouse—the lace trim started at her shoulders and met at her navel, which she tucked into a tailored cream skirt. Maybe her colors were too white, too bright. Her curls refused to cooperate today, and the freckles appeared more noticeable than usual. Maybe I’m ill? I feel ill. No one wants a sick person at the dinner table. She felt herself flush, thinking of the way John’s arm grazed hers at her grand opening a few nights ago.

A sudden rush of anger surprised her. She was being cowardly and stubborn. Amy-Rose glanced at the drawer where she had hidden his letters. What did you want to tell me? With her friend at her back, she could hardly check now. Her hands balled up at her sides. She had no reason to think that her and John’s predicament had changed. But her body didn’t agree when they were in the same room together. And she suspected neither did his.

“Stop,” said Hetty. Then she crossed her hand over Amy-Rose’s shoulders and met her gaze in the mirror. “You are a guest of the Davenports, and just as entitled to dining with the family as any other person at that table. If Mrs.Davenport’s stuffy friend has a problem with that, it is in fact her problem. Now, if you’re afraid you’ll accidentally fall into the arms of a certain Mr.Davenport, then you should be very nervous. You look beautiful, and he is very dreamy. It’s a potent recipe. But you know more than a thing or two about those.”

Amy-Rose laughed. She turned and hugged her friend. Hetty practically pushed her out of the room before turning to tidy up. Is this how Helen feels, dread ahead of every social engagement?

She walked through the house, the thick Aubusson rugs swallowing her footfalls. Her nervousness grew as she entered the formal sitting room where the family, minus Mr.Davenport, gathered. Quick meals with the girls were a different affair from full family suppers, especially given tonight’s guest.

Mary Johnson stood at the window with Mrs.Davenport. Mrs.Johnson was Mrs.Davenport’s senior by a several years. She held her fan folded, a blue silk and white bone piece that matched her dress and fascinator. With her sharp tongue, she was known to be a fiercely loyal friend, but one with a weakness for sharing secrets. Amy-Rose couldn’t hear what the two women said as they indicated the gardens. A safe topic. When the older woman’s prudent gaze paused at her appearance, Amy-Rose thought to say hello, but Helen intercepted her.

“Thank goodness you’re here. We need you to settle a dispute.” Helen pulled her over to where John and Olivia stood.

Olivia had her hands raised and was shaking her head. “I decline to answer. I will not get in between you two.” She beamed when she saw Amy-Rose.

“Now,” Helen said, “ I think the Davenport stock car should be red. John thinks it should be black. Please tell him he’s being boring and unreasonable.”

“I’m not being unreasonable. You’re being impractical and stubborn.”

Amy-Rose laughed and for a brief moment, John’s smile, bright with joy, shone on her with its full, unguarded wattage. Her pulse quickened. She inhaled deeply to reset, and found her lungs filled with his scent. Oh, did it make her feel as though she could float away. Helen elbowed her, grinning. Had I been staring?

“Uh,” Amy-Rose started. She shook her head clear and tried to embrace the playful mood—like when they were younger. She lifted her chin. “I’m a serious businesswoman now. I’ll have to hear your proposal.”

Helen puffed up. “Easy. Red is bold, eye-catching, which is exactly what we want. The stands will be full of potential drivers, and we want them to remember the Davenport Carriage Company sells more than just buggies.” She looked at John, a challenge on her face.

John glanced at Amy-Rose. That dimple. He licked his lips and turned his attention to Helen, his expression now a determined copy of his sister’s. “Red is memorable, but the everyday people in the stands aren’t our customers. Not yet. The people we want to impress are the board members. We have them, and securing a future for our employees, to think about. Daddy—when he returns. Black is sophisticated, classy. That’s what they want.”

They both looked at Amy-Rose expectantly. She considered their reasons, and tried to approach it the way Mrs.Davis would. “Can you create this automobile line without the board?”

Helen pouted.

“Unfortunately, no,” said John, smiling.

“You can’t sell what you don’t have,” Amy-Rose said. “But who’s to say the board members don’t want bold and eye-catching? Nothing is guaranteed. I say, take a chance. You might be surprised where it leads you.” Amy-Rose met John’s eyes, and she felt the air between them spark.

Helen whooped beside her. The corner of Olivia’s mouth turned up slightly.

“Helen!” Mrs.Davenport exclaimed from where she stood at the window. Her statement was echoed by Mrs.Milford, who had just entered the room. The younger Miss Davenport was saved from a lecture by Hetty’s announcement that dinner was served. They followed Mrs.Davenport to the dining room. Olivia and Helen fell into a conversation about the younger’s upcoming debut. Amy-Rose only caught every other word, but Helen sounded frustrated and Olivia annoyed. She and John made up the rear of the procession, walking in silence. His nearness was a tangible thing, and Amy-Rose relished the size of the formal dining room and the fact that he took a seat near his mother, the farthest from the one she claimed for herself.

The discussion of Helen’s debut soon expanded to include the entire party at the table, much to Helen’s annoyance.

“We’ve nearly pinned down the menu. Our biggest unknown is what the guest of honor should wear,” said Mrs.Davenport pointedly but not without a note of playfulness. The Davenport matriarch’s expression changed when she caught John’s eye and then Amy-Rose’s. Was that a small smile with the arched eyebrow? Amy-Rose couldn’t quite interpret the look.

“I’m sure you’ll find the perfect dress when you least expect it,” said Amy-Rose, hoping to offer Helen some support.

Mrs.Johnson’s eyes darted to Amy-Rose. Her mouth screwed to the side as if she’d bitten a lemon. To her credit, Amy-Rose maintained her smile and posture, while trying to pinpoint what she could have done to offend the older woman.

“Of course it will be when I least expect it. I don’t expect to find dresses in my daily activities.” Helen frowned but shot Amy-Rose a smile.

“Which is why we will set a day aside to go shopping,” said Olivia, who ignored the grimace Helen made in response.

“Amy-Rose,” said Mrs.Johnson. Her tone was like a pronouncement, and everyone at the table turned to look at her.

“Yes, ma’am,” Amy-Rose said, keeping her voice steady, her hands folded under the table.

Mrs.Johnson smiled tightly. “Your salon is a roaring success.”

Amy-Rose blushed. “It’s still new. I’m so grateful for the support.” She smiled at the family. “And I’m looking forward to the future.”

“Hmm, that is true. I wonder how you came up with such an idea. A salon. A hair care line?”

“They’re mostly home remedies, things my mother did with my own hair before she passed. I have a—” Amy-Rose paused. “I have my memories to guide me. My mother’s techniques and the work I’ve done on my own, experimenting with different styles, and different ingredients to create my wares—all have inspired and guided me.”

Mrs.Johnson laughed. “I don’t imagine your mother spent much time on that hair, given its texture.” Amy-Rose placed her hands firmly on the table now. She did not suspect Mrs.Johnson’s comment was meant to be complimentary or inclusive. “And then to give rise to such an endeavor as opening a business!” the older woman continued. “Quite the busy bee.”

Amy-Rose felt her face burn. She fought to be polite, keeping her tone friendly. This woman was a friend of Mrs.Davenport’s after all. But Amy-Rose couldn’t help the sour feeling in her stomach at the woman’s several implications, one of which was that Amy-Rose did not, herself, possess the wit or inspiration to dream up her own salon and see it brought to life. She’d endured enough of that from the gentleman at the bank who had reluctantly managed her accounts before her friendship with Mrs.Davis had smoothed the way.

“I suppose this dream to open a salon came from her—my mother,” Amy-Rose said. “My mother had difficulty with my hair despite its texture. She kept it tied back. I thought she did so because it reminded her of my father.” Mrs.Johnson’s eyes widened at this mention. Clara Shepherd had rarely spoken of the man she loved. Amy-Rose had been happy to spare her that pain, and ignore her own at never having met him. Now she invoked her mixed parentage, her voice polite but full of all the love she felt for her mother, hoping to make explicit and precious what Mrs.Johnson sought to disparage. Amy-Rose glanced at John, remembered his own father’s cruel words, and under Mrs.Johnson’s continued scrutiny, she made herself sit taller. “Or perhaps,” Amy-Rose added evenly, “she styled my hair in such a way so as not to draw unwanted attention.”

Mrs.Johnson bristled. “I only meant, how did either of you have the time with all your responsibilities here?” she said dismissively. Amy-Rose stilled to contain her ever-rising anger. “I’d think a maid in a house as fine as this would have more than enough to do without dreaming of more work!” Mrs.Johnson laughed, and though no one joined her, she carried on as if they had. “But dream you did.”

Helen sat across from Amy-Rose, slack-jawed at Mrs.Johnson. For once, neither Mrs.Milford nor Mrs.Davenport rushed to correct the younger girl. Beside Helen, John’s face had hardened to marble. The dimple Amy-Rose so adored had disappeared, replaced by a knot of muscle that pulsed in his cheek. Her gaze slid to his arm, where he held his fork in a lethal grip.

“Miss Shepherd, did you not hear what I said?” Mrs.Johnson asked.

Amy-Rose blinked. She pulled weary eyes from John, who looked fit to climb over the table toward Mrs.Johnson.

“Mary—” Mrs.Davenport began.

“Oh, Emmeline, I only meant that her ambitions are inspiring.”

The rest of the table began to speak at once. But there was one voice that commanded silence from them all. “Mrs.Johnson, I believe you’ve forgotten yourself.”

John’s words doused the flush of embarrassment and anger Amy-Rose felt. She remembered her hard work, their late-night talks, and the endless, sleepless nights leading up to the salon’s opening. She cleared her throat and turned again to the woman, choosing her words carefully. “I’m happy to be an inspiration, Mrs.Johnson,” said Amy-Rose. “I am, however, just one person. I’m sure there are as many domestic workers with talents beyond the household as there are those with status and no talent.” She tilted her chin, hoping to slow the blood rushing to head. So bold! she thought. Had she not told herself to respect her hostess’s other guest?

Mrs.Johnson paused, her fork halfway to her mouth. Shock and indignation warred across her features. Her glare made Amy-Rose want to shrink into her seat. Instead, she made herself sit even taller. If I can walk into Binga Bank and manage my own finances, I can meet this old crone’s prejudice with pride.

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Mrs.Johnson. Her voice was cool, and by her tone, it was clear she would say no more.

John set his cutlery down. Amy-Rose’s eyes locked on his as he spoke. “You are a guest, Mrs.Johnson. And Amy-Rose is a bright young woman with many talents. She is an important person to this family.”

Mrs.Davenport looked at her friend then, and nodded. It was the first time Amy-Rose had seen Mrs.Davenport truly ruffled. Before their hostess turned her attention back to her plate, Amy-Rose spotted the raised eyebrow Mrs.Davenport sent John’s way.

“I meant no ill will,” said Mrs.Johnson. “I have no doubt your assessment is accurate.” The older woman winced as if in pain when she inclined her head toward Amy-Rose.

Is this supposed to be an apology?

The air thickened into uncomfortable silence as they returned to the meal. Amy-Rose ate Jessie’s roast chicken, suddenly tasteless in her mouth, swallowing the emotions tightening her throat, her sense of victory sputtering. Helen and Olivia offered her encouraging smiles, which helped. Even Mrs.Milford appeared to offer tacit approval of Amy-Rose’s rebuttal. She chanced a glance at John. He stared at the plate in front of him, chewing deliberately. His knife and fork trapped in his fists. It was the last time she allowed herself to glance in his direction. She felt the final flames of her triumph extinguish, her spirits deflating like a spent air balloon. It was encounters like this that Mr.Davenport had tried to warn his son about. It pained Amy-Rose to wonder if the elder Mr.Davenport could have been correct.

The dinner party stuck to safer topics then, with Olivia and her mother driving the conversation forward. Even Helen offered her opinion. Amy-Rose was grateful for it, and when the last of the dessert dishes were cleared, she excused herself from the post-meal brandy in the sitting room.

She took the long way to the kitchens and burst through the door, where she found Jessie polishing silver.

“Dear, aren’t you supposed to be out there, enjoying yourself?”

Amy-Rose leaned over the table, elbows bent to prop her chin in her hands. “Do you think Mr.Davenport was right? That I don’t belong in his world?”

Jessie paused and stared at Amy-Rose until the doubt she felt crumpled in on itself. Amy-Rose knew better. She was letting Mary Johnson decide what she was worth, even after she’d shown the woman, quite clearly, she was worth far more than she thought.

“You know damn well neither of those things are true.” Jessie came around the table and grasped Amy-Rose’s elbows. “Mr.Davenport carries a lot of scars. Not all of them visible to the eye. Do not let that man’s fear—or that woman’s ignorance—yes, I heard—chase away your happiness.”