Chapter 19 Amy-Rose

Chapter 19

Amy-Rose

The sun had started its descent when Amy-Rose locked the shop behind her. She sighed and thought of the vast tub that awaited her in the blue room at Freeport. Her arms and back ached fiercely, and she knew once a room at the boardinghouse for unwed ladies opened, she would surely miss that tub. She rounded on her heel, then stuttered to a stop. Something was missing. The Davenport carriage usually staged down the street wasn’t there. Where Harold should be, perched on the coach seat with the Record-Herald open on his lap, a sleek black motorcar idled instead.

John Davenport leaned against the driver’s-side door, his jaw tense as he stared at the spot just beyond his feet.

Amy-Rose hesitated. The unexpected sight of him— She placed a hand over her chest, sure he’d be able to hear her heart pounding from where she stood. Amy-Rose licked her lips. She’d done her best the past couple of weeks to keep her distance. But if Harold wasn’t here…

She walked to John, worry hurrying her steps. “Good evening, John. Is Harold ill?” Another loss would be too much to bear.

John startled and stood up. He removed his hat. “Not at all,” he said. She drew in a relieved breath. “Just a pressing matter he needed to attend to. I offered to come get you, Amy-Rose. I hope you don’t mind.” The tension she’d observed in him a moment ago had evaporated. Could she hope—was it her effect on him? The thought set off a frenzy of butterflies in her belly.

Amy-Rose glanced down the street. The sun, low in the sky, cast long shadows down the pavement. “No, I don’t mind.” He walked her around and opened her door. She slid in and remembered another car ride they’d taken together. The parcels Jessie had sent her into town to fetch had been wedged between them and in the space behind. She’d pretended on that spring day that she was not the maid in his family home, but that they were just a boy and a girl out for a drive. Perhaps tonight, that is just what we are.

The engine roared to life. John placed his hand on the seat, his fingertips accidentally grazing hers and setting her whole body on fire. Oh, did she want to feel his fingers laced through her own! Amy-Rose turned to look out the window, hoping to hide the blush she was sure bloomed beneath her freckles.

John cleared his throat and now, with both hands on the steering wheel, pulled the motorcar away from the curb. “Busy day?” he asked.

“Yes, packaging serums for sale, fulfilling orders I received when I was in New York—that sort of thing.” She kept her hands in her lap and noticed that John had shifted closer to his door. “We’re closed to customers on Tuesdays so the stylists and I can keep up. The upstairs studio is a blessing—I don’t know how we’d make it all otherwise.”

“Sounds like a well-oiled machine,” he said. His dimple and cheerful countenance invited her to share like they once had as children, as they had this spring in his parents’ garden.

“Speaking of machines, Helen tells me you have it all. Is the car close to finished then?”

He stopped at the intersection and looked at her, his expression intense. “I don’t quite have it all,” he said meaningfully. Amy-Rose’s stomach flipped. She remembered how she’d ended up in his arms during that same spring car ride. John looked back at the road, took a breath. “The day-to-day keeps me busy. The work on the engine, the prototype—it has to be perfect,” he continued.

“Perfection is a lofty goal,” said Amy-Rose. “I’m just trying to keep up. I feared after leaving New York, orders from the connections I made there would dwindle. But I was wrong. Orders come from Newark, New Haven, Boston. There’re requests for treatments ahead of my trips this fall to road shows in Springfield, Milwaukee, Indianapolis.” She noted the incredulity in her own voice. “People have seen ads in papers and heard from friends and relatives here in Chicago that my hair care products are the real deal . Blocking a day a week in the appointment book to create stock, it was not an easy decision to make, but I don’t see another way.”

John glanced at her, eyes warm. “I wish Daddy and the board would see another way—realize that what Helen and I are doing is the real deal too. We don’t have much time to transition before the other companies leave us behind. And even though it’s Daddy and the board we have to impress, if we fail to modernize, it’ll be the men who work in the factory, the showroom, their families ”—John wiped his face with his hand—“they’ll be the ones who take the hit. The days are too short,” he said.

“And the nights long,” she finished, thinking of all she stayed to do after she locked the salon doors. Thinking of lying in bed at Freeport, staring at the ceiling, John just down the hall.

He slowed the car for two carriages to cross and turned to her, his face serious, as if hearing her thoughts. Then he reached out and squeezed her hand, so quickly—the warmth from his palm on her skin there and gone. He broke eye contact once the street cleared.

They drove for a time. Quiet. Then John glanced at her again, smiling now, and the dimple that made her knees weak reappeared. “I think watching you thrive has hardened Helen’s resolve. Mine too.” He cleared his throat. “I’m lucky to have the carriage company waiting for me—what my father built is remarkable.”

She could not deny that. Or that John seemed to be trying to express something to her. What exactly? She could never expect John to give up his inheritance for her, especially not now, with all that was at stake for him and Helen, for the company. She would never want that. Amy-Rose tried to imagine Mr.Davenport’s journey, the hurdles that could have derailed his progress, and the determination and bravery needed to overcome them. They had turned him into the man he was. She remembered Helen’s words now—that more had transpired after Amy-Rose had left. But now, as then, Amy-Rose did not wish to linger on the possibilities. Nothing appeared to have changed between John and his father. Mr.Davenport’s words about her had hurt. They would always hurt. She wished, not for the first time, that he had not felt the need to call for such a sacrifice from John—the choice to forfeit the business and his family, or to forfeit her.

John glanced at her. He said quietly, “I want it to continue to be successful and grow, but also to stand on my own, for what I believe. Make my mark. Have some part of it to call mine.”

Amy-Rose looked at her clasped hands. “It’s a wonderful thing, to call something your own.”

He shifted next to her and Amy-Rose noticed how close they were now. “All these orders from customers in New York—what was it like?” he asked. “Being there?”

“Oh it was an adventure, to be sure. New York City is a lot like here. The streets are full of cars and horses, people! So many people. Black businesses are thriving in a neighborhood called the Tenderloin. Theaters and galleries, shops, banks, dancing halls. And the nightlife—”

“The nightlife?”

“Yes,” said Amy-Rose, “mostly with Mrs.Davis. The atmosphere is more relaxed, and Black and white folks enjoy music clubs and restaurants together late into the night.”

“Mrs.Davis did enjoy a party.”

Amy-Rose laughed. “She did.” Ah, Mrs.Davis. It felt good to talk about her. “I did also enjoy an evening out with a young gentleman I met at a trade show.” John made a sound, and Amy-Rose looked over at him. “But I explained to him, my heart belonged to Chicago.”

A smile broke across John’s face. He glanced at her as the city moved around them, and the sun painted the streets in gold. It burnished his skin in a bronze light. He looked at her again, something shifting in his face now. “You did it, Amy-Rose,” he said. His joy for her radiated from him, from his whole being. It washed over her. The feelings they had for each other may always be there, And, that’s fine, she thought. But this feeling was golden. “No one deserves it quite like you do.” His hand lifted off the steering wheel, hovered, as if to reach for her. Then grasped the wheel once more, fingers flexing, restless. Amy-Rose felt an ache low in her body.

She closed her eyes a moment. They were near Freeport now. She took a small breath and glanced at John. “How are you and Helen progressing?” she asked.

John sighed. “The engine is built. Most of the frame. We’re disagreeing on the exterior. But right now, our biggest problem is increasing the horsepower—the engine’s output compared to a draft horse’s. Daddy is due back in a couple of weeks, just in time for the exhibition .” He shook his head. “Helen’s plan has evolved into an outright race, with Ransom Swift at top billing.”

Amy-Rose sat up. “But that’s good news! I’m surprised she hasn’t learned to drive it and enter a race herself.”

“I assure you, that did cross her mind.” His laugh traveled right through her and warmed her to her core. “You and Helen—you handle it all with grace, Amy-Rose,” said John, pulling his motorcar up the long drive. “You have different… styles .” He smiled. “But I have no doubt it’s the beginning of great things for you both.”

Amy-Rose felt light as air then. But with her next breath, a growing doubt crept in. “Mrs.Davis’s daughter—” Amy-Rose started. “Have you heard about this? Ruth Davis? I’m afraid she’ll come back, John, that she’ll look for a way to kick me out of the salon, the same way she pushed me out of Mrs.Davis’s house.”

He touched the back of her hand. “Olivia told me. I’m sorry that happened to you, Amy-Rose. You and Mrs.Davis became very close. I didn’t know about Ruth. I’d bet most would say Maude Davis cared for you as if you were her own family.”

Amy-Rose felt tears welling. She certainly felt like family to her late mentor. “I had thought to pay my way to owning the salon. Now, I’ll never get the chance to tell her—”

John reached for her again. This time his hand remained, warm and reassuring, between her palms. The gentle pressure of his callous fingertips kneaded her sore hands. They stayed that way until they reached Freeport. John brought his motorcar to a stop at the front of the open garage bay door, but made no move to get out, both hands now in his lap.

“I didn’t know her all that well, but my gut tells me that whatever you wished to tell her, she already knew,” he said.

Amy-Rose nodded. She knew this to be true. Still, she couldn’t help wonder what the future would have held for the two of them had Mrs.Davis not fallen ill. Amy-Rose caught John looking at her with such tenderness, her chest tightened. Their eyes locked. She held her breath, wanting to reach for him again. Wanting to draw him to her.

John turned suddenly, opened the door, and exited the vehicle. He walked around the front and opened her door to help her out. This time his touch was firm and brief.

“Would you like to see what we’ve been working on?” he asked.

“Mm-hmm.” She didn’t quite trust her voice yet.

John led her over the gravel path and onto the smooth floor of the garage. He left her side briefly to light the gas lamps on the workbench on the far wall. After her eyes adjusted, Amy-Rose found herself in the bay; the partially assembled prototype already looked more like an automobile than he’d let on.

“She’ll be beautiful when she’s done,” said John.

“She?” Amy-Rose watched his face change, the shyness that crept in despite his obvious excitement.

“The exhibition is in two weeks. We’ve been working around the clock. It has to be up to my father’s standards.”

It will be beautiful, she thought. The leather trim on the interior and the tufted seats bore a striking resemblance to the more expensive Davenport carriages. “And you’re confident this will change your father’s mind?”

John shoved his hands in his pockets. “He’s set in his ways, but he is reasonable once presented with a sound argument.” He lit all but one lamp.

“Then why didn’t you,” she heard herself saying. “Argue for us—that night in the garden?” The words were spoken before she could stop them. Once they were in the air, she knew how badly she needed the answer.

His brow furrowed. “I did argue. I told my father that I cared for you, Amy-Rose, that I loved you. We spoke at length about the hardship he endured when the business was first created, the doors that were closed to him.” John wiped his face with his hands. “He doesn’t want to see those doors closed again on the people he loves.”

Amy-Rose’s ears were ringing. “Would loving me close those doors?”

“Of course not,” said John quickly, taking a step toward her. “And if they did, I’m sure they’re not ones I’d want to walk through. He doesn’t see that, though.”

She had heard Mr.Davenport clearly, but she could hear the truth in John’s voice too. “He asked if you were willing give up the business. He said that he would not help if we married, and you said nothing.”

John hesitated. Amy-Rose could see him fighting to find the right words. She braced herself for what might come next. “A few hours before the party, I went into my parents’ room to borrow a pair of cuff links. Daddy’s shirt was off and I could see—” John’s voice cracked. “His back.” He stopped, deciding not to continue. He didn’t need to. Amy-Rose had heard from the other servants about the extensive scarring Mr.Davenport carried. She’d seen the poultices the physicians delivered to soften them and ease his pain. “My father is convinced that all he’s built for his family could disappear.” John put his elbows down on the build and lowered his head. Amy-Rose stepped toward him, placed her hand lightly on his back. “In the garden that night, I told him that he could not protect me from the pain and hardship there is in the world. That what I really needed was his support and guidance. When he asked me about Ruby, I told him that you, Amy-Rose, are the only person I’d choose to stand next to me. I don’t know how much you heard that night. I can only imagine what it must have felt like to walk in on that conversation. If you’d heard everything, you’d know I stood up for us. Yes, he is set in his ways, though, and ultimately, family is all that matters.”

Amy-Rose opened her mouth to say…what? What could she say? John leaned into her palm. “The next morning, I planned to tell him you were my choice, only to find you’d left. I ended up telling him after dinner that night.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Amy-Rose.” It sent a shiver up her body that tingled down to her toes. Her resolve to keep her distance faded with his nearness. Had he really fought for us? The eager tenderness in his eyes told her yes.

He straightened and she felt as though she were tipping toward him. “John.” His eyes fluttered closed, then opened as he scooped her to him. Their foreheads touched and Amy-Rose released a breath. John’s lips found hers. It was like a wave crashing through her. His familiar scent, balsam and bergamot, sweat and salt—it filled her senses. She melted into his embrace and forgot all the reasons they couldn’t belong together. All she could feel was his body pressed to hers. The pressure of his lips along her jaw, her neck, made her skin feel flushed all over. She found his mouth again and deepened the kiss. He pulled her closer in response. It felt like a dance, a give and take, cued by the subtlest of gestures. Her pulse raced. John’s words replayed in her mind. He’d defended their love, chose her over his parents’ match. He whispered her name against her mouth now and cradled her head in his hands. His feelings had not changed with her silence or their separation. And neither had hers.

John pulled back and looked down at her, eyes hazy and intent at once.

And then reality came crashing down. Amy-Rose shuddered. “We should stop,” she said. He opened his mouth to respond. “You have enough going on with the build, and I’ve just—I’ve just opened the salon. Nothing has—the situation hasn’t changed, John. Carrying on like this will only make it harder.” Harder to ignore this when your father returns and… Amy-Rose could not complete the thought.

“I don’t want to give up on us.” He cupped her face in his hands. “The only thing—person—I can think about, is you. There must be a way. I’ll find a way. I told him my choice. And here I am—not disowned, not cast out. There’s hope.” His eyes searched her face. Amy-Rose kept still, her pulse ticking. “Before you stepped back into this house, Amy-Rose, I wondered what you were doing, how you were doing. Now,” he said, licking his lips, “now I have to function in this house knowing you’re down the hall. I smell you in the rooms you’ve left. I hear your laugh through the wall. You’re close enough to touch and just out of reach at the same time.” He took a step back, and another. Each made her breath hitch. “I can’t believe after everything I wrote in my letters, you won’t give this another chance?”

Her feet felt glued to the floor, her face burning hotter than a moment ago. She knew the exact moment he recognized the truth. She felt the shame—of letting his letters go unread and unanswered—pulse through her.

He shook his head slowly. “And all this while, I thought you just needed time, space.” His next words were delivered calmly. “I want a future with you. I have been so proud to watch you accomplish your dream. You know where I stand. Read the letters—you’ll see. There’s more than you may realize.” He exhaled loudly. Amy-Rose swallowed around the lump lodged in her throat. He handed a lamp to her. The look on his face pained her to see. “I have some work to do here,” he said, “but I can walk you up to the house.”

John’s words pierced her. Everything he’d said, it was everything she’d ever wanted to hear. But they’d been here before. And she’d heard his father’s words that night— daughter of a slave owner —words that separated her from them. Yes, Mr.Davenport was set in his ways, and yes, family was all that mattered—John had said it just now himself. But while she’d lived under this roof since she was five, Amy-Rose was not family. John felt sure he could move heaven and earth, move his father. But how could she put her faith in these two men, when they had so thoroughly broken her heart? Her trust? She couldn’t take another loss. Not one this big. Not now.

Finally finding her voice, she said, “I can make my own way.”

Amy-Rose escaped to her room. When the door clicked shut behind her, she pressed flat against it. Her heart beat in her ears and she could taste salt in the back of her throat. “Was coming here a mistake?” she whispered. There was no one to answer. Her next few breaths ached as they passed. She opened her eyes, walked slowly to the dresser, and freed the parcel John had sent her from its hiding place. It was heavier than she remembered. Curiosity tinged with dread made her hands tremble.

The paper tore easily, the sound echoing in the quiet of the night. It was a large bundle of letters. What is this? All but one was tied together with twine. Amy-Rose tucked the bundle under her arm and tore open the lone envelope, pulling free a sheet of paper dated the day she’d left Freeport and covered in John’s scratchy writing:

Dear Amy-Rose,

I’m sorry it took me so long to realize any future without you would be incomplete. I’m sorry for the scene you witnessed, and I regret not having had the chance to explain myself before you left. I feel lost, with no sun or compass to regain my bearings.

But I hold on to hope.

I’ve let my father know this today: I choose you.

The staff at Mrs.Davis’s house said you accompanied her on a trip. I hope you’re well and safe. I hope this note and the letters enclosed find you. The first missed you by hours. The others were delivered bound about two weeks later. They’ve remained just as they were received.

I hope you find what you need, and return home.

Yours always,

John.

Amy-Rose stared at the paper in her hand. If John had already explained his position to his father, that meant that all this time, he’d been waiting for her. She thought back to Mrs.Davenport’s demeanor, welcoming and warm. She remembered how closely John’s mother had watched her and John interact—or not—at dinners. Have I been waiting for Mr.Davenport to approve while they all waited for me to accept?

It made her head spin and her stomach churn. Amy-Rose wanted to believe it was all now up to her, but she couldn’t. A fairy-tale notion. And though John had stood for Amy-Rose, it was clear from what he’d said that his father had not. So nothing was different. No, she would not be the storm to tear John away from his family. And she could not endure the heartache of their rejection again. She folded his letter and placed it back into the envelope. Then she directed her attention to the others.

The first didn’t match the ones in the bundle, which were worn and discolored with age and handling. The first was fresh, heavy cardstock. With neat looping script, it was sealed with a crest that she’d only seen broken. Amy-Rose’s body stilled. A sudden rush of blood made her head light and the room dim. She cradled the bundle in her arms like an infant and lit the gas lamp on the desk. The chair creaked as she sat.

It was her father’s seal. The one that marked the letters her mother kept from the man she’d loved. With a shaking hand, Amy-Rose traced the raised wax. Then she used a letter opener to split the top, keeping the seal intact. Adrenaline coursed through her veins. She pulled the letter free.

Dear Amy-Rose,

You may not remember me. My name is Elizabeth Cary Evans. My father was Andrew Baxter Evans. Your father too. And not a day has passed since you and your mother came to the house that I have not thought of you and how cruelly my—our—grandparents turned you away. If only my cries were not stifled, we could have known each other sooner.

Amy-Rose let the letter rest in her lap and closed her eyes. Her nose stung as tears escaped her eyes. Buried deep, a memory resurfaced. She and her mother arriving at the grand plantation in Georgia after weeks of traveling from their storm-ravaged home in Saint Lucia. The sea had been rough, the weather terrifying as waves crashed overhead. At five years old, this event had eclipsed all others. Until she and her mother had arrived at what they thought could be their new home. A bright white house, with large windows and a porch long and wide. It was the most beautiful house she’d ever seen until they came to Freeport. They were exhausted. Clara Shepherd had carried Amy-Rose up the long drive, assuring her this was part of a grand adventure. On the porch, she’d knelt before Amy-Rose and smoothed her hair, straightened her skirt, before knocking on the door.

The floorboards had creaked. The breeze played between the branches of the willow tree. White petals fell like the snow she would soon experience here in Chicago. Clara Shepherd’s hope blurred her tired features and brightened her smile. Her mother had been convinced that her love’s letters were lost in the post and, later, the storm. Why else would he have not written in so long?

Amy-Rose took a deep breath now. When she was sure she could, she read on.

I love my grandparents still, but I shall never forgive them for the pain they caused you and your mother when my father was too weak to speak for himself. I believe knowing that you both were sent away, and being unable to search for you, drained what little energy he had left. I’m sorry to say that he passed away not a week later.

Amy-Rose recalled the couple who answered the door, how they’d stood sentry at the threshold, their frowns and firm mouths. And the girl, a few years older than herself, pointing and yelling, “Liar!” before being carried off. Amy-Rose had always thought the girl was pointing to her and her mother, but now she wondered. Were the liars living in the girls’ home? Were they this older couple standing like a fortress between Amy-Rose and this house?

Her father’s death had changed her mother. Made her closed off to romantic love. The love that remained was channeled into her daughter. Amy-Rose had basked in that love.

The first sheet fluttered to the floor from Amy-Rose’s weakened fingers. A sob escaped her. She pressed a hand against her mouth, and grieved for her mother and this man she never knew, for their love that was cut off and for her. The family she could have had, the love that could have surrounded her.

Her mother.

Mrs.Davis.

Her father.

So much loss.

She skimmed the page below to find that Elizabeth’s own mother had died during her birth. It all was too much. Amy-Rose released another silent sob. She ached to know that she and her mother had been so close. He’d still been alive, and they would not let us see him. The cruelty of it felt like a hot comb to the back of her hand, the pain delayed but compounding quickly. She set the letter aside and pulled at the twine holding the other letters together. Amy-Rose instantly recognized her mother’s handwriting.

These are her replies, she realized. He kept them.

The hour was late, but Amy-Rose would not rise from her desk before the sun.