Chapter 20 Helen

Chapter 20

Helen

Helen passed the back of her hand across her forehead and paced the garage. The bay doors were open to let the air circulate. “Will this weather ever break?” she asked John, looking out over the hazy summer grounds of Freeport, glancing at the servants’ entrance beyond the gravel drive. No one was coming to haul her back. Yet. John held a screwdriver in his hand, tapping a beat into his palm. “John, are you listening? Actually, are you humming?”

He looked at her, seeming distracted, and didn’t answer. But his mood was lighter than it had been in weeks. Something’s happened. I won’t forget to wheedle it out of you, she thought, turning back to the build. She and the twins, Isaac and Henry, had spent the past week working on the body of the motorcar—the future of the Davenport Carriage Company. If she tilted her head and squinted, she could almost picture Ransom Swift behind the wheel of the finished product. But time was tight.

“There’s not much we can do about this heat,” said John at last. “We can get back to work. We’ll have to take the body to the factory for the final coat. But we don’t have weeks to watch paint dry. The ovens should do.” He stood with his elbow propped on the arm across his chest, rubbing his chin. “I can’t believe Daddy’s been gone over a month already.”

When the letter had arrived saying their father was detained, Mrs.Davenport fought to hold back tears. She didn’t let any of the children read the full note he’d sent. “He’s safe and that is what matters,” she’d said. It was left at that. The Davenport siblings had exchanged looks but did not pry. Olivia said they should trust that their mother would let them know if there was cause to worry.

“It’s closer to two months now,” said Helen. “Do you think—” Her words got stuck in her throat. She was proud of the engine they’d built and the automobile taking shape. It would run once everything was in place. Still…She wanted it to stand out—to be so powerful that her talents, her instincts, could not be denied. Also she wanted to drive it! Her brother waited for her, his expression gentle. “Do you think,” she continued, “that we should turn the building you bought for Amy-Rose into a workshop? Surprise Daddy when he gets home? It’s not being used as anything other than a dust museum. And it’s more industrial and far larger than anything Amy-Rose would use right now. And that way everything will be done, and Daddy’ll just have to watch it succeed.”

“Helen, I doubt that’s the kind of surprise Daddy would appreciate.” His exasperation was clear in his tone. “Let’s start at the start. Mr.Stone and I have discussed the downward trajectory of the carriage sales with the board.”

“And the possibility of changing the business model?”

“Not yet. For one thing”—he raised his eyebrows at her—“it doesn’t feel right to hide your involvement. Or, for another, to bring the board in before Daddy sees this.” This was a conversation they’d had more than once. “But now that the board’s aware of the current sales decline, maybe they’ll be open to seeing one automobile prototype. One. That’s what we’re working on now.” He gestured with comic exaggeration to the build.

“I know,” said Helen, annoyed.

“I can’t hand Daddy a company in worse condition than he left it. And developing that other building will take away needed resources. Helen, we haven’t even gotten approval on one prototype, let alone an entire factory. Daddy will come around. If we try to force his hand, he’ll dig in his heels.”

“Ugh, why do you have to be right?”

“Because I’m your big brother.” He smiled wide, but then his face softened. “This is a huge undertaking that requires time and planning.”

Helen groaned. She knew this. Before he’d left, their father had sat with each of them. She didn’t know what he’d told Olivia—probably “keep up the good work,” but for Helen, it was a reminder to heed her mother and Mrs.Milford. To keep focused on her studies and the plan they laid out for her. Mr.Davenport had sat with John the longest.

“All he wants to know is that I’m minding my manners and staying out of trouble.” Helen folded her arms across her chest.

“His expectations for me are not that different. With the exception that everything is run exactly how he wants it.” John sighed. “It’s been frustrating to show up every day and not have a voice.”

“At least you get to show up. And you do have a voice now. All I want is a seat at the table. I’d even settle for a seat in the corner of the room. For now.” Far better than preparing for her debut. There’d be no tea parties or dance lessons today. Only a brief appearance at the Greenfields’ party later tonight and her social obligation for the day would be fulfilled. She would go with her siblings—Mrs.Milford was free to spend her time off as she pleased.

John walked to where she stood and draped a damp arm over her shoulder. “Once we get this up and running, you’ll get it, Helen. They won’t have any reason to doubt that you’ve earned it. Let’s focus on that.”

“Will it be before or after you stifle me with your stench?” she said. John held her closer as she tried to free herself from his grip. His words felt like a promise. Though they lifted her mood, there was a feeling she couldn’t shake, another reason for the knots in her stomach.

Ransom Swift had agreed to visit Freeport. To see a horseless Davenport carriage, their very first motorcar. Helen looked at the matte black frame. The interior had been removed after the dry fit. So had the doors. The wheels were propped against the far wall. It wasn’t so much a motorcar as an elaborate metal sculpture. They had learned a lot from the Ford they’d fixed in the spring. They’d also learned there was so much more to do before their stock car would be competitive. I may have oversold the product, she thought as John emptied his glass of water.

“Who’s that coming up the drive?” John asked now, squinting into the slanting light. He finally released Helen and moved toward the opening.

She also may have forgotten to tell her brother they would have a visitor. “I invited Ransom Swift to see our motorcar.”

John gestured wildly to the hodgepodge of parts strewn about. “What motorcar?”

“The one we’re building! We may not have a factory, but we have our name and two pairs of hands between us. And with Isaac and Henry involved, we can run the business how you think Daddy wants you to for now, and we can be ready for the inevitable. I sent Ransom Swift a note to follow up on the possibility of racing our motorcar. Turn our upcoming exhibition into a race . I told you this.”

“Helen”—John threw up his hands—“this automobile will run, but I’m not sure it will race . And since when have you been exchanging letters with Ransom Swift?”

They both turned to look as the bright red motorcar sped up the drive, gravel flying in its wake. “You can’t be serious,” John said.

Panic rose in her chest. “Can we talk about it later?” Helen walked to where John stood and held his arm. “Please?” she asked.

He glanced over her head. When he looked back at her, his mouth puckered to the side like it did when Ethel’s lemonade was too tart. “Fine.”

“Thank you!” she said. “And don’t look at me like that. All the rumors about him only involve gambling and drinking.”

“Oh great,” she heard John mumble. “Nothing too serious then.”

Helen ignored him as Mr.Swift pulled up, slid out, and strolled over to the garage, raising his hand in a wave. He’d left his jacket in his vehicle. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone, and his straw hat had left his messy mop of curls plastered to his head. “Good afternoon, Davenports,” he said by way of greeting. The sight of him made her smile—harder when she imagined how appalled Mrs.Milford would be at his manners and state of undress. Her eyes settled on the notch at his collarbone. Its sharp edges glistened with sweat.

Gross. Stop. You’re like those girls at the track. Helen threw her shoulders back and swallowed. “Nice of you to join us, Mr.Swift. I trust you had no trouble finding the address.” She glanced at the clock on the workbench. He was early.

“It was easy enough,” he said. The look on his face suggested he saw the way she studied him. Clearly, he was mistaking her curiosity for attraction. Clearly.

“Swift.” John shook his hand and offered him some sweet tea from the pitcher sweating in the corner.

After a long draw, Ransom Swift’s attention drifted to the state of the garage. His eyes narrowed as he took in their work. “This is the motorcar?”

John bristled and looked at Helen. With his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze bore into the side of her face as she watched Mr.Swift walk around their vehicle. She turned and widened her eyes at her brother. Where was his John Davenport charm? Or did he only save that for ladies at parties, as he deftly maneuvered out of dancing?

John’s voice broke the silence. “It’s the making of one,” he said.

Mr.Swift nodded. He then sauntered around the engine once more. Slow and deliberate. Helen was about to speak when he stopped abruptly. “Do you have a wrench?”

“What size?” she asked, before John could answer. Swift picked one up from the bench and bent over her engine. Like a mother defending her young, she stepped closer. “What are you doing?”

“Checking the tension on that gasket,” he said, smiling. “Don’t want to create a projectile.” Helen placed his glass down with a splash. She was fixing to give Mr.Swift a piece of her mind when he said, “Do you see this here?” He waited until John’s head neared his and pointed to a spot Helen could not see. “This is a weak seam in these styles. If you want this to really run smoothly”—he paused and looked up at Helen—“I’d suggest you find a way to protect it better.”

“And if I want it to go faster?”

Mr.Swift whistled, high and clear. “Then you’re gonna need to replace your carburetor. Upgrading to Kingston’s Five Ball ought to do it.”

“So, no changes to the dog chain or fuel intake?” Helen frowned at the engine block. A larger carburetor meant more oxygen, increased combustion. More power. Would the Kingston fit?

Mr.Swift grinned at her. “You’ve showed me yours. I’ll show you what I’ve done to mine.”

Helen sensed he was flirting by the way his eyes lingered over her mouth, her neck. It raised a heat in her.

John stepped in then—literally. Stepped right between them. “Listen, I read what they’ve said about your work in the papers,” he said, “and I’d thank you to slow down.”

Helen nudged her brother out of the way, her eyes fiery, she was sure. John would not ruin her hard work with his stubbornness.

Mr.Swift sucked in his bottom lip and nodded. “They don’t always have it right, you know.”

John’s jaw twitched. “What did they get wrong, Mr.Swift?” He handed their guest and Helen each a glass of iced tea.

Ransom Swift glanced at Helen. “It wasn’t gambling so much as borrowing more than I could pay back. It’s all settled now. And the parties—I thought they came with the profession, the lifestyle.” He shrugged. “I realized what I like more than anything is being unexpected.”

John, standing beside Helen now, scoffed, then grunted at her elbow in his side. “We can look into the Kingston tomorrow.” To Ransom Swift he said, “We planned to place the engine in and start her up. You don’t have to stay—”

“I can help,” he answered. He shoved his sleeves to his elbows. “I’ve dropped an engine or two. Not on the ground,” he added quickly. Mr.Swift pointed at the engine and, for a moment, the swaggering facade slipped and she saw a young man as enthusiastic about motorcars as she was. “I’ve been behind the wheel of a few different makes and witnessed modifications to varying degrees of success.” He shook his head and his curls swung with the motion.

“What’s it like competing in a race?” Helen asked.

“It’s the best feeling. Exhilarating and scary and”—he searched for the word—“freeing. Sometimes I forget there are other motorcars around me. When it’s over, I’m ready to do it again.”

“Let’s work while we talk,” said John. Mr.Swift pulled a silly face at Helen when John bent over the engine.

With a subdued giggle, Helen said, “Let me.” She slipped her hand between the dolly and the engine and checked the fittings. Mr.Swift rubbed his chin. He and John talked about his racing history, skirting around the controversies Helen had mentioned to get him here. She joined in but was mostly focused on the work. Her smaller hands proved invaluable once again, and she couldn’t resist the urge to stick her tongue out at John, eliciting laughter from them both. The three of them worked well together, despite Mr.Swift’s large head.

“That’s it. Let’s hoist the engine,” said John. He’d peeled down the top of his coveralls and tied the sleeves around his waist. Helen wished she could do the same. She wore a pair John had outgrown years ago over an old blouse. Propriety demanded she keep hers buttoned. Mrs.Milford made sure of it, occasionally popping in with cold drinks or snacks but, gratefully, not requiring Helen to come inside.

“Helen?” said John. She placed the glass down and took her place opposite her brother and Mr.Swift. He looked to Mr.Swift and nodded. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“Wait,” said Mr.Swift. He stood over the engine and pulled on the rope looped through and underneath the unit.

“I tied it myself,” said Helen. She folded her arms and raised her chin. “I didn’t spend all that time and energy perfecting it just to have you two drop it on the ground.”

Together, they eased the engine into place on the chassis.

“Woo!” cried Helen, tossing her hands in the air. The three of them cheered and whooped . John threw his arm over her shoulders and shook her gently. Mr.Swift approached her, arms as wide as his grin, as if to join them, but John angled her away.

Unruffled, Mr.Swift took in their work. “Well, there’s that.” His expression was one Helen felt often. The warmth of accomplishment. Her arms ached and her knees throbbed and she loved every moment of it.

There was a knock at the garage door. Edward stood in the doorway. “Mr.Stone is here to see you, Mr.Davenport.”

John glanced at the clock on the wall. “Right! I’ve lost track of time.” He searched around him, gathering the layers of clothing he’d discarded during their labor. Helen felt torn. She wanted to know what piece of Davenport Carriage Company business would bring Mr.Stone to the house at this hour. She also wanted some time to further convince Ransom Swift to agree to be their driver.

“We’ll start cleaning up,” said Helen.

“Thank you,” said John. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He donned his hat before pausing at the open bay door. “I’ll just be in the kitchen.”

Helen rolled her eyes and led Mr.Swift past him, outside the garage and to the edge of the drive. From there, Mrs.Milford had a clearer view of them from the swing on the porch. It was better to have a disapproving tutor’s eyes watching you than an annoying brother’s embarrassing surge of overprotectiveness. Where was this behavior when Olivia was out dancing late into the night with Mr.Stone? She’d been alone with Mr.Lawrence and had survived. At least with Mr.Swift, they had something in common. “Thank you, John,” she called after him. He waved without turning around.

Mr.Swift shook with the force of his laughter.

“I beg your pardon, but what is so funny?”

“A Davenport Carriage Company automobile?”

Helen paused and looked at him, chin up. “I may have just exaggerated how complete said automobile was.”

“You deliberately misled me.”

“We need your help!” More quietly, she added, “ I need your help. I have always been able to figure it out, typically on my own, but this is too important. I don’t want to just show off a Davenport motorcar at an exhibit. I want to compete and win. I want this showcase to be a race.”

Mr.Swift grew serious for the first time since they’d met at the track however many weeks back. “Why is this so important to you?”

“Do you mean, why should I care? John’s going to run the business and I’ll be married soon?”

He waited.

“Because it’s my story, my inheritance. Because it’s my name on that door too!” Helen pointed to the buggy in the drive. The Davenport family crest shined brightly in the high summer sun, gold leaf on a black field sealed with lacquer so thick, it glistened. “I don’t understand why my life and how I want to live it should be different from my brother’s because I’m a girl. I’m a damned good mechanic. Always have been. At eight years old, I took apart a bicycle, and if they had let me, I’d have pieced it back together too. I’ve worked on Ford and Studebaker engines. Repaired a broken axel on a carriage.” She paused, her chest heaving. Does no one understand? “All I know,” she said quietly, “is that I understand how these machines work and I see the potential of this.” Helen gestured to the garage behind them. She felt her resolve harden, recalling her father’s words when she’d repaired the Ford that eventually stalled. That she was a pretty girl, and that she should take pride in that. But she was proud of this . She hoped one day, he would be too. She’d fixed the Ford again. And it hadn’t stalled a second time. “I want to be seen for my talent,” she said, “and not just as a pleasing face. ”

Mr.Swift seemed to consider her and her words for far longer than she would care to have endured. “It is a pleasing face. Almost.” He reached out and thumbed the edge of her jaw. His touch surprised her. But her body responded immediately—electrified, a sizzling heat that settled low in her belly. He rubbed the smudge of grease from her face onto his shirtsleeve without breaking eye contact. His gaze suggested he knew exactly what she was feeling, because he was feeling it too. He cleared his throat, finally, nodded and said, “Do you know why I started racing, Miss Davenport?”

Helen tried to slow her pounding heart. Focus. She felt her brows furrow. In all the articles she’d read about Ransom Swift, not one mentioned his first race. Or, how he began. She still wasn’t convinced that his name really was Ransom Swift. It sounded like something from one of the penny stories sold at the country grocery store. “No,” she said, curious.

“I grew up close to a track in New York. I watched them race the ponies before I could run myself. Through the slats of the fence my uncle built.” He laughed. “I was a scrawny thing. Even tried to squeeze through a gap to get a closer look.” Helen joined his laughter as she tried to imagine it. “As soon as I could, I began working in the stables. The head man there let me ride the horses after the white customers left for the day.” Mr.Swift shoved his fists into his pockets. A smooth curl flopped down over his brow. Her hand itched to reach up and smooth it back. “Those horses were fine. Perfect to learn from. As I got older I switched from trainer to trainer. I was a natural with them. But I always wanted something more, something faster.” He looked at the bright red vehicle he drove here. So did Helen. It was a perfectly fit for him. Loud, brash, and flashy.

Then there was her curiosity. It burned within her. She wanted to know it all—how he became such a good mechanic, yes, but she was already knowledgeable there. It was racing that was entirely new. “And your first contest?”

Mr.Swift laughed and rubbed his bottom lip with his finger. “It’s a funny story. One I shouldn’t have lived to tell.”

“Really?” Helen looked at him askance.

“True.” He held his hands up, full of sham innocence.

“Well, out with it,” she urged.

He looked up at the rafters. “I was working in a garage for this family that owned more than a few race cars, they paid other men to drive their vehicles. I bet my employer I was a better driver than any of the men he’d hired for the job.”

“And were you?”

“Damn right I was. And I proved it.”

“How?”

“I…borrowed his race car at the next meet. The regular driver wanted a long weekend away with his sweetheart.” Ransom Swift made eye contact with Helen, his eyes playfully skipping over her features. Helen felt her skin tingle under his gaze. She cleared her throat and he turned his attention to his automobile. “I wore a cap to cover my head, goggles to hide most of my face. I made sure to stick near the motorcar. After I’d won, it was harder to hide who I was.” He paused, his lips puckered to the side before he said, “The outcome wasn’t the fanfare I was hoping for, but it did give my employer the itch to have me race in some of the competitions for Black drivers.”

Hmm, Helen thought about the way Mr.Swift described it all. How many times had he switched jobs? Found another way to achieve his goal?

He refused to give up.

And so would she. “So, you’ll drive for us?”

He pushed his curls from his face. “I’ll drive for you.” There was something about the way he said it, and the look in his eyes, that made Helen grin.

···

The Greenfields’ house was on the same street as Ruby’s and shared common traits—large and sprawling, full of dark wood and marble. Tonight, one of the Greenfield boys—Helen didn’t care to know which one—celebrated a birthday, and the ballroom suffocated with friends and family. Laughter pressed in on Helen to the point she could feel her bones ache. She’d have rather been anywhere else—except perhaps at her usual social engagements.

John had insisted she come to give the garage a break and to please their mother, and now he’d wandered off. She knew he didn’t like how well she and Ransom Swift got along. He’d practically chased the driver out of the garage this afternoon. She hoped he wasn’t off brooding over Amy-Rose while she grinned painfully at the other guests. I’d rather be watching the paint dry, she thought.

Parties were supposed to be fun, said Olivia, who appeared to be having a grand time dancing with Mr.Stone. The Greenfields’ youngest son, Louis, was a friend of John’s and often organized the card games they played with the other young men of their set. The dinner was uneventful, and now a slightly inebriated Josiah Andrews was teaching some of the other gentleman a new dance. It was poorly done and liable to injure someone.

Once Mr .Andrews discovered the spectacle, he escorted his son from the dance floor, and boredom kicked in again. Helen picked at the silk that cinched her waist. It wasn’t a corset, thank goodness, but it pushed up under her ribs just the same. How is this freer? she wondered. She’d like to see the people who decided this was the height of fashion to spend a few hours in the contraptions they sold to women.

She was in a sour mood, yes. The night was long. Her party loomed before her, as did the race where Mr.Swift—who strangely made her pulse race and her blood boil—agreed to drive the Davenport automobile for both the board and her father to see. And Daddy returns this week. Helen pushed off the wall in the corner, not knowing what scared her more. It was all nerve-racking.

She stood on her toes, searching for a path out to the garden, spotted it, and promptly lost her balance. “Sorry,” she said to the woman in front of her.

“Helen!” Odette Carter exclaimed. Helen mustered a smile.

Beside Odette, Agatha Leary’s eyes widened. “I didn’t know you left the house at night.” She giggled at her own joke. Silent beside them, their friend Bertha looked down at the floor.

“Come now, Aggie,” said Odette. “That is an exaggeration. Though I do find it strange that a girl as beautiful as you, Miss Davenport, spends so much time indoors.”

“No, I think Aggie has the right of it.” Helen sighed, disguising her irritation at the other girl’s jab. “I don’t see the appeal in navigating crowded ballrooms dressed like puff pastry.” Oops. Heads turned at her comment. Helen hoped this remark wouldn’t make its way back to her mother or Mrs.Milford. At the thought, her eyes darted to the entrance. And there, Mr.Jacob Lawrence stood at the center of a circle of guests. On his arm was a tall woman, with tawny skin and warm brown eyes. The sight of them felt like a blow to Helen. While everyone gawped at the newly arrived couple, Helen caught Olivia’s eye. Clearly Olivia had been watching Helen, and now Olivia picked up her skirt and walked with purpose toward her.

Odette sniffed at Helen’s lingering comment. “Some of us like to think we’re more than dessert.”

“Or be thought of at all,” added Agatha. Beside her, Bertha nodded solemnly.

Helen glanced at the three young women. Then stilled. They, like her, were unmarried and under similar pressure to make good matches. The truth of Agatha’s words appeared to deflate some of Odette’s eagerness, and it left a sour taste in Helen’s mouth as she watched Jacob Lawrence and his bride laugh and talk through introductions. Helen knew she didn’t fit what was expected of a young lady her age. Not like Olivia and these girls did. But I’m still a Davenport, thought Helen, casting a wide shadow of my own . As such, she would always have an advantage. It was a humbling truth, and one she should remember. “I’ll leave you to it then,” said Helen. She slipped between Odette and Bertha, only to be intercepted by her sister.

“Are you okay?” Olivia asked, her gaze fixed on the scene over Helen’s shoulder. She looked at Helen. “Let’s go home. We can slip around from the back.”

“No,” said Helen, watching Jacob and his bride wish the older Greenfield boy a happy birthday. “If we try to leave, all the gossips will be talking about how heartbroken you are. They all think he left after breaking your engagement.” When Olivia’s eyes narrowed, Helen felt her temperature rise. She fought the urge to wring her fingers. Across the room, Jacob’s new bride— Mr.Lawrence’s new bride—now tilted her smiling face up to him. He said something to her as they began to circle the room, dancing chastely to a slow number.

It was aggravating how Jacob Lawrence slipped right into Helen’s world as easily as a hand into a glove. This was her space, even though she didn’t understand it. Mr.Lawrence and Etta’s grand tour ended at a group of young ladies a year a two behind Helen in debuting. She watched him excuse himself, bring his bride a refreshment, and then walk to the back of the house where Helen had spotted the door to the gardens.

Helen knew Olivia watched her from the corner of her eye. “On second thought,” Helen said, “I think I will get some air.” She stopped Olivia with a hand on her arm. “Alone, if you don’t mind.”

Helen didn’t wait for her sister’s response. No one knew of her loss like Olivia did—she would understand. Helen skirted the tables as she made her way to the back of the house. She pushed through a pair of heavy doors with stained-glass windows that threw a kaleidoscope of colors across a patch of lawn. She stood in its rainbow and listened to the band shift from one song into another.

Jacob Lawrence stood with his back to her. His suit was dark and somber and cut to perfection. A feeling of longing caught her by surprise. It started low in her core and rose to her chest, making it hard to breathe, making her want to be beside him.

“Hello, Helen.”

“Evening, Mr.Lawrence.”

He turned. The ember of his lit cigarette drew her attention to his mouth. He trimmed his mustache, she thought.

“Would you like one?” he asked.

And have Mrs.Milford smell it on my clothes? “No, thank you.” Helen lifted her chin. “I’ve quit.”

He shrugged and turned slightly, staring off into the garden. It only made Helen angry. When he next looked at her, he rocked slightly on his feet like he would approach her. She wanted him to. And didn’t at the same time. “You disappeared,” she said. “Why did you come back?” She knew she wasn’t being fair. She had asked him to leave after he’d revealed the truth.

“You don’t understand,” he said, almost resigned.

“What, that you needed financial support to reach your goals? Or that you thought you loved me, but really you loved my family’s wealth?” Helen took a step forward then. “Perhaps I just didn’t realize that lying was so easy for you.”

He paced in front of her, his hands in the air, stopping just before they mussed his neatly styled hair. Instead he brushed down his mustache with one hand, turning to her abruptly. “Have you read any of my letters?” he hissed. “I tried to tell you so many times, Helen.” He seemed to wilt then, his anger spent as quickly as it had come. “Surely you don’t believe I—”

Helen stood taller. “Did you even need to go to London?”

“My uncle—he controls the business he and my father once shared—he agreed to give me a job. I wrote my father in the spring, and he was elated. It was my chance to earn what would have been my inheritance.” His gaze fell. “He’s my father, and I didn’t want to let him down. I’m sure you know what that feels like.”

Helen’s eyes narrowed. She refused to concede that she did.

“I got to New York, ticket in hand for the ship, and nothing went as planned. All I could think about was you—your brow furrowed when you’re being stubborn, or solving a problem, how determined you are, how funny. How passionately you talk about your love of automobiles and your hatred of the pianoforte. I often imagine you in one—a motorcar, not a pianoforte—driving it around the city.” There was a ghost of a smile on his lips before his expression turned serious. “I saw the way you struggled—in your family—for acceptance. I saw how, the burden so great, you never bothered to gain it from your peers.”

“I don’t need it from my peers!” Helen’s breath came fast. “I was perfectly fine before you walked into my life with your grand plans to marry my sister .”

“Which I did not, Miss Davenport.” The use of her formal name stung. “My life would be much simpler if I had put the money first, like you think I set out to do.” He glanced toward the doors holding back the lively din of the party. “I wasn’t look—”

“ I am not what you were looking for, Mr.Lawrence. I want to be a mechanic, business-owner. Not a housewife. As far as I can tell, we are both getting what we want.”

Mr.Lawrence gestured between the two of them. “This is not what I wanted.”

“And do you think it’s what I wanted?” she asked.

He stood still, shoulders hunched, and a look of confusion, of hurt, passed over his features. “No, I don’t. It’s why I do not understand.”

Is this the closure Mrs.Milford said awaited me? On his face, she saw the same pain she tried to ignore, bury, deny in herself. It only made her feel sad. Her stomach twisted in a knot, but she made herself stand straighter. When she spoke, her voice was calm, steady.

“ I understand,” she said. She understood more than most. There was no mistaking the love and fondness Helen had witnessed on Etta Lawrence’s face. I understand perfectly. I hope she does too. “Excuse me. My sister is waiting for me.”