Chapter 34 Olivia

Chapter 34

Olivia

As the carriage rolled down State Street, Olivia replayed her morning in her mind. It had been busy, the first part painful and necessary. Her heart hurt, though she knew it was for the best.

Hetty reached across and squeezed her hand. “You don’t have to do this today. It’s okay to take time to…” Her friend let her voice trail off before averting her eyes. Hetty had waited in the covered Davenport buggy while Olivia met with Washington DeWight at the community center.

Out of his tuxedo, he’d looked more like the gentleman she’d fallen for than he did at Helen’s birthday party. Though well cut, his tux had not been him any more than the life of a traveling activist could be her. I had to be clear, she told herself. It was for both our sakes. But the way Washington’s expression had crumpled at her explanation of this fact, and after his acknowledgment that they wanted different things, she felt a tinge of bittersweet acceptance.

The small measure of relief she felt from their parting had been instantly replaced by anxiety of what she planned to do next.

“Are you sure this is the place, miss?” asked Harold. He slowed the carriage to a halt in front of an apartment building on State Street. Olivia peeked through the window, agreeing with Harold’s skepticism.

“Yes, this is it,” said Hetty. “Do you want me to drop it off for you?” Her friend often placed her essays to the paper’s founder in a letter box downtown, protecting Olivia’s anonymity.

Olivia felt a mixture of excitement and apprehension. Too embarrassed to approach Everett Stone on his way out of her father’s office yesterday, she’d locked herself in her room and continued to write.

Her latest essay was a piece about her journey to activism. She chronicled her experience from her first meeting to the most recent women’s union meeting. She shared the shame she sometimes felt at her position and privilege. Her latest piece for the Defender was a confession. And a rallying cry. And a love letter. To her family, her friends, this city, and the men she loved.

She glanced at her flowery script and shook her head. “No, I can do it.”

Hetty offered Olivia her wide grin, then pushed the carriage door open for her. “I think she’s the landlady, Miss Lee. Mr.Abbott prints them in her apartment. I’ll wait here.” She shoved Olivia out of her seat as Harold came to her aid.

“Hetty!” she said. Olivia shook out her skirt and adjusted her hat. She inhaled deeply, checked all the pages of her essay were intact, and walked over to the woman Hetty had identified. “Excuse me, Miss Lee? I’m looking for Mr.Abbott. Do you know if he’s in?” Feeling the weight of the woman’s scrutiny, Olivia lifted her chin and kept her gaze steady.

After what felt like a small eternity, Miss Lee said, “You just missed him.” Olivia did her best to hide her disappointment when the landlady added, “If you head inside, one of the boys will take a message for him. Second floor. The door should be open.”

Olivia pushed inside the apartment building that housed the Defender ’s operations and paused, stopping herself from running up the stairs. For the first time, her work would be hand-delivered by its author. For the first time, it would be signed Olivia Elise Davenport and would praise the work of local activists like Mrs.Woodard, Ida B. Wells, Washington DeWight, and a quiet young lawyer, Everett Stone, who performed his service to the community without recognition. The smell of ink calmed her. Olivia wondered if a similar thing was part of the appeal Helen found in the garage.

At the second-floor landing, the door was indeed open. She walked up to the first person she saw. A Black man, chewing on a pipe, shirtsleeves rolled up, stood at a kitchen table where a printer sat. He held a piece of newsprint in one hand, a mug of coffee in the other.

“Good afternoon,” she said. “Miss Lee sent me up. I have one more submission.”

“Good afternoon, miss,” he said, and returned to his reading.

Olivia daintily cleared her throat.

He peered at her over the top of the paper. “Look—”

“This is the next in the anonymous series you’ve printed about the suffragist movement and the factory conditions. I understand they’ve been quite popular. So much so, that the young ladies concerned with the right to vote exclusively purchase this edition. I’d imagine you’d do what you can to ensure continued patronage.”

The man hmphed but took the article. His eyes roamed over her submission. “Hey, this isn’t by Anonymous . It’s signed by that Davenport socialite.”

“Who says they’re not one in the same?” Olivia winked—winked!—and turned to leave. She descended the stairs assuredly, not too fast, though her heart pounded in her ears, and stepped out into the light. In two days’ time, her words would be in every issue of the newspaper. She knew Mr.Stone would see it. Along with everyone else. She only hoped he would read between the lines.