Chapter 6 Olivia

Chapter 6

Olivia

The floorboards creaked as Olivia paced from one end of the empty parlor room to the other. Below, the basement of Samson House was a flurry of activity. Voices and applause filtered through the gaps in the pine and rumbled up the stairs. The only thing louder was the clacking of her heels as she tried to burn off her nervous energy.

“Oh, stop!” she said to herself aloud. You are a Davenport—comport yourself. Olivia thought of the countless times she’d watched her mother address a group of women at a Phyllis Wheatley Club lunch—poised and capable, Mrs.Davenport rallied well-to-do Black ladies in support of young Black women and to promote books written by prominent Black voices. This is no different. With a shake of her skirt, she nodded to the gentleman who stood watch at the top of the stairs and, at last, made her way down. In the cramped basement auditorium, a crowd—mostly women of varying shades and ages—applauded the latest speaker now leaving the stage.

Olivia stood on the tips of her toes to see over the mass packed into Samson House’s small space. Even more had arrived since she’d slipped upstairs for a breath. Young ladies from the garment factories, domestic workers, restaurant servers—all were speaking at once. The few male attendees stood at the fringe, watching and listening. After the union leaders had taken the stage, encouraging the young women to refuse to compromise, Mrs.Woodard had stressed to the crowd that “the only way factory conditions will change is if we women change them! And to do that, we must have the vote!” Her words were a challenge—a dare that had set the room ablaze with shouts and clapping. The young ladies reminded Olivia of her sister and Amy-Rose, who dared to forge new paths, of herself and Hetty, fierce and strong-willed.

“Mrs.Woodard,” said Olivia, joining the older woman and Hetty where they stood near the stage. “This is a wonderful turnout. How did you get so many people here?” Olivia’s heart hammered away as she again took in the many faces in the crowd.

“I didn’t. Most of these girls have been working at Hart Schaffner Marx for scraps since they were twelve years old. They got a lot of free time now, if you know what I mean,” the older woman said. “They are leading the charge.” An expression of pride spread over her features. “Like you, I’m just here to help.”

Olivia nodded. She’d read all about the cramped, sometimes dangerous spaces where women worked in the garment district. She knew one was Hart Schaffner Marx, who made suits and accessories for men—and she knew the high demand for the goods they produced.

“Again, my thanks, Miss Davenport,” Mrs.Woodard said, “for attending my dinner party last week. I know the ladies in your circle felt more comfortable opening up those pocketbooks with you there.” There was a gleam in Mrs.Woodard’s eye.

“It was absolutely my pleasure.” Olivia looked out at the women, some only girls, as Mrs.Woodard had said. The factory conditions and pay were more than reason for the workers to strike. Her worry over Washington’s absence and her parents’ meddling shrank in comparison. Even her anxiety about the speech she would give tonight faded. Olivia knew more free time for these young women meant less coin in their purses and fewer meals on their tables. She had no experience of that—no memory of a time when the carriage company was new, nor of the sacrifices it took to build it into the success that had fed and clothed them, given them Freeport, and that, now, had garnered her father international recognition.

“You look a bit peaked,” said Mrs.Woodard.

“Just…glad, but worried for these women.” Olivia turned to smile at her mentor, though the pressure in her chest had increased, a new doubt slotting in. Why would anyone listen to me? They have everything to lose. I have nothing. Nothing that could not be repaired with her parents’ money or action. She stole a glance at the stairs. It was far too late to change her mind and leave.

Mrs.Woodard pursed her lips. Olivia saw the urge to inquire flit across the woman’s features. She sighed, relieved, when Mrs.Woodard turned instead to bring Hetty into the conversation. “It hasn’t been this crowded since the young people came to hear Washington DeWight speak, urging action and sharing hard truths.” She sighed. “My cousin just returned from Tennessee. They’ve got two of everything down there, one for Black folk and one for white.” Mrs.Woodard looked out over the crowd. “So much change in just a few weeks. The reverend and I are doing our best. Mr.Tremaine’s loss was certainly a blow to our efforts.”

Hetty spoke into the quiet that settled among them. “They’ve been saying the mixing of the races is unlawful. I read in the Defender that everything Mr.DeWight warned is spreading across the South. I hope it doesn’t make its way north.” After a pause, she asked, “Have y’all picked a date for the march, then?” This was pretty much all Hetty could talk about since it had been suggested, and with Mr.Tremaine’s loss in the mayoral primary, there seemed even greater urgency for Black and women’s rights. Who would speak up, if not Black women?

“Not yet, but at the end of the summer,” Mrs.Woodard promised. Her eyes softened as they returned to Olivia. “How are the Tremaines?”

“As well as can be expected,” said Olivia, feeling a fresh surge of grief. “I still don’t understand. I had been so certain he would win.” She sighed heavily. “But it’s just a setback.” She repeated Mr.Tremaine’s words when he addressed the crowd after the announcement. She’d found Ruby at the back of the room, and both had begun to cry when they locked eyes. Olivia had noticed that, for Ruby, it was not the first time that night. Her eyes were already ringed red. Olivia held her friend tightly as she sobbed. Harrison had stood, a silent sentry, until the two young women were composed. The entire time, all Olivia could think was how different next summer would have looked with Mr.Tremaine in office. Just a setback, she reminded herself firmly.

“The news was a shock to us all,” said Mrs.Woodard. “It makes securing what Black folks have built here that much harder. We were so close to electing our first Black mayor.”

“Has Mr.Tremaine been to any of the recent meetings?”

“He was at the gentlemen’s club a few nights ago to meet with some of the donors and our leaders.” Mrs.Woodard grasped Olivia’s hand tightly. “Patience, Miss Davenport.”

Olivia nodded. Her thoughts wandered as Mrs.Woodard and Hetty continued speaking, her eyes roaming the crowd. There must be more we can do? she thought, and stopped. She cast her gaze over the gathering again, and stopped. There—the face that had snagged her attention. Everett Stone.

What is he doing here?

Mr.Stone had removed his eyeglasses and placed them in the front pocket of his suit jacket. In one hand was a copy of the Chicago Defender.

The sight of the city’s activist paper gave her pause. Until recently, Olivia thought Everett Stone’s sole focus was the carriage company. He met frequently with her father and brother about business. He was the nephew of Mr.Howard, the company’s primary lawyer. But in addition to being part of the Davenports’ legal team, he represented Hetty and her cousin in their cases, owing to their arrest at the last march. But that newspaper…

Hetty waved him over.

“What are you doing?” Olivia whispered. She watched Mr.Stone’s face light up when he saw them. He schooled his surprise quickly, again the cool gentleman who worked for her father…and was her occasional, rather proficient dance partner. She mustered a polite smile. Her palms prickled with sweat and she reminded herself to loosen her grip on the cards in her hand, lest she crush them before her speech.

Hetty shrugged. “I told him to come. He’s my lawyer and he’s handsome. And unlike a certain other gentleman, he didn’t leave you on a crowded train platform.”

Olivia bristled at Hetty’s words but said nothing, wondering if confiding her annoyance at her parents’ new matchmaking attempt to her friend had been ill-advised. Olivia and Hetty did not see eye to eye on the events of the night Washington boarded that train. Olivia asserted she had made a choice to stay. Hetty agreed. And argued that Washington DeWight had made a choice of his own—to leave.

Her friend opened her fan now as the young lawyer neared. “Mr.Stone, wonderful to see you,” Hetty said.

“Likewise, Miss Foster. Miss Davenport.” He turned back to Hetty, joy dispelling some of his shyness. “I have good news—the charges against you have been dismissed.”

“Really?” Hetty turned to Olivia, astonished, smiling, then back to Everett Stone. “Thank you, Mr.Stone! I cannot wait to tell my cousin.” She shook Stone’s hand and hugged Olivia hard.

“Oh, Hetty, I’m so relieved. Congratulations,” Olivia said, pulling back and squeezing her friend’s hands. She turned to Mr.Stone. “I’ve never seen you at one of these meetings before.”

Hetty laughed, then whispered conspiratorially to Mr.Stone, “Olivia forgets her manners.” Her eyes widened as she looked at Olivia. “I’m going to get a drink.” Over Mr.Stone’s shoulder, Hetty mouthed, Be nice.

I am nice, Olivia thought. She licked her lips, suddenly parched.

“You’re right, I haven’t been to one before. Work usually keeps me busy, but my uncle has hired another lawyer to help with the case load. So I can be more available for his higher profile clients.”

“Like the Davenport Carriage Company.”

Mr.Stone nodded. He appeared to measure his words before saying, “I’m not sure how much good I’m doing. With your father abroad, it’s unclear where I stand. Your brother and sister seem to communicate in a shorthand I can’t follow.”

Olivia crossed her arms over her chest. “Yes, I gave up trying to decipher that. But I’m proud of them, of their undertaking.” She smiled, thinking of it.

Mr.Stone’s expression changed. “I hope you haven’t completely given up decoding it. I’d be disappointed to be alone in the endeavor.” His voice was even but his eyes shined with a keen kind of humor.

“Perhaps, I can give it another go,” she said, and was rewarded with a full smile, though a brief one. “Level the playing field.” She knew better than anyone how a conversation with her siblings about horseless carriages could feel like a game of keep-away.

Mr.Stone dipped his head and turned to look around the small, packed room. Olivia watched his profile as he tracked the conversations and people around them. It was as if he was studying, committing everything to memory. Again she noticed he wasn’t wearing his eyeglasses. Their absence made the angles of his face stand out in a stark relief, like a statue brought to life. Made it easier to see the varying shades of brown in his irises.

Olivia cleared her throat and refocused her gaze on the crowd. “And there’s no particular reason you came tonight?” she asked.

“If you mean to ask me if I’m here because I heard a certain young lady would be giving a speech, I’d be lying if I said no.”

Olivia arched an eyebrow. To his credit, Mr.Stone held her gaze.

“What drew you to activism, Miss Davenport?” he asked.

She thought of Washington DeWight. She missed him, his energy, his uplifting presence. Mr.Stone replaced his eyeglasses and watched her patiently.

“There was a young gentleman who spoke here a couple of months ago,” she answered. “It was inspiring.”

Mr.Stone nodded. “And so, you chose to do the same.” Olivia felt herself frown. “Don’t misunderstand me,” he said. “I think it’s wonderful that you’ve given your time to the Cause.” He sighed and looked around them. Olivia followed his gaze. Impossibly, it appeared even more people had arrived. Someone bumped her from behind, pushing her closer to Mr.Stone.

“Oh! I’m so sorry, Miss Davenport.” The woman before her hiked her toddler higher on her hip. Her hair was styled close to her scalp, but the Marcel Waves were starting to fall.

“Mrs.Jennings?” Olivia recognized her as a seamstress from Marshall Field & Company. She did magnificent work.

“I’m sure it’s odd to see me out of uniform. And without a pin between my teeth, your mama being my best customer and all.” Mrs.Jennings laughed. “I also work some hours at Hart Schaffner Marx.” Her face turned sour at the name, but the expression was short lived as she reviewed the room. “Great turnout.”

Great, yes. Olivia had never spoken in front of a crowd this large, nor about something so important. Her anxiety returned, full force. The room seemed to close in on her suddenly. The stage grew massive in size. Mrs.Jennings excused herself, and Olivia found her eyes again on the stairs leading up and outside.

“Miss Davenport,” Mr.Stone said. He reached out for her. The cards holding the highlights of her speech were trapped, briefly, between their clasped hands. He said nothing, only applied a gentle, reassuring pressure until he caught her eye. She shifted her focus to his face, and the erratic beat of her heart steadied, the pace quick but measured. A flutter in her stomach. Surprise. Mr.Stone let go.

Olivia took a breath, nodded, quickly, once. “Thank you, Mr.Stone.” Their eyes locked for a moment more. Olivia pulled hers away, hands tingling. It’s just nerves. You’re anxious. She shook out her fingers and stared at the front of the room.

At the announcement of her name, Olivia walked to the stage. She tilted her chin up and smiled wide to the activists who parted to let her pass. Her breaths came in quick, short bursts. She fought the urge to bite her lip. You can do this. In her mind, lessons from her mother and governesses past rose above the chatter of the room. Olivia let her smile settle on her face. She would be the picture of calm.

The women assembled here trusted her to help them garner more support. They kept her comings and goings from their meetings out of the papers. Her questions, even when na?ve, were answered with patience. And now, as her shoulders brushed against theirs, she hoped that from her place of privilege, they did not scorn or dismiss her. Compared to their sacrifice, what is a speech?

At the lectern on the makeshift stage, she recognized the reverend. His round face lit up, his hand held out to her. She took it, pinching her skirt around her cards to lift the fabric and free her feet. The boards groaned as she stepped up to the stage, and turned slowly to the women and scattering of men before her.

Olivia thanked the reverend, settled the cards on the lectern, and waited for the hush to spread across the room. In the crowd, she spotted Hetty and Mrs.Woodard. And Mr.Stone, his face neutral save for the thoughtful crease between his brows. She took in this gathering of advocates from all over the city, all these women, both white and Black, old and young, working class, and with a few well-to-do women like her. Their faces were hopeful. Olivia recognized her own eagerness in their expressions, and felt a rush of gratitude and awe for the joined efforts before her.

She may have been late to the first meeting that sparked it all, but she was glad to have found her way to the Cause and to her people. Washington DeWight briefly crossed her mind. Oh, if he could see her now. A smile spread across Olivia’s face. She was prepared, and ready to act.