Chapter 8 Helen

Chapter 8

Helen

“Did you at least warn Mr.Swift that you planned to ambush him?” John pulled his automobile off the gravel path and onto the grass, where other vehicles were parked in neat rows.

“We’re here to watch the race.” Helen exited his shiny black Model T. She’d gotten over his emphatic no when she’d asked to drive. It wasn’t the point of today. They were at the track for one reason and one reason only.

To meet Ransom Swift.

“You like fixing cars. You’ve never wanted to come here before.” John gave her a sideways glance. “I think Swift will spot this as a scheme from a mile away. He’ll think you’ve let your imagination run away with you.” The serious pull to John’s mouth hid his dimple.

Helen brushed off his doubt. Her plan was no scheme. It was sound. “I have a newfound interest in the sport,” she said, indulging him. And good reason to be out of the house, she added to herself. With their father gone to London the past week, her mother had thrown herself fully at the task of planning Helen’s party. Mrs.Davenport was even more focused than usual, and more exacting in her instructions. Helen thought maybe it was because of her own attitude—how stubborn she’d been. But both her siblings assured her it was their father’s absence.

Fortunately, Mrs.Milford, satisfied so far with Helen’s performance of “a demure debutante,” had granted her a free afternoon—though her tutor had no idea of Helen’s destination.

She felt a fleeting tightness in her chest now. This trip to the track was as much a necessary effort for the business as it was an escape from the house.

As she and John walked toward the track, there came a swell of high-pitched voices from the stands. She’d read that Ransom Swift had a lot of… fans who were eager to watch him drive. From the gravel path, she could see young women waving lace handkerchiefs to get his attention. They were dressed like pastries, all soft colors and flouncing frills.

Helen looked down at her plain white shirt and green skirt, cinched at her waist with a broad belt. She rolled her sleeves down to hide the oil staining her skin. Its pungent scent was still present under the rose soap she used. She inspected her nails and thought, Well, too late now.

“Let’s go,” she said, before she could second-guess herself. The heels of her shoes sank into the grass, and she wished she’d grabbed a parasol. The sun was high in the sky and the recent rains made for a very muggy afternoon.

The bleachers provided brief shade. When Helen emerged from the aisle, she spotted Ransom Swift immediately. Her stomach gave an odd lurch. She patted it vaguely. Just hungry , she thought. He was more attractive than he’d looked in the papers, his skin a warm medium brown that glistened slightly. Delicate curls clung to his temples, damp with sweat. It was not lost on her that half of the dozen women, preening and grinning at him, were not Black. Their eyes followed him as he made his way to the vehicles lined up at the starting point. The nine other drivers stood ready, ignored by the fans of the only Black driver on the track.

Elgin Road Race Course was a dirt loop, just a little west of the city. A playground for wealthy Chicagoans who enjoyed watching the stock cars try to outpace each other at ten miles per hour. Unlike the races through the city that started at the Field Museum, this one would not have the Chicago Record-Herald offering a cash reward to the winner. No, this one was just to show off.

“There’s some room up there,” John said, gesturing with his head.

Helen followed her brother up the steep stairs, her attention fixed on the young competitor and his red Ford on the inside of the track. He appeared trim and tall, though height was hard to decipher from this distance. His coloring was similar to Amy-Rose’s, but Helen couldn’t tell if the darkness about his chin was shadow or stubble. She did notice the towel tucked into the back pocket of his trousers. Helen tried not to linger on how they fit him like they were cut to his dimensions, or the pull she felt, an involuntary desire to get closer. Can’t blame that on an empty belly, she thought. She liked that he appeared a little unpolished. Like her, rough around the edges. When he waved to the stands of about forty spectators, then slipped into his vehicle, sighs filled the air, breaking the spell. She rolled her eyes and turned to see John watching her.

“You know,” John said into her ear, “I heard he’s just as good a mechanic as he is a driver.”

“Who?”

“Mr.Swift, Helen. The gentleman you can’t seem to peel your eyes from. If I had known I was bringing you here to gawk at a driver, I’d have let you drive around the neighborhood instead.”

She glanced at him. “I’m not here to gawk, ” she scoffed. “The paper never said he was a mechanic.”

“Not that paper, but I asked around. Turns out he’s pretty handy.”

“So you’ve been scouting him too?” she asked, unable to hide a smug grin.

“Nice try.” John rubbed his chin. “I’ll admit I was curious.” Helen spun on her muddy heels, ready to gloat. “But,” John added, “the board is reluctant to make any major changes in Daddy’s absence.” He smiled ruefully. “No doubt they remember our attempt from a few weeks ago. And how Daddy turned it down. They were prepared for a pitch about automobiles, but they won’t do anything until Daddy’s ready.” John shook his head as he took in the scene. “And he’s not ready.”

Her ears felt warm. She doubted it was from the sun. Since their father had left a week ago, her brother had spent all day every day at the offices downtown. She’d thought she might accompany him sometimes, develop a plan together to make their pitch about Swift, but the investors were leery of having a woman, especially one they still saw as a child, sit in on business meetings. And there were a lot of business meetings. The thought of waiting for the right moment, then for all these men to invest in her and John’s plan, to bring the company into a new stage, it sparked a nervous energy in Helen. And until now, John himself hadn’t mentioned her idea since she’d first brought it up. Her fingers drummed on her arms folded across her chest.

“Let’s take a break from discussing the company.” He smiled and bumped her shoulder with his. “Enjoy this obligation-free afternoon?”

“I suppose,” said Helen around the tiny lump of disappointment in her throat. She knew John was frustrated too with how slowly things were progressing. In the six weeks since he’d suggested the idea of starting an automobile manufacturing line to their father, he and Helen had dreamed of a Davenport engine. Helen’s aspiration had multiplied in that time. Some investors eyed the whole proposal suspiciously, enthusiasm waning with each passing week that there was no change in their father’s opinion. Their father was the most vocal holdout to transitioning production from the luxury buggies the Davenport Carriage Company made its name in creating to, going forward with, automobiles. Though now, thanks to Mr.Stone, she and John both knew there was a marked decrease in purchases over the last quarter. And the line that suffered the greatest loss was the most affordable of the company’s carriages, which—as it happened—cost about the same as the assembly-line-produced Ford automobiles.

No, Helen did not come here to gawk. She did not come here to have fun. She came to see if racing was the big, flashy idea that would turn the tide, set them apart from their competitors just enough to get the rest of the board, and especially her father, on their side. A driver to show off their engine could make all the difference. A driver who was also a mechanic, even better. But they had to be sure of Swift first. That was smarter than taking the idea to the board prematurely—John was right about that part. “Still,” she said to her brother, “I just think if we get our motorcar in the papers with a great photo and story, there will be a demand beyond the company’s loyal carriage customers that we could use to our advantage. Publicity equals money, and the board loves money.”

Helen stole a glance at John. She looked for his dimple, faint in her brother’s stern expression.

“If you don’t stop staring at me, you’re gonna miss the show.” John pointed below. His dimple appeared at last, his face lit up. This is how John looked before love broke his heart. Cheers erupted around her then, and Helen turned just in time to see the motorcars jerk and pull away from the line. They did so with varying efficiency, and some were certainly louder than others. Exhaust filled the air and the smell of gasoline stung her nose. The modified stock cars jockeyed for position like a disjointed rainbow along the length of the track, but Mr.Swift captured the lead early and set the pace. She watched as they ran the course, eating up furloughs just as aggressively as the ponies she’d seen at the horse races.

But these are machines, she thought. She looked at her hands. They itched with desire to inspect the vehicles. To see what type of modifications had been made—and what she could alter to put the Davenport Carriage Company at the head of the pack. What better way to catch the eye of potential investors and customers? It may just work. It had to work.

As if on some unspoken cue, spectators leaned forward in their seats. Swift’s admirers pressed up against the fence that separated the stands from the track. The dust had settled some, but the air was still gritty and charged with excitement. Yards from the finish line, Ransom Swift’s motorcar jerked and began losing speed. Still, he crossed the finish line ahead of the rest. The crowd in the stands roared at his win, and the flash of camera bulbs pierced the air. Something was wrong, though. Helen leaned forward again, squinting against the sun. She knew all too well how awful it felt to have your vehicle quit on you.

“Davenport!”

Helen and John turned to see Josiah Andrews climbing over other spectators to greet them. Helen groaned as the most obnoxious of John’s friends grinned at her.

“Andrews, how are you?” John asked. He made room for the other gentleman by encroaching on Helen’s space.

“Fantastic,” said Mr.Andrews, winking at Helen. He pulled a cigarette case from his pocket and offered it to her like he had at so many parties.

Helen shook her head. She remembered the feel of his sweaty palm against hers when they’d danced at the masquerade fundraiser for Mr.Tremaine. That night had been full of ups and downs. Nothing had gone as she’d hoped. Jacob Lawrence had revealed himself to be not who he seemed—not a wealthy English bachelor but, in fact, a liar.

A fortune hunter . That was what he was. Helen’s stomach clenched at the thought. Jacob had kept his true situation hidden from her, while she let herself fall for him. Helen pushed the memories away. Her eyes searched out Ransom Swift, coasting into the garage in his protesting motorcar, barely acknowledging the cheers that followed him.

Beside her, John and Mr.Andrews discussed the baseball box scores or the result of a boxing match. She didn’t care. Below, the drivers had disappeared into the garage with their vehicles. Now what? Her brother had gotten her this far in her plan to meet the race car driver. She could have asked him to take her down to see the motorcars. She glanced at him and Josiah Andrews. It was like she wasn’t even there. Plus, if she asked, she knew Mr.Andrews would tag along. Helen chewed the inside of her cheek.

Below, a man selling peanuts and shaved ice hollered to the crowd.

“John, I’m going to get a treat,” she said.

He followed her gaze. “Get me something too, will you?” he asked, then fell back into conversation with Andrews . Hopefully, he’d stay that way.

Helen walked, dignified, down the steps. She followed the vendor long enough to reach the first break in the bleachers. Then she ducked beneath them, her heels crunching spent peanut shells underfoot. She straightened her collar and stood tall.

You can do this.

The smells struck her first. Oil, petrol, and sweat. It was as familiar to her as the smells of the garage at Freeport. Her nerves faded. Helen marched to the red Model T she recognized as Ransom Swift’s. The driver was nowhere to be seen, but the motor was still running, making an awful racket. A cart full of tools had been pushed alongside the driver’s door. The engine itself had been exposed. She grabbed a cloth from the cart and grasped a bolt, tightening it slowly. The engine noise gradually calmed.

“Hey, what gives?” a voice shouted from below. Ransom Swift slid from under the car, lying atop a wobbly piece of plywood on wheels. His curls had been pulled away from his face with a leather string at the crown of his head. His shirtsleeves were pushed up above his elbows, and more buttons were undone at his chest than would be considered decent in mixed company. He frowned up at her. “Look, I don’t know how you got in here, but you shouldn’t go around touching machinery you don’t understand.”

“I’m not sure what you think I understand, but it sounded like that gasket was a projectile waiting to happen.”

“Hmm,” he said, sitting up. He studied her a moment, then said, “I was getting to it.”

“When? After it took someone’s eye out?”

Ransom Swift dropped his wrench and stood. He towered over Helen briefly, before leaning heavily on his motorcar. “And just who are you?”

“Helen Davenport, of the Davenport Carriage Company.” She held out her hand. It was her best bargaining chip.

His smirk made the hair on her arms stand on end. “You’re a long way from your horse and buggy, Miss Davenport.” He took her hand. His was large and warm, and the calluses seemed to find the rough patches on Helen’s. He turned hers over, examining her uneven nails and the scars from lessons learned.

Curiosity satisfied, he dropped her hand and looked at her expectantly.

Helen felt heat rise in her cheeks. She’d been so focused on getting here that she hadn’t thought through what she’d say! Her back felt damp under the broad belt at her waist. Oh, please! she thought irritably as his smile widened.

Helen handed him the cloth and said, “My family’s company is looking to branch out, step into the future.” She looked pointedly at his vehicle. “Motorcars are the future. What better way to introduce our debut design than as a winner on the race car circuit?”

“And with the best driver on the road behind your wheel, no less.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

Ransom licked his lips and his light eyes held Helen’s for a moment too long. We need him. She wasn’t about to let his flirting prevent her from showing her father just what she and the company could do.

“Listen, little miss, I have work to do.” He picked the wrench up and turned back to the exposed engine of his motorcar.

“It’s Miss Davenport,” said Helen, through her teeth. She took a breath. “We wouldn’t expect you to drive for free. You’d have enough to fix this”—she paused, peering at the exposed engine of his motorcar—“vehicle of yours.”

He frowned at her. “I can make do on my own,” he said. “Do you even have something for me to drive?” At Helen’s hesitation, he laughed. “Just what I thought.” He turned again to his work.

“Don’t worry. We can get a motorcar ready to race.”

Ransom Swift made a show of looking around the garage. “Who’s we? I only see you.” His lip twitched. “Did you come all the way out here to recruit me?”

The rest of the article came to Helen. “You’re asking a lot of questions for someone who crashed their way out of their last contract. You’re a liability, Mr.Swift. A risk. And right now, no one is bankrolling you. That’s why you’re pushing this machine to the brink. You can’t afford the work it needs.” When she finished, her breath came fast. But she held his gaze and her ground.

After a small eternity, he slapped the cloth she’d handed him over his left shoulder. “Come back when you have a real offer,” he said.

Helen, cheeks burning, gave him a stiff nod and turned to leave. She couldn’t miss the curious stares from around the garage. When she emerged into the bright afternoon, she looked up to the stands where John and Josiah Andrews were still in conversation, and exhaled.

We need a car.