The Davenports(5)
Some days Helen wished they would, just so she wouldn’t have to keep part of herself hidden from them.
But for now, Helen wiped her palms on her thighs and hugged her brother quickly, not sure which one of them smelled worse. Then she followed Amy-Rose, scanning the windows of the manor as she sprinted back inside.
CHAPTER 3
Amy-Rose
Amy-Rose picked up Helen’s soggy towel from the bedroom floor and hung it in the adjoining bathroom. After she found Helen in the garage with John, she had quickly ushered the youngest Davenport into the bath and gotten her dressed for dinner. Now Helen was downstairs with the rest of her family while Amy-Rose tidied up. After this, she would be needed in the kitchen.
Through the next set of doors was Olivia’s bedroom. The girls’ rooms may have been mirror images of each other—great four-poster beds, thick Persian rugs, rich vibrant wallpaper—but that’s where the similarities ended. Olivia kept her room pristine: Every object had its place. She never left discarded garments on the floor. Her books sat erect on their shelves. A few family photos dotted the fireplace mantel.
Amy-Rose had spent hours in there as a child, hosting elaborate teas with the Davenport girls and their dolls, whispering hopes and dreams late into the night when their mothers were fast asleep.
When her mother was still alive.
Amy-Rose thought back to the day she and her mother, Clara Shepherd, arrived at the long gravel drive of Freeport Manor, the biggest house she’d ever seen. Everything was large here, glittering and beautiful. Especially the family who called it home. The Davenports were the only family in Chicago that would take a maid with a child; no one else wanted the extra mouth to feed. In this new, strange place so far from home, Amy-Rose had found friends.
It had been three years since her mother had passed. Some days she could pretend that her mother was just in another room, dusting a chandelier or turning down a bed, singing French lullabies. Amy-Rose would run up to their shared bedroom and the pain of remembering her passing would force her to her knees. When the ache eventually subsided, happy memories would fill her mind. The best were the stories her mother used to tell her about Saint Lucia—the colorful birds that visited their home, the bright mangoes that grew in the yard, and the sweet smell of the bougainvillea mixing with the salty sea air. She missed the views of the mountains, Gros Piton and Petit Piton, reaching for the sky. Amy-Rose had been only five when they left the island, so she didn’t remember much. Her mother’s memories felt like hers.
They rarely spoke about the storm that took the rest of their family or their home. This was their new home.
A carpeted hall led into the small drawing room where the girls spent most of their time. Deserted except for the small terrier lounging on a grand silk pillow in the corner, the room was a mix of Olivia’s ordered and classic style and Helen’s latest interests: books about Rome and manuals about automobile engines. Even Ruby left her mark here in the samples of perfume from Marshall Field’s dotting a small rolling tray used for tea.
With a sigh, Amy-Rose descended a set of stairs to the Davenports’ impressive kitchen.
“Good, you’re here,” a voice boomed from inside the pantry. “Take this. And this.” Jessie, the head cook, dropped a carton of eggs into Amy-Rose’s arms without looking to see if she was ready to catch them.
Jessie heaved a sack of flour onto a cutting board with such force, Mrs. Davenport’s favorite tea service rattled on the tray. The cook set her fists on her wide hips and turned slowly toward Amy-Rose. “It don’t take that long to lace that girl into a corset.” She pivoted again, her broad hands shoved dishes into the sink.
Clearly, Jessie had never tried to dress Helen Davenport. “Helen needed a touch-up,” Amy-Rose said. “Her hair doesn’t hold the curl as long as Olivia’s.”
Henrietta and Ethel appeared through another passage and immediately began straightening up the kitchen. Jessie didn’t spare them a glance, even when Ethel placed a hand on her shoulder. Instead she stared at Amy-Rose as if she knew the young maid’s thoughts were far from the task at hand.
“I think you’re helping that girl get away with mischief you have no business being involved in.” Jessie sighed long and deep, softening her gruff tone. “I know you care for those girls like sisters, but mind me, they ain’t your sisters. You need to stop dreaming of how things used to be and start thinking about how they is. The girls will be married soon.” Jessie pointed to the pots piled high in the sink and the maids polishing the fine silver. “The Davenports won’t need you then.”
Amy-Rose edged in to wash her hands and grabbed an apron from the hook, ignoring the truth of Jessie’s words. Instead, she let herself be transported to Mr. Spencer’s storefront and the day she’d flip the sign from Closed to Open on the door. The day the storefront would have her name above the entrance, and customers waiting for her wares and trained stylists. The apron hanging from her neck wouldn’t be to protect her clothes from potato peels or sauce, but hair butter and shampoo. “Who’s to say I’ll even be here when that happens?” she huffed. “In a few weeks’ time, I aim to have enough saved in Binga Bank to lease Mr. Spencer’s storefront.”
Amy-Rose looked at the older woman who, for years, had hovered over her like an overbearing godmother. Telling Jessie her plans made her plans that much more real—more than a daydream she shared with her friend Tommy. Out in the stables with him, it was a wish. Tommy was the only person who really knew of her desire to leave and strike out in business for herself. He’d gone with her to apply for a loan after securing enough for a down payment. His belief in her was almost as strong as her own.