The Davenports

*Instant New York Times Bestseller*

The Davenports delivers a totally escapist, swoon-worthy romance while offering a glimpse into a period of African American history often overlooked.

"The perfect read for fans of escapist historical fiction.” —NBC’s TODAY

The Davenports are one of the few Black families of immense wealth and status in a changing United States, their fortune made through the entrepreneurship of William Davenport, a formerly enslaved man who founded the Davenport Carriage Company years ago. Now it's 1910, and the Davenports live surrounded by servants, crystal chandeliers, and endless parties, finding their way and finding love—even where they’re not supposed to.

There is Olivia, the beautiful elder Davenport daughter, ready to do her duty by getting married . . . until she meets the charismatic civil rights leader Washington DeWight and sparks fly. The younger daughter, Helen, is more interested in fixing cars than falling in love—unless it’s with her sister’s suitor. Amy-Rose, the childhood friend turned maid to the Davenport sisters, dreams of opening her own business—and marrying the one man she could never be with, Olivia and Helen’s brother, John. But Olivia’s best friend, Ruby, also has her sights set on John Davenport, though she can’t seem to keep his interest . . . until family pressure has her scheming to win his heart, just as someone else wins hers.

Inspired by the real-life story of the Patterson family, The Davenports is the tale of four determined and passionate young Black women discovering the courage to steer their own path in life—and love. | Instant New York Times Bestseller
A Kirkus Reviews Best Book of the Year
#1 Indie Next Pick
Black Caucus of the American Library Association (BCALA) Award Winner
Heartland Booksellers Award Winner
African Americans On The Move Book Club (AAMBC) Award Winner

“The Davenports by Krystal Marquis is the perfect read for fans of escapist historical fiction. We're talking romantic period pieces, lush with hunky suitors, lavish balls and endless love triangles. This Bridgerton-style book documents the Davenport sisters’ mistrials as they navigate the ever-complex world of love.” —NBC’s TODAY

"The Davenports has it all: romance, heartbreak, courage . . . What makes [it] so intriguing is that it’s inspired by the real daughters of automobile magnate C.R. Patterson. Marquis’ extensive research allows readers to dive into the world of Black excellence in the 1900s, from its grand estates to the glamorous ball gowns." —Ebony

“With dazzling prose and whip-smart pacing, Krystal Marquis’s gorgeous debut spirits readers into a world of polished glamor, but also a world shadowed by painful reckonings. Through trial, defeat, defiance, and triumph, its characters offer heart and perspective. The Davenports is a fresh, utterly enchanting read, and a much-needed addition to the contemporary canon of Black literature.” —Ayana Gray, New York Times bestselling author of the Beasts of Prey trilogy

★ "This deftly written series opener examines the lives of Black elites following Reconstruction with a focus on the constraints of women. The strong characterization, developed through alternating third-person perspectives, and descriptive setting lure readers in. A dazzling debut." —Kirkus (starred review)

★ "This stunningly wrought historical fiction debut follows a group of Black teens navigating classism, familial expectations, gender norms, and racism in 1910 Chicago. . . . Marquis perceptively explores the history and momentous impact of Black achievements and wealth during an underreported period in U.S. history. Employing expert characterization and complex dynamics, the author presents a cast of take-charge women, undeterred by their struggles and pursuing their passions regardless of expectations." —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

★ “Though it has the compulsive readability of Gossip Girl, this debut was inspired by the true, little-known history of the C.R. Patterson & Sons carriage company. As a forgotten history, as a celebration of Black entrepreneurship, and as a tale of ambitious young women forging their own paths, it should be widely shared.” —Booklist (starred review)

"Marquis weaves the characters’ stories in such a way that leaves readers anticipating the next chapter each time [and] the author’s skilled descriptions give readers a real connection to the characters. This is a well-written novel, sure to please fans of historical fiction, romance, and Chicago history. Young adults and adults alike will learn from and enjoy this. Recommended." —SLJ

"Each girl brings a compelling arc to this series opener, and debut author Marquis crafts the rich setting with intriguing historical details and explorations of lesser-known Black history in the grand tradition of romance novelist Beverly Jenkins. . . . The distinct and satisfying emotional journeys of the four protagonists are wonderful [and] the book ends on a cliffhanger for the Davenport siblings, giving fans of historical fiction, and particularly those looking for Black representation without trauma, something to look forward to." —BCCB

"I loved this book . . . It’s all SO GOOD. And yes, it’s a lot about romance, which is great, but it’s also about so much more. [It's about] wealthy Black families in the early 1900s and seeing their stories, as they navigate spaces not necessarily welcoming to them, while building their own businesses, communities, and networks . . . The characters are all well-developed, leading rich, complicated lives . . . If this whole series existed right now, I’d tear through it to the exclusion of everything else in my life. An excellent debut about challenging expectations and finding your own path." —Teen Librarian Toolbox | Krystal Marquis happily spends most of her time in libraries and used bookstores. She studied biology at Boston College and University of Connecticut and now works as an environmental, health, and safety manager for an online retailer. A lifelong reader, Krystal began researching and writing on a dare to complete the NaNoWriMo Challenge, resulting in the first partial draft of The Davenports. When not writing or planning trips to the Book Barn to discover her next favorite romance, Krystal enjoys hiking, expanding her shoe collection, and plotting ways to create her own Jurassic Park. | Chapter 1
Olivia
Olivia Elise Davenport pulled a bolt of vibrant yellow silk from the display and held it to her dark complexion. She was drawn to the bright fabric nearly hidden behind the muted pastels, a shock of sunshine peeking through the clouds, and wondered if it was too bright for so early in the season. In her free hand, she held a sample of beaded lace and tried to imagine the sound it would make whispering around her ankles while she danced. There will be a lot of dancing, she thought.
Anticipation bubbled in her chest. The season of ball gowns and champagne had arrived at the conclusion of the Easter celebrations. Now that Olivia was out in society, it was time for her to find a husband. It was her second season, and she was ready. Ready to do her duty and make her parents proud, as she’d always done.
The only problem? It was difficult to find eligible gentlemen—born into the right family, educated, and set to inherit a large fortune—who were also Black.
Olivia took a deep breath. The yellow silk fell from her arm. She knew what her mother would say: It was too loud. Besides, she’d only come here to pick up a few finished alterations.
“May I help you?”
Olivia started at the voice over her shoulder. A shop attendant stood next to her with her hands clasped. Despite the smile on her face, her cold blue eyes betrayed a different intent.
“I was just admiring the fabric selection.” Olivia turned toward the display of broad-brimmed hats, ignoring the eyes of the shop girl digging into her back. “And waiting for my friend,” she added. Where is Ruby, anyway? It was her best friend who insisted they send the servants ahead with their parcels and browse Marshall Field’s unaccompanied. And now she was nowhere to be found.
The shop girl cleared her throat. “You may pick up your mistress’s orders at the service desk. I could direct you, if you’ve lost your way.”
“I know where the service desk is, thank you,” Olivia said with a tight smile, ignoring the slight. All around them, pale faces watched the exchange with increasing curiosity. Someone behind her chuckled.
She remembered her mother’s words: to always rise above. Because her family was rare. Wealthy. Beautiful. Black. Ruby wore her wealth like armor, usually in the form of jewels and furs. Olivia preferred the understated air she observed in her mother.
Today, those perfect manners didn’t matter. Her beauty was no shield. All the young girl before her could see was the color of Olivia’s skin. She stiffened her spine, pulling herself to her full height. Olivia pointed to the largest jeweled broach in the display in front of her. “I’d like this boxed, please. And I’d like that hat as well. For my sister. She always gets cross when I come home without something for her,” she said conspiratorially to the other patrons—though she knew full well Helen would prefer a pair of pliers to a hat. Olivia walked slowly around the room. “Those gloves.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Five yards of that yellow silk—”
“Excuse me—”
“Miss,” Olivia provided.
The shop girl’s cheeks reddened.
Good, Olivia thought, she’s realized her mistake.
“Miss,” the shop girl huffed, clearly frazzled. “Your choices are quite expensive.”
“Yes, well,” Olivia said, the playfulness vanishing from her tone, “I have expensive taste. You can charge it to my family’s account.” Her eyes cut back to the shop girl. “The name is Davenport.”
There weren’t many Black shoppers ordering white attendants around department stores. But Davenport, a name cultivated by her father’s hard work and her mother’s determination, was well known. It was powerful enough to get her father admission into most of Chicago’s elite clubs, her mother on the most exclusive charity boards, and her older brother into university. Chicago may have been a beacon in the North, where many Black people thrived under laws enacted during and after the Reconstruction, but painful encounters due to the color of her skin still caught her off guard.
A second attendant, an older woman with more decorum, appeared from the crowd. “I can assist you, Miss Davenport. Eliza, you are dismissed,” she said to the shop girl. Olivia recognized her as one of her mother’s regular attendants. “How are you, dear?”
Olivia’s anger began to settle as she watched the older woman flit around wrapping things in tissue. She knew she was being petty. Most things considered, her life was privileged. She thought about canceling the sale, asking that everything be put back, but she could still feel the eyes of the other attendant watching from afar. And pride was one of the many things Davenports had in abundance.
Finally, Ruby appeared. Olivia was relieved to see her friend, and to no longer be the only Black person in the room.
Ruby’s face was flushed and her eyes glittered against her russet-brown complexion. “I heard there was a commotion over here,” she said with a grin. “What happened?”
Harold, the coachman, pulled the carriage from the curb in front of Marshall Field’s and into State Street traffic. It was late afternoon in the early spring, and Chicago was alive. Colonnaded restaurants shared walls with brick and glass factories churning man-made clouds into the sky. Bells from the streetcars competed with the horns of motorized cars. Men in their tweed suits rushed by newsies yelling from their corners. People of all kinds filled the streets as Olivia watched from the window of one of her family’s many covered, luxury buggies, concealed by a silk-lined canopy.
“Oh, Olivia.” Ruby reached for her hand. “That girl knew damn well that your dress cost more than what she makes in a month. Plain old jealousy, is what that was.”
Olivia attempted a smile and refolded her hands in her lap. Her friend was right, but there was more to it. That girl had looked at Olivia as if she were a thief. A pretender. Less than.
Olivia would never get used to that look.
Beside her, Ruby examined the fox-fur trim on a pair of gloves Olivia purchased during her shopping spree. “Keep them,” Olivia said, catching her best friend’s eye. One less thing to remind her.
Ruby pulled on the gloves and cupped her face, preening. Then she wiggled her brows and stuck out her tongue until Olivia gave her a real smile and the two collapsed into a fit of giggles.
Harold stopped the carriage at the intersection. Straight would take them to the North Side, where Chicago’s wealthiest and most affluent residents lived. It was where the Davenports called home.
“Oh! By the way,” Ruby said, “did I imagine it or did Helen come out of your garage covered head to toe in grease the other day?” She stifled a laugh.
Olivia rolled her eyes. Her younger sister was determined to be as unmarriageable as possible. “She should be more careful. If Daddy sees her, he’ll have a fit.”
As children, Olivia and Helen had been close. Together with their maid Amy-Rose, and later Ruby, they turned the grounds of their family estate into their very own kingdom. They spent hours in the gardens, evading their governess. When the time came for Olivia to make her societal debut last spring, she decided to do away with childish things, hoping Helen would follow her example. Instead, Helen seemed to be barreling in the other direction.
As Harold guided the carriage through the gates of Freeport Manor, Olivia couldn’t imagine a more beautiful welcome after a long day. The Davenport mansion stood at the edge of one of Chicago’s most elite neighborhoods, where their estate dwarfed those around them. When Olivia was younger, she thought it was because of her family’s money. Later, she realized it was because no one wanted to buy property that bordered a Black family’s estate. The grounds included several acres for gardens, stables, and fields for the horses to roam. The newest addition was a garage for the repair of Davenport carriages and the automobiles John collected.
The Davenport Carriage Company was a leap of faith her father had taken years ago. As a very young man, he had escaped enslavement and made the treacherous journey north, where Black folks had a chance at something like freedom. He dreamed of creating a horse-drawn carriage so luxurious, it would be more than a means of travel. And he succeeded. Shortly after being laughed out of the garage where he worked, William Davenport took his savings and a few disgruntled employees and began his own business. It thrived, and in time his carriages became the most sought-after in the world.
But now, with automobiles competing for space on city streets, John had started to pressure their father to update with the times.
“Look.” Ruby pointed to the phaeton near the garage. “Is that one of yours?”
The phaeton was spartan in design. Matte black with thin spindly wheels and no driver, the opposite of the Davenport models with their velvet-tufted seating, thick sturdy tires for a smooth ride, and a finish so lacquered, one could see their reflection above the gold-leaf Davenport crest emblazoned on the back.
Olivia straightened up and gathered her skirts. “Probably one of John’s projects. Though, I don’t see why he’d bring it here. Ever since he came home with his automobile, it’s been all he and Helen talk about.”
“Will John be at dinner tonight?” Ruby asked, feigning nonchalance.
Olivia rolled her eyes. Her best friend was terrible at hiding her interest in her brother. “He does have to eat,” she teased.
Olivia descended the steps of the carriage and looked up at Freeport, the only place she’d ever called home. The three-story Victorian was painted a pale blue with steep, gabled roofs and a pair of turrets. The wood railing of the wide porch had been carved with an ivy pattern so lifelike, the leaves appeared to flutter in the breeze. Large oak doors opened before them, revealing a grand staircase that snaked up the side of the foyer, brightly lit by the late afternoon sun filtering through the stained-glass cupola above.
Edward, the butler, waited patiently for their hats and gloves. “You’re late for tea, miss,” he whispered.
“Tea?” she asked. Her mother hadn’t said anything about tea. Olivia tugged at the ribbon below her chin and gave Ruby a confused look.
The girls quickly made their way over the polished hardwood floors and past the gilt-framed mirrors toward the sitting room. Olivia held her breath, her brow furrowed, as she opened the door. “I’m sorry I’m . . .”
Her apology faded when she caught sight of a handsome stranger sitting across from her parents. His camel-colored tweed suit wrapped his smooth dark skin.
“Oh, and here she is now.” Emmeline Davenport rose from the couch, the skirt of her gown falling gracefully around her. She stood impeccably straight, whether from the stays of her corset or sheer determination, Olivia could not tell. Mrs. Davenport cut a quick look at her daughter with the expressive almond-shaped eyes they shared and gently turned her guest from Mr. Davenport and the tea service. “This is our daughter Olivia. Darling, this is Mr. Lawrence.”
The gentleman before Olivia was not like any of the young bachelors she’d met. He towered over her, forcing her to take in the breadth of his shoulders. His hair was parted to one side and brushed flat. Not a single hair out of place. Not even in his thick mustache, which framed full lips that parted at the sight of her to reveal straight white teeth and a self-assured grin. His smooth cheeks ended in a blunt, cleft chin.
He was very handsome.
“It’s lovely to meet you.” Olivia extended her hand.
“It is my pleasure,” he said, accepting her hand and bowing his head. His voice, which had an accent, was so deep, it sent a vibration up her arm.
Olivia watched the smile form on her father’s face. Mr. Davenport’s large brown eyes softened. He slid his glasses off his proud nose and placed them in the pocket of his jacket. He left his cane against the chair and met her mother at the windows across the room. They made the ultimate picture of what Olivia wanted. A perfectly matched pair.
A flutter at her side brought her attention back to their guest.
“Ruby Tremaine. I don’t believe we’ve been acquainted,” Ruby said, her hand shooting out between them. Olivia met the gentleman’s eyes, a twinkle of humor at her friend’s boldness passing between them.
“Jacob Lawrence. It’s a pleasure to meet you as well,” he said.
“Mr. Lawrence recently moved here from London,” Mrs. Davenport called with a smile, before returning her attention to Olivia’s father.
“Oh? And what brings you to Chicago?” Olivia asked.
His eyes found Olivia’s. “Looking for new opportunities.”
Indeed, Olivia thought. “What sort of opportunities?” She could barely keep the flirtation out of her voice.
Mr. Lawrence grinned. “I’m looking to expand my shipping business beyond the British Isles. I met your father at a newsstand a few days ago and he graciously offered to make some introductions. I called to give my thanks.”
Olivia felt her parents’ stares from across the room and moved closer to Mr. Lawrence. “I apologize for my tardiness. If I had known you were coming, I wouldn’t have kept you waiting.”
Without taking his eyes off Olivia, Mr. Lawrence said, “No need to apologize. My visit was not planned. I only regret that we aren’t able to spend more time together.”
Olivia’s heart raced.
Ruby near-shimmied her way between them. “I absolutely insist you attend my father’s party this Friday.”
“It’s a campaign fundraiser for Mr. Tremaine’s bid for mayor,” Olivia’s mother said, walking over. She turned to Mr. Lawrence. “The Tremaines’ ballroom isn’t as grand as ours, but it’s sure to be a cozy, intimate gathering.”
Olivia shot an apologetic glance at her best friend and said, “I have always found the Tremaines’ garden to be lovely this time of year. Will it be open for exploration, Ruby?”
“Of course.” Ruby sniffed. “We’ve spared no expense.”
Mr. Davenport appeared at Mr. Lawrence’s elbow. “It will be a perfect opportunity to meet Chicago’s major players.”
“You’re very kind. I can’t think of a better way to spend a Friday evening.” Mr. Lawrence turned to Olivia. “Will I see you there?”
Olivia felt a flutter in her stomach. The season had only just begun, and here the most eligible suitor she’d ever laid eyes on was quite literally in her drawing room. Maybe finding a husband at last would be easier than she thought.
“Of course,” she said, a smile playing across her lips. “I might even save you a dance.”

Chapter 2
Helen
This looks nothing like the diagram, Helen thought as she inspected the undercarriage of the damaged Ford Model T John towed to the garage earlier that morning. A delivery like this reminded Helen of Christmas morning: the anticipation and the suspense, each vehicle a mystery. Even though automobile repair wasn’t specifically in the Davenport portfolio, John quietly accumulated the best mechanics in Chicago to help him service and modify the new horseless carriages sweeping the nation.
That roster of mechanics included Helen. She stared at the deformed entrails of his latest find, convinced that her brother gave her the wrong schematics to study. The sketches appeared simple enough, but looking at the inner workings of the automobile now was like staring at a tangled web. It didn’t help that John and the other mechanics made suggestions above her head. It was only a matter of time before the twins, Isaac and Henry, began bickering. She rubbed her temple, postponing the stirring headache.
“Hand me the wrench,” John said. His hand bumped her face as he reached blindly in her direction.
She swatted his hand away and sat on the floor, dirt and oil altering the pattern already stained into a pair of John’s old overalls. “I don’t know why you won’t just let me do it. My hands are smaller than yours.”
“Fine then, you fix it.” John’s frustration barely disguised the challenge in his tone. The men around her stopped talking. Even Malcolm, who kept a scowl permanently etched on his face, took a step closer. She knew they would be watching her every move. The first time John turned a repair over to her, the whole garage erupted in protest, Malcolm loudest of all. Since then, most of the mechanics watched her with a mixture of amusement and awe. Malcolm, however, preferred to grunt from a corner about women knowing their place. About wealthy children using his workplace as their playground.
All of the men were sworn to secrecy.
Helen Marie Davenport searched among the scattered tools and wiped the back of her hand against her chin. Kneeling in a puddle of oil, she felt more herself here than anywhere else. Here no one expected her to know the right things to say or be aware of the latest gossip and trends. Here she let her curiosity run wild.
John didn’t mind her constant questions. He let her speak her mind. Helen adored her older brother. They even had the same look about them, contagious smiles, and their father’s proud nose and quiet nature. And they were dreamers.
“Did you forget what a wrench looks like?” John teased.
The men laughed at his joke. Isaac reached for the diagram she’d left on the floor. An architect by trade, he’d followed his brother to the Davenport Carriage Company after seeing an ad in the paper. “I can look these over for you, if you’d like, Helen.”
That was another thing. Here, she wasn’t Miss Davenport or Miss Helen. With the exception of Malcolm, who never addressed her directly, the men called her by her first name. She’d earned her place with them and they treated her like an equal for it.
Inside the garage, she was a true apprentice.
The garage wasn’t as fancy as the factory where the carriages were made, but it suited their needs just fine. The outside was painted the same shade of pale blue as the manor house. Two large bay doors allowed them to work on more than one auto­mobile at a time, especially since John’s Ford was parked in the carriage house. The walls were lined with a mix of new and secondhand tools mounted above the wooden workbench that hugged the back wall as it stretched toward the small office, where she and her brother often discussed the business’s future.
But before Helen could hand over the diagram, something caught her eye and suddenly the engine’s secrets revealed themselves to her. She gathered the tools she needed, and the rest of the garage faded into the background. She leaned forward over the open engine, alert and breathless. This is what she was meant to do.
The men watched for a while, but in time they returned to their own work, and John’s shadow fell over her. John, the first-born child and only son, was groomed to take over the family’s carriage company. His easy smile and smooth manners made every lady swoon over him.
Then there was Olivia. Olivia, who always knew the right thing to say and didn’t get ink on her sleeve or grease on her chin. She’d marry well and make their parents proud and continue to shop and entertain her way through life, just as she’d spent the last year doing.
Helen closed her eyes and took a steadying breath. She missed her sister—the way she’d been. Helen intended to use her mind to do more than plan dinners and pick china.
John tugged on her ear. “Where’d you go?”
Helen shook her head. “I think you should tell Daddy about converting the business to an automobile factory. Just repairing Ford and General Motors automobiles is not the future of our company. Studebaker and Patterson are already—”
“Helen.” He sighed. “We’ve been over this. He won’t even allow us to advertise automobile repairs. He would never agree to a factory.”
She looked up at him. “He would if you present it the right way. He may be set in his ways, but Daddy likes facts. It’s a risk, I agree. But one we need to take.”
“I couldn’t argue it the way you do.” John juggled the planetary gear between his hands. “You tallied the numbers, made the plans, figured out the budgets.”
“And you predicted the trend in the market, secured a space downtown to open a larger factory, and”—she poked him in the chest—“recognized what I have to offer.”
“You’re right. We’re a team.” He massaged below his left shoulder and frowned. “I wouldn’t feel right presenting your work to Daddy as my own.”
Helen grunted. Her face hot and prickling from the indecision on John’s face. “You know very well that Daddy would laugh me out of the room.”
After making a few minor adjustments to the Model T’s under­carriage, she took the gear from her brother and fitted it into place. Her stomach clenched at the thought of voicing her secret wish—to work, officially, for the Davenport Carriage Company—to her father. John would keep her secret until she was ready, until she had the experience to prove to their father that she had as much to contribute to the family name as her siblings.
“I just think you’re not giving him a chance,” her brother said. “He could surprise you.”
Helen chewed her lip. What if John was right? Helen pictured herself walking into his study with her notes and numbers. She’d played her speech out in her mind so many times, she could recite it in her sleep. In her best, wildest dreams, Daddy was impressed—proud.
The corner of John’s mouth twitched. “You both get the same look on your face when you have an idea. You’re more alike than you realize.”
Hope swelled in Helen’s chest. Just when she thought she would float away, the garage’s side door swung open.
Amy-Rose stood in the doorway. Flour coated her sleeve and a few stray curls clung to the side of her neck. Her expressive hazel eyes were set in a medium-brown complexion spotted with freckles. Now those eyes settled on Helen.
“There you are! I swear—” Amy-Rose tripped over the threshold. “Your mother asked for you,” she said, clearly out of breath. “I told her you were in the bath.”
Helen didn’t believe her friend’s face could have flushed any brighter until Amy-Rose spotted John sitting on the floor beside her.
John stood first. “Thank you, Amy-Rose.” He stretched his arms down to his sister and hauled her up. “Get inside before Mama and Daddy find you like this.”
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