A Haven on Orchard Lane

by Lawana Blackwell

  “Lyme Bay,” Mrs. Deamer said.

  “Beautiful,” her mother said with more animation than she had used all day.

  The housekeeper leaned over the seat to raise the glass, letting in a great draught of damp, chilly air carrying scents of Scotch firs and the sea.

  “This one should be yours,” Rosalind said.

  “No . . . I’d rather you—”

  “You’ll spend far more time in this cottage than I will.”

  Her mother’s face crumbled.

  Rosalind sighed to herself. What did she assume? That they were to live here, happily ever after?

  “Perhaps you would care to rest for a while?” Mrs. Deamer suggested.

  “May we leave the window open?” her mother asked.

  “It’s your room,” Rosalind reminded her.

  Her mother sat upon the window seat. Rosalind and the housekeeper carried on with the tour. One of two doors across the landing opened to a bathroom with a sink and mirror and claw-foot tub with gleaming copper pipes. The other, to a third bedchamber.

  “This is Mrs. Hooper’s.”

  “Does she stay here often?”

  “No, never.” Mrs. Deamer’s expression gave no indication of her feelings. “She hopes to acquire another lodger.”

  “Oh. I didn’t realize.” Rosalind tried to imagine another person sharing bathroom, stairs, and parlor. How would her mother cope?

  “Miss Kent?”

  She sighed. “Please take no offense, Mrs. Deamer, but I made the decision to come here in haste. And I assumed we would be the only lodgers.”

  “I see.” The housekeeper gave her a sympathetic nod. “It may not happen. Port Stilwell isn’t as touristy as Dartmouth and Torquay or even Seaton. The beach isn’t sandy for bathing. Artists tend to stay at the inn because of the cliffs. Still, there will always be that possibility.”

  You’re doing the best you can for her, she reminded herself. It’s wasteful to pay for an empty room.

  “Would you care to see the kitchen?” Mrs. Deamer asked.

  “Mrs. Deamer!” boomed from below.

  “I beg your pardon.” The housekeeper moved toward the landing. “Mr. White?”

  “We canna carry it up,” he growled. “Amos will not assist.”

  “I’ll be right there.” Mrs. Deamer gave her an apologetic look and then started down the staircase. Rosalind followed.

  Septimus White stood scowling across the trunk at the boy holding the other end.

  “I gave my word to Grandmother.” Amos’s face was ruddier than the old man’s, his voice trembling but stance firm. “The stairs will do him in. He’ll be abed for weeks.”

  “Very well, Mr. White. Leave it.” Mrs. Deamer turned to Rosalind. “I’ll unpack and carry up her belongings.”

  Grunting and heaving, Septimus and Amos lowered the trunk to the floor on the side of the staircase, before a cellar door. They mumbled a unison “good day” and left.

  “Shall I show you the kitchen first?” Mrs. Deamer said to Rosalind.

  She opened the door opposite the parlor. The room was as cheerful as the rest of the cottage, with flagstone floors, sea blue cupboards, a carved rosewood dresser, oak worktable with chairs, and a huge shiny range. Dried herbs were strung across a window with cheerful yellow print curtains, and copper pots hung from a rack.

  “Where do those doors lead?” Rosalind asked.

  “The one on the left, to the garden. And the other, to the pantry and larder, and cook’s bathroom and bedchamber.”

  Rosalind became aware of surprisingly few visible items for food preparation even though supper was but two, three hours away. Yet no pot simmered on the stove, no heat radiated from the oven, and no bread rose on the table.

  As if reading her mind, Mrs. Deamer said, “Our cook, Coral Shipsey, was visiting her family in Buckfastleigh when your telegram arrived. She’s due back late morning. Mrs. Hooper’s son is to send supper from his restaurant.”

  “How thoughtful,” Rosalind said on their way back toward the hall.

  Mrs. Deamer gave her a droll smile. “But I’m afraid you’re at my mercy for breakfast tomorrow. I’ll try not to scorch the porridge.”

  Rosalind decided she liked this woman. She smiled back. “I’m actually of the toast-and-tea persuasion. I’m not certain what Mother takes.”

  She gave herself a mental kick. How long would it take to remember to guard her tongue! Casting about for a change of subject, she noticed a keyhole in the door. Half joking, she said, “Are we to be locked out between meals?”

  That brought another smile from the housekeeper. “According to Coral, Mrs. Lightman, now head cook for the restaurant, did not want the family trooping through when she was working, so she insisted upon the lock. The bathroom was added at her prompting as well. But never fear, Coral is quite happy for guests in the kitchen.”

  Back in the hall, Mrs. Deamer opened the trunk and took a bag from the very top.

  “Here, I’ll help,” Rosalind said, taking the bag from her. If any memorabilia or playscript turned up, it was likely to be inside. She could take charge of it and deflect any curiosity. “My mother was an avid theatre-goer,” she could say in all honesty.

  8

  Charlotte pulled her wrap tighter. The cool air bathed her face, the sight of distant blue water soothed her eyes, and the gulls were music to her ears. And yet the knot in her chest grew. Tennyson’s poignant lines came to her mind.

  Break, break, break,

  At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!

  But the tender grace of a day that is dead

  Will never come back to me.

  Why had her body not protested against her mind’s agenda those many years ago? Arms that had cradled, lips that had brushed against perfect little ears, breasts that had nourished.

  “I should throw myself from a cliff,” she muttered.

  “Surely not, Mrs. Kent.”

  She turned toward Mrs. Deamer, at the wardrobe shaking wrinkles from Charlotte’s mauve silk gown.

  “I forgot you were there.”

  “Quiet as a mouse, and you learn all sorts of things.”

  Charlotte frowned. “You overheard Mrs. Hooper. What an odious woman.”

  “I’m grateful that she gave me employment.”

  The housekeeper hanged the dress upon a hook and took a step closer. “If you’ll pardon my saying so, Mrs. Kent, change is frightening. Particularly when it’s thrust upon you.”

  Certain that she referred to her own experience, Charlotte said, “What keeps you going?”

  “My faith. It truly sustains me.”

  “You’re never bitter?”

  “There are times I must remind myself not to be. That it cannot change the past.” She shrugged. “Or a person.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Mrs. Deamer shook her head. “You’re very kind, but you were the one contemplating suicide.”

  “I wouldn’t actu—”

  “Mother?”

  Charlotte and Mrs. Deamer turned heads toward Rosalind, carrying the framed photograph from the trunk.

  “Me?” Her expression was unreadable. “Why have you kept it?”

  Charlotte’s mind barely registered movement, the soft closing of the door with Mrs. Deamer’s exit.

  “To comfort me.”

  “Comfort you,” Rosalind said with bitter smile.

  “But it has been my torment, daughter.”

  “Why did you give me up?” she said thickly.

  “It tore my heart out.” Tears pricked Charlotte’s eyes. She pulled the handkerchief from her sleeve and blew her nose.

  “Why, then?”

  “I had to work. Aunt Vesta offered a safe place for you.”

  “Why did you stop visiting?”

  “I lived for those visits. But Aunt Vesta said it would ruin you to have others know of your mother’s . . . moral failings. That no decent man would want you when you were old enough to marry.” She swallowed, her throat
a tight lump. “And you seemed so happy.”

  “I was happy,” Rosalind said with a triumphant look. “Aunt Vesta doted on me.”

  Charlotte’s fingertips brushed the top of the window seat. Sapped of strength, she longed to sink back into its cushion. In less than a fortnight, she had lost her footing in the world. She had dropped into her daughter’s orderly life and was resented for it.

  Just take me now, Father, she begged from her heart while her daughter’s eyes burned into her. I have nothing. No one.

  And from her heart, God seemed to say, A mother puts her child’s pain above her own.

  She could barely draw breath. She thought back to her own childhood. Chaotic at times, living from trunks and crowding in with relations the times between roles. She had laid her head upon many a strange pillow, yet always secure in her part in the family.

  Not only had Rosalind been denied a mother, but a father. Could an aunt, no matter how loving, fill those voids? Patrick’s drowning was not Charlotte’s doing, but it should have made her all the more eager to parent her child.

  “I have no right to ask forgiveness. But I beg you not to despise me.”

  Her daughter stared, face unflinching.

  “Because you were always in my heart, I convinced myself our bond would transcend the separation. If I could only go back, Rosalind, I would have kept you so close. No matter what it took.”

  Rosalind seemed to be struggling to contain herself. “Easy to say it now.”

  “Then why does it hurt so?” Charlotte rasped.

  Her daughter’s expression softened only briefly. “You’re trained to cry on cue, Mother.”

  “You think I’m acting?” Charlotte gulped in a ragged breath. “I deserve that.”

  “I don’t know what to think.” Her daughter moved to the chest of drawers, laid the picture upon the top, and turned for the door. “I’m going for a walk.”

  “Now?” Charlotte asked through her tears but received no reply.

  Tea arrived within seconds, as if Mrs. Deamer had known it would be needed. She placed the tray upon the half-moon table and, pouring tea into a Minton lovebird cup, said, “You’ll enjoy the garden when the weather warms.”

  Charlotte nodded dully.

  “The armchairs are perfect for sitting out with a book. Cream and sugar?”

  “Yes, please,” she murmured. Why not?

  “And there’s a table with chairs on the terrace,” Mrs. Deamer added while stirring.

  She accepted cup and saucer, and took a sip. “Thank you.”

  Mrs. Deamer straightened. “You’re welcome. I’ll bring up more clothing now.”

  Suddenly reluctant to be alone, Charlotte said, “I loved our garden in Lincolnshire. For a while.”

  “I had a giant copper beech in Plymouth.” Mrs. Deamer gave her a wistful smile. “The shade kept everything else from thriving, but I did so enjoy reading beneath it.”

  “We appear to have much in common. Have you any children?”

  “I was not blessed with children.”

  “Rosalind is my only child.” Charlotte sighed. “We’ve been estranged for years.”

  “Indeed? And yet she’s here with you.”

  “Under duress.”

  “But here all the same,” Mrs. Deamer said, glancing at the window. “Do you know how long she intends to be out?”

  “I don’t.” Charlotte’s pulse quickened. “Is there danger?”

  “Evening temperatures drop swiftly.”

  “Surely she’ll return before sunset.”

  Mrs. Deamer nodded. “Surely.”

  9

  Rosalind’s mind worked best in concert with her feet. They carried her past cottages alongside Fore Street and then quaint shops with bow windows, Saint Michael’s with its narrow Saxon stained-glass windows and bell tower, the post office, and the guildhall, where men stood in a queue outside a door beneath Gladstone and Disraeli election banners. Absently, she returned the occasional nod or greeting.

  She had relocated Mother with surprising ease. Mrs. Deamer seemed competent to care for her. Why not take the train tomorrow and resume her classes?

  Because Miss Beale would be disappointed.

  And approval from the only real mother figure Rosalind had ever had was important.

  She had lied to her mother from spite. While Aunt Vesta had fed and clothed her, she was a critical soul who so feared her following in her mother’s footsteps that she forbade her to play with boys even as a young child. Novels were forbidden, lest they cause aspirations toward the stage. Outdoor play was restricted to the garden for fear she would fall in with a rough crowd.

  Embraces were few and far between, limited to times of sickness or injury, such as the time she fell from a tree at age seven. Strokes of her forehead and clucks of sympathy as the doctor set her arm were followed by bed without supper because her ascent up the tree had exposed her knickers to possible passersby.

  She could envision her aunt discouraging her mother from visiting. What would you have done in her place? she asked herself.

  “She could have drawn me aside,” she muttered. “Asked if I were hap—”

  “Why, Miss Kent!” a voice trilled.

  She winced, turned.

  Mrs. Hooper stood outside a shop, smiling and waving. “I was draping cloth in the window, and there you were! Having a look about?”

  Rosalind stepped back and managed a smile. “It’s a charming town. Where is the library you mentioned?”

  Mrs. Hooper pointed southward. “Three shops down, over the solicitor’s office—Mr. Lockhart is his name. His family owns the orchards before my cottage, though you’ll never see him set foot in them.”

  “And is there a bookshop? I’d like to send a postal card to the head of the school where I’m employed.”

  It would have to wait until tomorrow, for she had brought no money along, but as long as Mrs. Hooper was so obliging with directions, she may as well ask.

  Mrs. Hooper’s smile remained but no longer matched the expression in her marble eyes. “There is one, but I’m certain there are no postal cards. Only books, quite expensive, and you seem too sensible a young woman to buy what you can read for free. As for the cards, you can purchase them cheaply at Clark Mercantile.”

  She’s concerned I’ll not be able to keep up the rent, Rosalind realized.

  “I’m quite frugal,” she assured the older woman. No sense mentioning Aunt Vesta’s legacy, or it might give her ideas about raising the rent once they were settled.

  “But of course you are,” Mrs. Hooper said, her face smoothing. “You should go to the beach early one morning and watch the cobles.”

  “Cobles?”

  “Boats. The fishermen bring in their catch from the night before. It’s quite a sight, all the hustle and bustle. Mrs. Kent would enjoy it as well.” She pursed her lips. “You’re from Cheltenham, yet your inquiry was from London. Is that where your mother lived?”

  “Only briefly,” Rosalind replied with stiff smile. “I’ll leave you to your window-dressing. Thank you for the information.”

  Teeth clenched, she continued down the pavement. That was one woman whose approval she cared for not one whit.

  Fore Street ended at Lach Lane, and beyond, a beach was cradled by cliffs on either side, with huge stacks of rock isolated by the waning tide. The air was fresher and cooler past the chimneys. She crossed the lane and sat upon one of four public benches. Salt breezes chilled her cheeks and coaxed all thought of Mrs. Hooper from her mind.

  At least forty boats of all colors rested upon the shingles. A few men in blue sailcloth smocks were checking nets and rigging. She imagined the rest were preparing to take their suppers before going out to earn their livings.

  Supper, she thought. She rose and continued down Lach Lane, intent upon finding a return street that did not pass Mrs. Hooper’s shop. A half-dozen pleasant homes lined the town side before she came to a signpost reading Kleef Lane. Before her on the o
pposite corner sat a large hotel with cob walls and a slate roof, appropriately named Sea Gull Inn. She turned to the right, assuming that Kleef Lane ran parallel to Fore Street.

  Fewer shoppers were out, and several windows were dark. She sniffed, and then again. Why didn’t I bring a handkerchief?

  Desperation caused her to swipe at her nose with the side of her hand.

  Blood?

  Hand cupped beneath nose, she entered the next lit shop beneath a signboard that read Pearce’s Books. In spite of the nosebleed, she could smell paper and ink, leather and cloth. To her left, a man stood before a counter, cutting twine from a pasteboard box. A medium-sized dog with tan fur lay at his feet.

  “If you please?” Rosalind said.

  He whipped a handkerchief from his coat pocket. The dog reached her first and raised up upon its hind legs to lick her free hand.

  “Down, Jinny,” said the man.

  And then to Rosalind, as he handed her the handkerchief, “Should you not tip your head?”

  Instead, she held the cloth below her nostrils and pinched just above. At length, she felt safe enough to test a clean spot on the white linen. Nothing.

  “Leaning back causes it to go down into your throat,” she explained. “Thank you for your help. I’m quite humiliated.”

  “But why?” he asked.

  “To have such a defect.”

  “Everyone has at least one,” he said. “I can’t whistle.”

  “I also can’t ride backward in a train.”

  “I suppose that means carousels are out?”

  “They are.”

  He gave a sigh. “Well, you have me there.”

  That made her smile.

  His smile curved toward bespectacled green eyes beneath a shock of hair the color of wheat. The clean-shaven face, with cleft chin and faint laugh lines, seemed tanned by the sun yet was not leathery like a fisherman’s. He stood average height for a man, about four inches taller than she.

  The dog sat before her and thumped her tail. She had long pendant ears, black expressive eyes, silky tan fur, and legs that appeared awkwardly long for the rest of her.