A Haven on Orchard Lane

by Lawana Blackwell

  The girl nodded. “I was scullery maid for Mrs. Lightman from age twelve. She liked to teach, and I wanted to learn.”

  “Good for you,” Rosalind said.

  She turned out to be a decent cook, especially with pastries. One day, confidence and experience would make her an excellent one, Charlotte thought.

  On Saturday morning, five days after arriving in Port Stilwell, Charlotte sat at her writing table and penned a letter.

  Dear Mr. Irving,

  May God bless you for not abandoning me in that hour of need. I am quite well, tucked away in Devonshire. I pray that your production is continuing well. I shall always regret failing you, yet such failure brought a silver lining, as my dear Rosalind has come back into my life. I feel most blessed.

  She signed her name and folded it into an envelope. Should she include her return address? She decided against it. Why lay that burden on him? And there was always the chance of its being misdirected. He would understand and likely not even notice.

  Her thoughts were becoming calmer after but five days of simple routine.

  While she enjoyed meals and desserts, she no longer felt the drive to dull her senses with visits to the kitchen betweentimes. She reckoned she would never be thin again but felt the upward spiral was over.

  She could appreciate the quiet of Mrs. Hooper’s parlor and chats with Mrs. Deamer. Life would be almost perfect, she thought, if Rosalind were not so clearly wishing to return to Cheltenham.

  That first supper had turned out to be an anomaly. All conversations since had been polite and cautious. She could sense her daughter was under tremendous pressure, so she did not attempt to force interaction.

  She brought the letter downstairs and found Mrs. Deamer holding the front door for Amos White and another young man as they carried through a trunk.

  “Hello, Amos,” Charlotte said as they lowered it to the hall floor. “How is your grandfather keeping?”

  “Very well, Mrs. Kent,” he said, straightening. “This is my cousin, Billy.”

  Billy, short and muscular looking, doffed his cap and nodded.

  “We can carry it upstairs this time,” Amos went on.

  “Is Miss Kent resting, do you think?” Mrs. Deamer asked.

  “I’ll go and see,” Charlotte said.

  “Would you rather I did?” But of course Mrs. Deamer sensed Charlotte’s reluctance to be a nuisance to Rosalind.

  “No, thank you.”

  Charlotte went upstairs and knocked. Rosalind answered holding a novel and wearing her usual polite, patient, but oh, so opaque expression.

  “Your trunk is here.”

  “It is?” Rosalind looked past her and turned. “I’ll just put this away.”

  Charlotte moved into the room and watched her place the book onto the seat of her chair.

  “Amos brought a stronger back along this time. They’re able to carry it up.”

  “What a relief.”

  When her daughter turned, her face said otherwise. Charlotte had seen that same expression many times in mirrors at Fosberry Hall.

  “May we speak first?” Charlotte said.

  “Speak?” Rosalind gave a little shrug. “Very well.”

  Charlotte closed the door, turned. “Have them take it back to the station.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “And go with them. Catch the next train to Cheltenham.”

  Her daughter stared at her.

  “You’ve done enough. It’s time to get on with your life.”

  “But you need me.”

  “All I need . . .” Charlotte’s throat thickened. “. . . is for you to be happy. I shall be fine.”

  Rosalind looked tempted, then shrugged again. “Spring lectures have concluded.”

  “I’m sorry. Truly I am.” Charlotte reached for the knob.

  “Wait.”

  She turned again, noticed a sheen in her daughter’s green eyes.

  “You would do that for me?”

  “Oh, Rosalind,” Charlotte gushed, feeling the sting of tears. “Anything.”

  Her daughter watched her with a tense expression, as if working up to saying something unpleasant.

  Charlotte braced herself.

  “I lied to you. Aunt Vesta held her cats in higher esteem than me.”

  An ache stabbed Charlotte’s chest. “I’m so sorry! My poor girl!”

  Lips trembling, Rosalind said, “I’m not saying this to hurt you, Mother. I just want you to know that you were missed . . .”

  Charlotte put her hand to her mouth and choked back a sob.

  “. . . and that I’m grateful for this chance to be with you.”

  Had her ears betrayed her?

  Rosalind sniffed and gave her a teary smile. “May we begin again?”

  “Yes, please!” Charlotte cried as they went to each other’s arms.

  She held her daughter for but a moment, relishing the tears this time. A tentative knock sounded. Rosalind stepped away, patted her arm, and opened the door.

  “Forgive me for intruding,” Mrs. Deamer said, “but the boys must return the wagon soon.”

  “Of course,” Rosalind said, hurrying past her.

  Footfalls sounded upon the staircase. Charlotte wiped her eyes and blew her nose under the housekeeper’s worried gaze.

  “Is everything all right?” Mrs. Deamer asked.

  Charlotte smiled. “Yes, quite all right.”

  Mrs. Deamer returned the smile, clearly happy to hear it, and Charlotte thought, I pray I can say the same for you one day.

  Conversation over lunch was considerably lighter. Charlotte prevailed upon Rosalind to tell of her school experiences, even of the former beau who apparently could have been one of Roger’s disciples.

  Afterward, she sat in Rosalind’s chair and watched her unpack the trunk.

  “Will you go to church tomorrow?” Charlotte asked.

  Placing a folded nightgown in a drawer, Rosalind replied, “Yes. There is a Congregationalist chapel, Saint Paul’s.”

  “But Aunt Vesta was Anglican.”

  “I became Congregationalist while at college. And you?”

  Still so much catching up to do! Charlotte thought. “Anglican. But I visited some Congregationalist churches over my childhood. As long as Christ is preached, I’m fine. And I’d rather be with you . . . if you’re agreeable?”

  Rosalind smiled. “It would be my pleasure.”

  An unsettling thought struck Charlotte. “But what if I’m recognized?”

  “You could wear your veil.”

  “Yes. But for how long? Months and months? Torture! And will I attract the attention I wish to escape?”

  Rosalind stepped around the bed to lean against the post, and folded her arms. “May I be frank with you, Mother?”

  “But of course.”

  “After an absence of five years, you had the one performance.”

  “Part of a performance,” Charlotte corrected.

  “And what are the chances that someone from Port Stilwell was there?”

  “Remote, at best.”

  “Even if so, such a person would have been out in the audience. Not up close. As for anyone recognizing you from newspapers, when were the most recent engravings printed?”

  “I suppose that would be my wedding to Roger.”

  Her daughter mugged a frown. “Blackbeard.”

  “Quite appropriate. But some may have been printed again whilst I was in the hospital.”

  “Hmm. Well, in them . . . were you . . .”

  Charlotte had to smile at her discomfort. “As thin as a reed. I never thought I would be grateful for the extra weight.”

  Charlotte asked Mrs. Deamer about the minister the next morning over breakfast. She had fallen into requesting Rosalind’s usual toast and tea, and was discovering, oddly enough, that she was not hungry two hours later, as when after a laden platter.

  “Mr. Moore is his name, according to Coral. She could show you the way, but she leaves
early for choir.”

  “I’ve seen it,” Rosalind said, wearing a bottle green silk that enhanced her eyes. “North of the shops on Kleef Lane.”

  Mrs. Deamer nodded. “Tragically, his wife has a cancer and is not expected to live beyond summer.”

  “How sad,” Rosalind said. “Have they any children?”

  “I believe he has a married daughter in Cornwall and a son at Oxford.”

  “Are you Church of England?” Charlotte asked, just as Rosalind had asked her.

  Teapot in hand, Mrs. Deamer replied, “All of my life. But I haven’t attended here.”

  “Is it because you don’t wish to go alone?” Rosalind asked. “We could walk you there on our way and meet you afterward.”

  “You’re very kind.” She hesitated, as if considering whether to share something. “I almost never venture into town. Coral does the shopping.”

  Gently, Charlotte said, “Is this because of your husband?”

  Mrs. Deamer hesitated, then nodded again.

  “But surely no one here knows.”

  “They know.”

  Rosalind’s glance at Charlotte had Mrs. Hooper written all over it.

  Saint Michael’s bells peeled out an Anglican five-note call in the distance. Saint Paul’s Congregationalist Chapel was of gray stone, with slanted red-slate roof, long mullioned windows, and a painted coral door beyond an arched porch. Worshipers socialized in the yard in loose knots: families with young children, weathered fishermen in faded suits, their wives in colorful wraps. Charlotte pretended not to notice glances sent their way. She could not afford friendships, people with whom to monitor every word.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Kent, Miss Kent!”

  They turned to smile at Coral Shipsey. She stood with a man so handsome as to be beautiful. Tall and slender, he had full lips and hooded amber eyes beneath a halo of flaxen curls.

  “May I introduce Noble Clark?” Coral said, fairly glowing. “He’s schoolmaster at the grammar school. And lead soloist here.”

  “Singing is my passion,” he said.

  “I anticipate hearing you, Mr. Clark.” Charlotte offered her hand. “My father oft said that hymns are the sermons we remember the longest.”

  “Well said.” He wrapped long, soft fingers around hers. “I shan’t disappoint you.”

  But his eyes were upon Rosalind.

  “I noticed you on Monday, Miss Kent, near the seashore. Do you stroll every day?”

  “I try, weather allowing,” she replied. “But usually mornings.”

  “There is a lovely path to the west, along the cliffs, that I would be happy to show you on Saturday.”

  Charlotte could not help but notice Coral’s rigid posture.

  “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Clark,” Rosalind said with polite aloofness. “But I find solitary walks to be most advantageous to the mind.”

  “You’ll be late for choir,” Coral said, touching his shoulder. She softened her voice. “We mustn’t disappoint Mrs. Kent.”

  “Yes, of course.” He raised his chin and turned on his heel without another look at either of them.

  “That was disquieting,” Charlotte leaned close to say when he was out of earshot.

  “What else could I have said?” Rosalind asked.

  “You were as kind as possible.”

  They entered the church. At the end of the fourth row from the back, an older woman smiled at Charlotte.

  “You may sit here,” she said in a startling Prussian accent, nudging the man with her to slide to the right.

  Charlotte smiled and entered the pew with Rosalind following. “Thank you.”

  In the loft, five women, including Coral, and two men, including Noble Clark, sang “Go Not Far From Me, O My Strength,” accompanied on the organ by a young woman. The congregation joined them for “Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing,” and then Mr. Clark stepped from loft to podium.

  “Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom,

  lead Thou me on.”

  His tenor was clear, sweet, and on key, at least for the majority of the notes.

  “The night is dark, and I am far from home;

  Lead Thou me on!”

  An elbow nudged Charlotte. The woman beside her rolled her eyes and whispered, “His uncle is churchwarden.”

  Charlotte nodded

  Aldous Moore was of medium height and stoop shouldered, and while his gait was weary, his voice matched his kind smile. The subject of his sermon, he announced, was the pursuit of holiness, key Scriptures from the Book of Matthew.

  “‘Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness,’” he began, and Charlotte found herself saying a silent prayer for his wife. Cancer was a terrible disease.

  After the closing hymn, Charlotte turned to the couple who had surrendered their seats. “Thank you.”

  The man leaned forward, smiled, and said in an accent like his wife’s, “It was our pleasure. Our daughter, Gisela, is the organist.”

  “She played very well,” Charlotte said.

  “We have the butcher shop down the street,” said the woman. “Grundke’s.”

  Mr. Moore stood outside the door, beneath the arched porch.

  “Welcome to Port Stilwell, Mrs. Kent . . . Miss Kent,” he said after Rosalind’s introduction. “May I call upon you soon?”

  Charlotte offered her hand but shook her head. “Thank you, Mr. Moore, but you have enough on your shoulders for the time being.”

  He gave her a sad smile. “Thank you for understanding.”

  “That was thoughtful of you,” Rosalind said when they were out of earshot. “At least he has children. To comfort him . . . later.”

  “He will have to comfort them as well,” Charlotte said. “It is hard to lose a mother.”

  “I can hardly remember Grandmother Ward.”

  “You were but five the last time she accompanied me to Aunt Vesta’s. It was shortly afterward that pleurisy took her.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Charlotte’s eyes began to smart. “At least mine didn’t leave by choice.”

  “You had no choice that you could see.”

  Overwhelmed by such forgiveness, Charlotte had to dab her eyes with her fingertips.

  Rosalind linked an arm through hers. “Mother?”

  Charlotte patted her arm. “I’m all right. Thank you.”

  “Imagine such cheek from Mr. Clark!” she said in an obvious attempt to lighten the mood.

  “‘A man wrapped up in himself is a very small bundle,’” Charlotte said.

  “Shakespeare?”

  “An American, actually. Benjamin Franklin.”

  “Ah . . . the kite and electricity fellow. Should I apologize to Coral?”

  “Apologize? You did nothing wrong.”

  “I wouldn’t wish resentment.”

  “Especially from one who prepares your food,” Charlotte quipped before sobering again. “I saw resignation and pain in her eyes, but no resentment toward you. After all, you cut him off quickly.”

  Arm in arm, they walked in companionable silence a bit longer, and then Rosalind asked, “Do you think of my father?”

  “Yes, at times.”

  “Aunt Vesta said he was drunk when he died.”

  Charlotte sighed. “She should not have burdened you with that. He was celebrating your imminent birth. As a rule, he drank rarely.”

  “Tell me more.”

  She started from the day she met Patrick, during rehearsals for The Man in the Iron Mask at the Adelphi. Leaving out a volatile temper and capricious moods linked to performances, she spoke of his always having coppers in his pocket for beggars, his visiting his aged parents every week, his love for a clever riddle.

  “He never had the chance to hold me,” Rosalind said.

  “There’s a pity.”

  “You spoke of his parents . . .”

  “Gone. No other family. A sister who perished from whooping cough.” She sighed. “I’m afraid I’m all
you’ve got, family-wise.”

  Rosalind squeezed her arm. “You’ll do nicely.”

  12

  That afternoon after Rosalind left for a walk, Charlotte played the pianoforte for a bit and then went up the staircase to the attic. She studied the four closed doors before taking a chance on the first one on her left.

  Mrs. Deamer answered with book in hand.

  “Oh good. You weren’t asleep,” Charlotte said.

  “I enjoyed your music.”

  “Thank you. I realize it’s your afternoon off, but I came up on the off chance that you’d fancy a game of cribbage. But you’re reading.”

  The housekeeper held up the book. “The Cossacks, by Tolstoy. My fourth read through. I kept but a few novels, which I now regret.”

  “I brought none,” Charlotte said.

  “Would you care to borrow one of mine?”

  “Thank you, that would be lovely.”

  Mrs. Deamer stepped back. “Do come in.”

  The room was small, with a ceiling that slanted to a four-foot wall with two dormer windows. A Bohemian-looking woven blanket was spread upon a mattress with an iron bedstead, a comparatively subdued rug of blues and greens and browns upon the floor. Against one wall was a wardrobe and chest of drawers. A chair and washstand were against the other, beside a framed picture of daisies in a vase.

  The books stood upon the chest of drawers, propped between two cast-iron bookends in the shape of owls: a Bible in black leather, three novels by Tolstoy, one by Trollope, and another by Wilkie Collins. Charlotte had read all but Trollope’s The Small House at Allington.

  “Thank you,” she said, pushing the books together to fill the gap. “I’ll leave you to your reading.”

  She was at the door when Mrs. Deamer said, “My parents would not allow us to play cards on Sunday. It rather stuck with me.”

  “I see.”

  “The subject of draughts, however, was never addressed.”

  Charlotte smiled. “I shouldn’t wish to tempt you down the path to perdition.”

  “I’ve witnessed others on that path, and it does not appeal to me. I would enjoy a game.”

  At the draughts table in the parlor, Charlotte took twelve round pieces each from the wooden box, kept the black, and handed the tan across the board. Placing game pieces upon her squares, she said, “Are your parents still living, Mrs. Deamer?”