A Haven on Orchard Lane

by Lawana Blackwell

  “They are not. And yours?”

  “Gone many years. I had no siblings. Have you?”

  “I have a brother, Charles.”

  “Does he live nearby?”

  The draughts pieces clicked upon the table. “He’s in Dartmoor prison. He was my husband’s secretary and involved in his crimes.”

  Charlotte put a hand to her bosom. “My dear.”

  Mrs. Deamer shook her head. “I almost drove myself mad, thinking that if I had not married Lowell, my brother would not have been offered the position.”

  “But that wasn’t your doing.”

  “It was in that I pledged myself to a man with no more thought than as if I were picking out a bonnet. That he was handsome and charming was enough. Character? I scarcely knew what it was.”

  “How old were you?” Charlotte asked.

  “When I married? Eighteen.”

  “That says everything. No one should be allowed to marry before the age of thirty.”

  “Hear, hear.”

  “Hmm. Considering my last marriage . . . sixty.”

  Mrs. Deamer grimaced. “I’m sorry.”

  “I say that in jest. We wouldn’t want to wipe out the earth’s population in one generation, would we?” Charlotte hesitated. “Regarding your brother . . . whilst your marriage gave him opportunity, it would have meant nothing if the inclination was not there as well.”

  “Yes, I realize that now,” Mrs. Deamer said.

  “When will he and your husband be released?”

  “My brother, in fourteen years. My husband, twenty-three. They have served but one. Mrs. Hooper has agreed to my visiting both every four months, an absence of three days. I went last just before you arrived, so I will not need to leave again until July. I hope that is agreeable to you.”

  “But of course,” Charlotte said.

  They began the game, and Charlotte moved a piece diagonally. “How did you come to be employed here? And you must shush me if my prying goes too far.”

  Mrs. Deamer made a move at her end. “I came to be in Mrs. Hooper’s employ when she sent a letter of sympathy after the sentencing.”

  “How did she know?”

  “It was in newspapers all over Devonshire, probably even as far as London. Or so I’m told. I could not bear to look at them.”

  “How well I understand,” Charlotte said.

  “Mrs. Hooper and her sister, a Mrs. Caswell, were on the same tour of Egypt as my husband and me six years ago. There were fifteen of us; naturally we became well acquainted.”

  “I see.” She had also lived well, Charlotte thought. Proof that security in this world was a tenuous thing. But unlike Mrs. Deamer’s, her own reduced circumstances had led to something positive.

  “In my reply to her letter, I asked if Mr. Hooper could possibly use an assistant, as I’m quite knowledgeable of fabrics. She wrote back that he did not, but then sent another letter saying she was considering opening her home to lodgers.”

  She slid her draughts piece to a side square. “My pride suffered. But other positions for which I had applied had not replied. I was living with friends who were clearly uncomfortable with the notoriety attached to my husband. In any case, I could not take advantage of their hospitality forever. It has worked out well. My responsibilities are lighter than they would have been had I been in charge of cooking and laundry.”

  “I’m sorry for all you went through,” Charlotte said. “But I am glad to know you. I believe we shall become good friends.”

  “Why, thank you, Mrs. Kent. That would please me.”

  “It would please me if you were not so good at this game,” Charlotte grumbled lightly, seeing two of her draughts pieces cornered.

  Mrs. Deamer laughed, the first Charlotte had heard.

  They played on.

  Charlotte was pleased, finally, to have a piece crowned on Mrs. Deamer’s side of the board. At length, she said, “You’ve shared your story. It’s only fair that I share mine.”

  It was a relief not to keep it bottled.

  “I will never tell a soul,” Mrs. Deamer said.

  Charlotte smiled at her across the board. “I believe you.”

  Late the following morning, Mrs. Deamer introduced Charlotte to Amy Hugo, who arrived in a horse-pulled cart with Clive Hugo Laundry Service, Port Stilwell, stenciled upon the side. She collected the wash Mondays and delivered on Thursdays.

  “I’m pleased to meet you,” said Amy, a pretty, dark-haired girl. To Mrs. Deamer, she said, “I’ll gather the kitchen linens first.”

  It was from the kitchen that Charlotte heard voices as she was reading The Small House at Allington. Rosalind was upstairs, changing shoes after her walk.

  “You want to see the poems he gave to me?” Coral’s high voice shouted.

  “You wrote ’em yourself!”

  “Excuse me,” Mrs. Deamer said and hurried from the parlor.

  Soon there was silence. In time, Mrs. Deamer returned. “They were fighting over some town swain.”

  “I thought as much,” Charlotte said. “Mr. Clark.”

  “You’ve met him?”

  “At Saint Paul’s. He has an unfortunate passion for singing.”

  “I heard voices,” Rosalind said from the doorway. “What is going on?”

  Charlotte sighed. “As we suspected, Mr. Clark may not be so noble.”

  13

  “You stopped in just in time, Dr. Harris,” Jude Pearce said on Thursday, the eighteenth of March. “Your book arrived in yesterday’s shipment.”

  From behind the counter, he produced Studies in the History of the Renaissance by Walter Horatio Pater.

  “Good enough.” The doctor, with a wild, graying beard, was one of his best customers. He had no interest in the lending library’s “musty old collection of romantic novels,” nor in being scolded again by the librarian for leaving snuff stains on pages.

  His knees creaked as he knelt to scratch behind Jinny’s half-perked, half-flopped mongrel ears. Digging into his coat pocket, he said, “Fancy a chocolate?”

  Jinny trembled with happiness, but Jude said, “Sorry, Dr. Harris. It’s bad for her stomach.”

  “Aye, most pleasures are,” the man grumbled while getting to his feet. “Sorry, Jinny, I’ll bring kippers next time.”

  “You’ll have a friend for life.”

  Dr. Harris left, and Jude began arranging copies of Disraeli’s Endymion in the window. He admired the man as a writer but was glad Mr. Gladstone had won the election as prime minister, for he considered Mr. Disraeli’s foreign policies ill conceived.

  Movement caught the corner of his eye. He looked up and spied Phoebe Drummer leave Owen’s Bakery, look over her shoulder, and cross Kleef Lane.

  Her face turned toward the window. He stepped backward, said to Jinny, “Is she coming here?”

  Jinny raised her head, cocked an ear forward.

  Force of old habit prompted Jude to smooth his hair with his hands.

  The door opened, and Phoebe stepped inside with a swishing of skirts. “Jude.”

  “Good morning, Phoebe.”

  Jinny raised herself and trotted over, tail wagging.

  “So, you remember me, do you, girl?” she said, patting behind Jinny’s ears.

  Phoebe was lovely still, with a dimpled smile and dark blond hair caught up in a jeweled comb. She straightened, closed the door behind her, and glanced about.

  “Good! You’re alone. But I shan’t stay long, or Father will notice.”

  “Yes?” Jude stood rooted to the spot.

  She moved closer. “You look well.”

  “As do you. I’ve heard you have a son.”

  “Edward, after his father. He’s nigh four weeks old. Mother’s watching him.”

  “Very good.”

  She rubbed her sleeved arms. “Dr. Goldsberry said it’s too soon to be up and about, but my lying-in was so long that I thought I should go mad. When Mother came to visit, I gave Nanny the day off and talked her
into bringing us back with her.”

  The way her words rushed out was unsettling, as were her frequent glances to the window.

  “Phoebe,” Jude said gently, “why have you come here?”

  Her hazel eyes pooled. “I’ve thought often of you lately. Of how cruel, how cowardly it was of me not to speak with you in person. Especially as you were mourning your grandfather.”

  She referred, of course, to the letter slid beneath his door last year, informing him that she had accepted Edward Drummer’s proposal of marriage. Edward Drummer! The part owner of the quarry was twice her age, and oddly enough, the same man of whom she oft complained, for his bold stares whenever she served him in her father’s bakery.

  But Phoebe feared her father’s disappointment more than anything and could not stand against his conviction that the races should not mix. It mattered not that Jude was but one-quarter Indian, nor that his half-caste mother had been honorable and loving to her family.

  The wedding was grand, he had heard. Now Phoebe and Mr. Drummer and their child lived in a servant-infested house in Seaton, twelve miles to the east.

  “You’ve forgiven me, then?” she was saying.

  “But of course.”

  Her lip trembled. Tears spilled. “I thought my baby would make me happy. He’s a sweet little fellow, mind you, but I cry every night. Edward’s losing patience with me.”

  He handed her a handkerchief, experiencing brief déjà vu. She blew her nose into it and wadded it with trembling fingers.

  “I’m so sorry, Phoebe,” he said.

  Moving forward, she rested her head upon his shoulder. He allowed it but for a moment, then, with great restraint, held her shoulders so that he could step back from her.

  She gulped a breath. “Mother says melancholia happens often to new mothers. That time will heal.”

  “Your mother is a wise woman.” He waited a second. “Does he mistreat you?”

  “No.” Her voice was a squeak, and she blew her nose again. “He gives me anything I want. But his breath is vile, and he drones on and on about the goings-on in his beloved quarry. And his hands . . .”

  “Phoebe,” he said, “your family wants what’s best for you. Allow them to help you. Because I can’t.”

  “I know,” she rasped and gave a little shudder. “You loved me. And I threw it away like so much rubbish!”

  It grieved him to see her this way. But after a year, he dared not peel the scar from his heart and allow those old feelings again. To what end? She was another man’s wife.

  Softly, he said, “Any moment someone could walk in. If word gets back . . .”

  “Yes.” She sighed and went to the door. Turning, she gave him a sad smile. “The eyeglasses suit you, Jude.”

  The timing of her departure was fortuitous, for but two minutes later, Mrs. Fallon from the Sea Gull Inn arrived for the half-dozen books she had ordered for the inn’s little library for patrons. Jude closed shop and carried the books back for her, Jinny trotting ahead.

  On their return, he left Jinny outside and stopped into Grundke’s for a thick slice of ham for his lunch sandwich, and some beef bones for the dog.

  “I just took bratwurst from kettle,” Mrs. Grundke said.

  Jude smiled. “Never mind the ham and bones. I’ll have two.”

  He stepped back onto Kleef Lane carrying the paper-wrapped parcel and noticed a woman staring into the window of his shop.

  No!

  He thought to duck back into the butcher’s, but then Jinny let out a bark and bounded ahead.

  Traitor!

  Aurora Hooper patted Jinny’s head and waved at him.

  Can this day get any worse?

  “Good day, Mrs. Hooper,” he called while struggling to fish his key from his pocket.

  She hurried toward him and snatched the parcel. “Allow me.”

  He unlocked the door and turned to offer a few brief civilities. But she followed him inside.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hooper,” he said again, taking back his parcel. “We mean to take our lunch upstairs. But if there is a particular book . . .”

  He was going through the motions. Mr. Hooper was the reader of the family. God rest his soul.

  She waved a dismissive hand. “Mr. Hooper was the reader of the family, God rest his soul. I have something to show to you.”

  From a blue embroidered reticule, she withdrew a small black pasteboard folder with gold trim. She was holding it out, so he set his purchase upon the counter and took it.

  “Your being keen on dogs, I thought you would appreciate this photograph.”

  Not quite following, he opened the folder to a sepia-toned girl standing beside a potted fern and holding a Yorkshire terrier.

  “A handsome dog,” he said, thinking of his bratwursts, growing cold. “But one is enough.”

  She laughed and cuffed his arm. “Such a jokester you are, Mr. Pearce! This is my grandniece, Bernadette Caswell. Daughter of my sister’s son in Portishead. She turned eighteen on Sunday past.”

  “Lovely girl.”

  “The exact age of our beloved queen when she assumed the throne.”

  “That is so.” He handed the photograph back to her. “Thank you for—”

  “And . . . she visits next month for Saint George’s Day. The picture does not do her justice, Mr. Pearce.”

  “No doubt,” he said, hoping this was not leading where it seemed to be.

  “When you see her, just try and stop yourself from falling in love.”

  Jinny let out a little yip. She was fond of bratwurst too.

  Jude sighed. “Mrs. Hoo—”

  She wagged a finger at him. “I know what you’re thinking. Will lightning strike twice? I assure you, Bernadette’s family is quite cosmopolitan. Your drop of Indian blood matters not one whit. Indeed, one would think you were Spanish at first glance.”

  Jude’s jaw ached from clenching it. “I’m one-quarter Indian, Mrs. Hooper, not just a drop. And I’m not ashamed of my heritage.”

  “Nor should you be,” she said quickly, hand to bosom. “I’ve toured your country, remember, and met the loveliest—”

  “England is my country,” he cut in.

  “But of course.” Now it was she who sighed, small blue eyes shining. “I meant no offense, Mr. Pearce. It’s just that you’re a good man, well respected in Port Stilwell. I should like my niece to have as wonderful a marriage as I had.”

  His umbrage toward her softened. “No doubt she’s a lovely young lady, Mrs. Hooper. But I’m almost twice her age.”

  “That’s no problem. Bernadette is mature for her years.”

  “Indeed? As am I. Which means I prefer women twice my age.”

  Mrs. Hooper blew out an exasperated breath. “Jesting again, Mr. Pearce! Phoebe Drummer wasn’t older than you.”

  “And that didn’t exactly turn out well.”

  “Because she’s a childish twit!”

  “That’s not fair, Mrs. Hooper.”

  “Bernadette, on the other hand, was head girl at her school.”

  He opened the door. “Good day.”

  “Good day yourself,” she said petulantly, then turned to raise brows. “And all the same, we shall see you on Saint George’s Day!”

  “Not if I see you first,” Jude muttered to the closed door.

  He turned the Will Return in Half an Hour sign at the glass and carried the food up the staircase.

  Jinny reached the landing first and turned to thump her tail.

  “Yes, yes,” Jude said. “I’m miffed at you for giving me away, mind you. I should eat both brats myself.”

  Idle words. Jinny knew that, for she gave his leg a loving nudge when he reached the top.

  14

  On the twenty-first of March, Rosalind and her mother started out again for Saint Paul’s. This time, Mother seemed more at ease, walking more slowly, even returning greetings sent their way.

  “I’m glad you’re more comfortable,” Rosalind said.

&
nbsp; “I believe you’re right. The possibility of anyone recognizing me is remote. Of course it helps that you’re at my side. Why notice an old face when you can look at a young one?”

  Rosalind clucked her tongue. “You’re beautiful, Mother.”

  “And you’re kind, daughter.”

  Noble Clark sang again, almost reaching the high notes of the Gloria Patri.

  The title of Mr. Moore’s sermon was “Consistency in Our Walk,” based upon the example of Daniel, and how being faithful in everyday things made his faith strong enough to endure times of great testing.

  Noble Clark was no Daniel, Rosalind thought as she happened to glance back on their way homeward and noticed him chatting up a beaming Amy Hugo.

  Rosalind had looked back, not to spy, but in hopes of catching sight of Mr. Pearce. She had not seen him last week either, but then, it was difficult to spot faces from behind.

  “Is something troubling you?” her mother asked.

  “Mr. Clark is with Amy this time” was Rosalind’s evasive reply.

  “I suppose there’ll be another row in the kitchen tomorrow.”

  She was wrong. It took place in the garden.

  “So there you are, Jezebel!”

  Amy’s voice. The endearment floated up to Rosalind, who was brushing her teeth. She spat out tooth powder and went to the window. Carefully, she raised the window glass. There being no theatre in Port Stilwell, one had to take one’s entertainments where available.

  “He takes pity upon you!” Amy shrieked. “How can you not see it?”

  “Pity!” Coral hissed. “How dare you!”

  “Everybody knows you were born on the wrong side of the blanket! That’s why Mrs. Hooper got you so cheap!”

  “I should slap you for that!” Coral said. “At least I don’t have to scrub clothes! What will the carbolic soap do to your hands in ten years?”

  “Speaking of hands, he held mine whilst walking me home!”

  “No doubt you flapped it out there like a flounder till he had no choice!”

  “Well, he took lunch with us too!”

  Where is Mrs. Deamer? Rosalind thought. As interesting as the drama was, she did not wish to see them resort to blows. Should she call out?