A Haven on Orchard Lane

by Lawana Blackwell

  “I’m impressed.”

  She eyed him in mock suspicion. “Now you flatter me, Mr. Pearce.”

  “Not at all. I made fair enough marks in mathematics, but we were never the best of friends.”

  “What led you to open a bookshop?” Mrs. Kent asked.

  “Grandfather encouraged it. I have always enjoyed reading and had no desire to blacksmith, as was his trade. But after university, I lectured on literature at Eton until five years ago, when Grandmother’s failing health necessitated my return.”

  “What a good grandson you were,” the older woman said.

  “They were all that I had left. Even when I was away, I felt anchored by them. The world is very different without family.”

  Miss Kent’s eyes were glistening, he realized.

  He blew out a quick breath. “I’m not usually so morbid. It’s just that you’re such good listeners.”

  The women gave him tender smiles, the kind that only women could give.

  “You weren’t morbid at all,” Miss Kent said. “My mother is all I have left. I would be bereft without her.”

  Now both sets of eyes glistened.

  Later, when they stepped out onto the pavement, Miss Kent and her mother offered hands and thanked him again before giving Jinny parting pats.

  Unlocking the door to his shop, Jude looked back. The two were walking northward arm in arm, engaged in conversation.

  As if sensing being watched, Miss Kent slowed her steps and glanced over her shoulder. Their eyes met. Chagrined at being caught staring, he raised a hand sheepishly.

  She smiled back.

  He grinned and watched her turn again.

  They had exchanged a brief, wordless message, and Jude floated into his shop on an inexplicable and most welcome wave of wonder.

  18

  From the parlor came six faint chimes of the wall clock. Rosalind burrowed into the covers and tried to capture some more sleep, but her mind would have none of it and carried her again to her chair across from Mr. Pearce in Flores.

  She flipped her pillow to the cold side. It did not help. Some ten minutes later, she thought, May as well walk. She had never set out this early to watch the cobles come in. Why not now?

  Her limbs rebelled against throwing back the blankets, and she shivered all the way to the bathroom. Back in her bedroom, she pulled on stockings and a dress, and tied her hair with a ribbon. No sense in a comb, since dampness would wreak havoc anyway.

  Fingerlike branches of apple trees pierced the fog shrouding Orchard Lane. A cloud of wood pigeons rose from her right and flapped away, crooning. Upon reaching Lach Lane, she walked the ridge just above the beach and watched boats being winched from the high water onto the shingles, accompanied by the creaking of chains, shouts of hoarse voices, and the snorts of dray horses hitched to wagons. Fishermen in blue worsted shirts scurried about, scooping fish into barrels.

  Beyond the activity, fog blurred the line between sea and sky, and the cliffs dawned a soft azure.

  I shall miss this place, Rosalind realized, smiling at the recollection of Miss Beale practically forcing her onto the train four weeks ago. No matter where her path might lead her in years to come, Port Stilwell would forever be connected with making peace with her mother.

  And with, incredibly, after all these years surrounded by women and immersed in education, feeling something for a man. A man whom she suspected felt something for her.

  Do men have this intuition too? she prayed. Or did you give it to women as compensation for having to wait for men to take the lead in courtship?

  Or am I being ridiculous? Please don’t allow me to be ridiculous!

  However much Rosalind liked Mr. Pearce, she avoided Kleef Lane. It was unbecoming to lurk, especially when she had dressed in haste.

  But there would be nothing wrong with inviting him to dinner. Surely she and her mother had incurred a social debt with yesterday’s lunch?

  Some shops had opened on Fore Street, including Mrs. Hooper’s. On impulse, she went inside.

  “Out and about early, are you, Miss Kent?” Mrs. Hooper said while smoothing a length of brocade that overlapped her cutting table.

  “I wanted to see the boats come in before I return to school.”

  “Oh, to be young again!” Mrs. Hooper chuckled. “Although you’re actually a bit long in the tooth, aren’t you?”

  I will not lose my temper, Rosalind thought.

  The older woman’s marble eyes scanned her. She clucked disapproval. “All the more reason you should take pains with your hair, if you expect to catch anyone’s eye.”

  “I didn’t go out there to—”

  “I have a niece in Portishead who won’t take one step from the house without every curl in place. I hope no one saw you, dear.”

  You want her to grant a favor, Rosalind reminded herself with clenched teeth.

  “Here, you may as well lend a hand,” Mrs. Hooper said.

  Rosalind went to the far side of the table, took hold of her corner of the cloth, and helped to overlap it.

  “My assistant—Betsy Garner—feels unwell.” Mrs. Hooper snorted. “There’s the one thing about being young that I don’t miss! I trust the cottage is satisfactory?”

  “Most satisfactory,” Rosalind said and then voiced the question that had propelled her inside. “I wonder . . . are we permitted to entertain guests?”

  “Entertain? As in charades?” Mrs. Hooper laughed and waved a dismissive hand. “Of course I know what you mean. Just give Mrs. Deamer an extra half crown for the household account for each guest. And of course you must give Coral notice.”

  “Thank you.” Rosalind did not argue that the rent did not decrease when she was away, even though there would be one less for meals. Wages had to be paid whether Coral cooked for one or for ten. “I’ll not keep you.”

  “By the by,” Mrs. Hooper went on while stacking the folded cloth upon a shelf, “who are these mystery guests, pray tell?”

  Rosalind hesitated. That same intuition she had thanked God for just minutes ago seemed to warn again. With all honesty, she replied, “We haven’t invited anyone. For future reference.”

  “It’s good for your mother to have friends when you’re away again. I don’t wonder she’s lonely. Mrs. Deamer is pleasant but speaks hardly a word. Coral Shipsey is dense, as if one’s trying to converse with a cabbage.”

  Maintain a pleasant expression, Rosalind willed herself. “Well, good day.”

  Her mother was up and dressed, reading on the parlor sofa by the light of the windows as a low fire licked coals in the grate.

  “I knocked and peeked in. Assumed you were walking.”

  “I’m sorry I held up breakfast,” Rosalind said, hanging her wrap upon the rack. “Or have you had yours?”

  “Coral offered, but I asked her to wait.”

  A light tapping sounded. Coral, who had obviously kept an eye out for Rosalind, entered carrying a tray with a teapot and cups, toast, and marmalade.

  “Did you enjoy your walk, Miss Kent?”

  “I did, thank you,” Rosalind replied.

  Coral set the tray upon the tea table. “When you return from the school, all the flowers will be abloom. Takes your breath away sometimes.”

  “She’s a pleasant girl,” Mother said, taking up the teapot when she and Rosalind were alone again.

  “Mrs. Hooper said speaking with her is like conversing with a cabbage.”

  “How cruel!”

  Rosalind spread some marmalade on a slice of toast. “I would rather converse with a cabbage than with Mrs. Hooper, the old trout.”

  They smiled in complete accord, and Mother handed her a filled cup and saucer. “When did she say that?”

  “This morning.” Rosalind took a deep breath. “I stopped by her shop to ask permission to have a guest. What would you think of our having Mr. Pearce to dinner?”

  “Hmm.” Her mother stirred her tea. “We lunched with him only yesterday. As the Baird said,
‘Wisely and slow. They stumble that run fast.’”

  “Hamlet?”

  “Romeo and Juliet.”

  Rosalind rolled her eyes. “I suspect Shakespeare had few friends.”

  Her mother smiled.

  “It’s just that I leave in ten days.”

  “Wait four or five, then?”

  “I suppose you’re right. You do like him, don’t you? I refer to Mr. Pearce. Not Shakespeare, whom I know you adore.”

  “I like Mr. Pearce very much.” Mother sighed. “And please forgive my overbearing ways. You’re far wiser than I was.”

  “I’m not so sure how wise I am at all. So I’ll concede your experience.”

  Perhaps some time for reflection would be best, she thought. After all, Shakespeare knew something of love.

  Rosalind stopped at Mr. Pearce’s shop on Tuesday afternoon of the following week.

  “How good to see you again!” The hint of relief in his voice was gratifying and made her glad she had waited.

  Even Jinny seemed happy to see her, but then she wagged her tail just as enthusiastically for the half-dozen women of various ages who entered before Rosalind could extend the invitation.

  Mr. Pearce murmured an apology. She nodded and moved to a far corner, thumbing through a copy of Insectivorous Plants.

  The women desired to purchase a birthday gift for a fellow member of the Port Stilwell Gardening Club, they informed him. After some discussion and debate, they settled upon My Garden: Its Plan and Culture by an Alfred Smee. Mr. Pearce wrapped it in brown paper, determined how much two and seven would be divided by six, took money from each hand, and counted out change for most, blushing charmingly when one older woman patted his cheek and said, “What a pity that you have no wife to help you, Mr. Pearce.”

  When they were gone, Rosalind hastened to say, in case others were to enter, “Would you care to have dinner with us on Thursday at seven?”

  “Why, thank you,” he said. “I shall be delighted.”

  The warmth in his green eyes behind the spectacles weakened Rosalind’s composure, and she blurted the next thought that entered her head.

  “We serve ourselves from the sideboard, by the by. It seems silly for Mrs. Deamer to have to wait upon just the two of us.”

  “Quite reasonable. And I’m used to dishing up my own plate.”

  “Will you be able to find your way homeward after sunset?”

  “I’ll carry a lantern.”

  “And if it happens to rain . . .”

  “Umbrella and lantern.” He folded his arms. “But are you certain you want me to be there, Miss Kent? You’re not obligated. The luncheon was my pleasure.”

  “Yes, of course.” She gave a sigh. “I’ve obviously grown rusty at this.”

  “At inviting a man to dinner?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “And how did that work out before?”

  “We’re no longer together, so . . .”

  “The cad!” he muttered, smiling.

  “It was my decision to end it.”

  “Indeed.” Rubbing his chin, he said, “Hmm . . . that puts me under quite some pressure. What mistakes did the other fellow make? Did he chew openmouthed? Drink from his soup bowl? Blow his nose with the tablecloth?”

  She had to smile. “His table manners were impeccable.”

  His feigned disappointment so amused her that she decided to toss him a morsel. “You don’t happen to believe that you could run the country better than Parliament, do you?”

  “Why, no,” he said. “Britain would be in utter shambles with me at the helm.”

  “Very good,” she said. “We shall look forward to seeing you on Thursday.”

  19

  Clouds hovered in a pewter sky on Thursday but held their rain. Rosalind spent the day composing lesson plans for the upcoming term, took her usual walk, played cribbage with her mother, and later, changed into her favorite gown, of brown grosgrain trimmed with blue ribbon. Her mother and Mrs. Deamer both offered to style her hair, but she decided being at ease would be more important than balancing unfamiliar curls and braids. She clasped her hair into its usual comb.

  Mr. Pearce knocked promptly at seven, dressed in a black suit with a white waistcoat, starched white shirt, and blue- and yellow-striped cravat.

  “Please do come in, both of you,” Rosalind said.

  “Jinny’s fine out here.” And indeed, the animal had already settled herself beside the door.

  “Coral has saved some tidbits and means to invite her into the kitchen later. Will she follow a stranger?”

  “She would follow Guy Fawkes for a treat. Wouldn’t you, girl?”

  Jinny’s tail thumped an affirmative.

  In the dining room, the sideboard boasted boiled mackerel with butter, oxtail soup, potatoes and carrots, and artichokes with white sauce. Her mother stood at the wall, straightening a Wedgwood platter depicting Robin Hood and Maid Marian.

  “Mother?”

  She turned, moved around the table, and offered her hand, “How very good to see you again, Mr. Pearce.”

  He returned the greeting and allowed her to lead him over to the sideboard.

  At the table, he related more Port Stilwell history, particularly of the quarry, a vast network of tunnels one mile to the west.

  “The Romans were the first to appreciate the limestone of this area. It’s fine-grained and soft, so it can be sawed with relative ease but hardens when exposed to air. Many of southern England’s cathedrals and a number of other grand buildings are constructed of it.”

  “Are visitors allowed?” Rosalind asked.

  “I’m afraid not. It would be interesting.” To Mother, he said, “By the by, what will you do while Miss Kent is away?”

  “I shall have to keep myself occupied to make time go faster.”

  “The Saint George’s Fair is on the twenty-third. It draws visitors from all over. I keep the shop open for that reason.”

  “I’m not too keen on crowds, but I may give it a look-over. I do have a project in mind. I’m thinking of asking Mr. Hurst to teach me to garden. He comes Tuesdays.”

  “Port Stilwell has a gardening club. I should be happy to introduce you to the chairwoman.”

  “Thank you, but I would prefer not to commit to the social side of it. Just soil my hands a bit. Grow some vegetables in particular.”

  “I didn’t realize you liked the outdoors, Mother,” Rosalind said before thinking.

  Her mother gave her a knowing smile and said smoothly, “You’re never too old to acquire a new interest.”

  Mr. Pearce nodded. “I fully intend to take up ballet one day.”

  Rosalind joined her mother’s laughter and asked, “Can you stand on your toes?”

  “How do you think the books reach the top shelves?”

  Smiling, Rosalind went to the sideboard to serve the raspberry jam tartlets with clotted cream and bring the dish of almonds and raisins to the table.

  “May I ask you about your family?” Mother said.

  “But of course, Mrs. Kent,” he replied.

  “Were your mother and grandmother treated well here in Port Stilwell?”

  “Very well. For my grandmother’s part, perhaps because of the novelty of her. She continued to wear the sari until the day she died. Mr. Hooper kindly ordered Indian fabrics for her. My mother chose to dress like her schoolmates. She was beautiful, I’ve been told by more than a few who remember.”

  “Where did she meet your father?” Rosalind asked.

  “At Stonehenge, actually. They were both on school-day tours and were introduced by a mutual friend. They exchanged letters for two years before my grandparents consented to his visiting her here.”

  “From where?”

  “From Somerset. Bridgwater.”

  “You said you have no more family. Did your father’s parents pass on recently?”

  “I’m not certain.”

  “You’re not certain?”

  Rosalind groan
ed inwardly. Mother . . .

  Mr. Pearce smiled and nodded at his empty dish. “Forgive my lack of etiquette, but the tartlets were delicious. Do you suppose I could have another?”

  “Let’s all have another,” Rosalind said and started to push out her chair. “Coral will be delighted.”

  “No, allow me,” he said, rising.

  While he was at the sideboard, Rosalind leaned close to mouth to her mother, No more questions!

  She gave her an apologetic look and nodded.

  Mr. Pearce brought the tartlets and bowl over, dished out one for each, and dolloped clotted cream on top. Three forks cut into three crusts, and they chewed and swallowed as one.

  “My father’s parents disowned him before I was born, hence my ignorance of how they’re faring.”

  “But why would they do such a thing?” Rosalind asked in spite of herself.

  “I suppose because he married a woman of mixed race. Grandfather wrote to my parents when I arrived here but never received a reply.”

  “You’ve never heard from any other family members?” Mother asked.

  “Father had two younger brothers. Perhaps they feared their father’s opinion.”

  “May I be so bold as to ask why you’ve never contacted his brothers yourself?”

  Mother . . . Rosalind thought again, warning her with her eyes.

  “My grandfather made the attempt,” he reminded her.

  “Years ago,” she said. “How many? Twenty?”

  “More than that.”

  “People can change.”

  “My address has not,” he said gently.

  “The letter could have been misdirected. Anything could have happened.”

  “Mother,” Rosalind said. “Mr. Pearce is not comfortable with this discussion.”

  “On the contrary,” he said, giving her a reassuring smile. “I appreciate Mrs. Kent’s concern.”

  He turned again to Mother. “If, by some chance, my grandparents have undergone some miraculous change of heart, that doesn’t negate the fact that they caused my father much pain. I would feel disloyal for attempting any sort of relationship.”

  “Your loyalty is to be commended.” Her voice softened. “I wonder, what do you suppose your father would say to that?”