“Danny Fletcher. This is Albert.”
“Do you live on Fore Street?”
Danny’s heartbeat quickened.
“Well?” she said.
He could feel the heat in his face. As well-meaning as she was, no good could come from her visiting his home.
She nodded understanding. “I’m simply curious. Two helpful lads pointed the way home to my daughter some weeks ago.”
How could he repay her kindness with less than the truth? “Um, we do.”
“Then you know of the yellow cottage on Orchard Lane, beyond the trees?”
He nodded.
“You must come there if ever I can help you. Now, enjoy your pies.”
Enjoy they did, seated upon the crumbling hearth of the Bickle cottage on Mercer Lane, five cottages east from the school. In the unlikely chance that Father and their stepmother had made up and decided to come to the fair, Danny did not wish to explain so much food.
The thatched roof of the cottage had burned away before Danny was born, and according to Father in a rare talkative mood, Mrs. Bickle’s son moved her to his farm in Branscombe and never got around to repairs. At times, the cottage was the boys’ refuge from their stepmother’s fury, when older boys were not lurking about with handmade pipes and Three Castles cigarettes. The plum tree in the jungle of a garden fed their bellies when in season.
“Will we go back now?” Albert asked between licks of his fingers.
“In a bit,” Danny said, resting his back against the stones. For the present, he wished nothing more than to savor the fullness of his belly.
“Maybe the lady will give us more pennies. She said we should go to her—”
“No!” Danny said. “She said it only to be kind. You don’t trouble people who are kind.”
“But why not?”
Danny sighed. “Because they’ll grow to resent you.”
As had happened with their stepmother. That was just how life was.
21
Patron saint of shopkeepers, Jude thought as the coins accumulated in his money box. The Saint George’s Fair drew country folk from miles about, and most considered ambling in stalls and shops part of the day’s festivities.
Aromas wafting in through the door enticed, but serving the seven patrons browsing his shelves was more important than dashing out for lunch.
Still, Jude’s stomach begged to differ.
Over the growls coming from his midsection, Jude asked a farmer getting on in years, “Might this be for a grandchild?”
The man gave a sheepish smile and patted the copy of Under the Window: Pictures and Rhymes for Children. “For myself. Never got round to learning to read, so my wife means to teach me. I thought the pictures would help.”
“What a clever idea, sir,” Jude said and scissored a length of brown paper. He tied the twine into a double loop so that the spotted hands could carry it easily.
A short time later, Jude was assisting a boy of about twelve seeking Robert Ballantyne’s latest adventure when Aurora Hooper entered, accompanied by a wispy girl with flaming cheeks. “Yoo-hoo, Mr. Pearce!”
No . . . no . . . not today.
Jinny, loyal as ever, rose from her nap behind the counter and trotted over for head scratches. Jude pretended not to hear as he took a novel bound in green cloth from a shelf.
“Six Months at the Cape,” he said, handing it over to the boy.
“Thank—” the boy got out before being nudged aside by Mrs. Hooper.
“There’s a good lad. I mustn’t leave my shop for long.”
“Mrs. Hooper, I would appreciate your not manhandling my customers,” Jude said quietly but tersely.
“Nonsense. I barely touched the lad.” She chortled and turned to the staring patrons. “Pray tell, how can a woman manhandle anyone? Do pay a visit to Hooper’s Fine Fabrics, by the by. Ten percent discount, today only, in honor of Saint George.”
“Mrs. Hooper . . .”
She wheeled back to Jude. “Allow me to introduce my niece, Miss Caswell!”
With eyes averted, the girl dropped a lethargic curtsey.
“This is not a good time,” Jude said to Mrs. Hooper.
“Ah, but my sister’s family comes to town so infrequently.” She prodded the girl’s arm with a finger. “Bernadette! You have a voice! Don’t stand there like a stump!”
Jude actually pitied her. “I really must insist you leave. I’m quite busy. I’ve not even had time for lunch.”
Mrs. Hooper gave a pained sigh. “Very well, Mr. Pearce.”
That was easy, Jude thought when the two were gone.
Which should have made him suspicious, for but half an hour later, Miss Caswell entered again with a small covered platter and wrapped parcel. There were then but two women in the shop, farmers’ wives too absorbed in conversation to notice.
Miss Caswell murmured, eyes downcast, “From my aunt’s restaurant. And a chop for your dog.”
He did not ask what was beneath the pewter cover, but the aroma hinted at roast beef, Hooper’s specialty.
“Here, allow me,” he said gently, stepping over to take her elbow. He escorted her back through the doorway, for the women’s conversation could not continue forever and he did not wish to humiliate her.
“It’s very kind of you. But I cannot accept this. Do you understand?”
“It’s roast beef and gravy and potatoes. With a fork, so you don’t have to leave.”
“You must take it back.”
Finally, she met his eyes. “I didn’t want to bring it, sir. My mother hates my beau because his father drinks and raises pigs. We’ve been in love since we were thirteen, but my aunt is trying . . .”
Her voice trailed and cracked.
“I’m sorry.” Jude fished a handkerchief from his pocket, handed it to her, and took the platter. Grandmother, perhaps you should have sewn more hankies after all.
She wiped her eyes, blew her nose. “George is not like his father! He’s apprenticed to a dentist in Birmingham and intends to make something of himself.”
Casting about mentally for some encouragement beyond another I’m sorry, he looked past her shoulder and spotted Mrs. Kent moving up the pavement.
Mrs. Kent!
“Will you speak with someone much wiser than I am?” he asked Miss Caswell. “An older woman?”
She shook her head fearfully. He understood. It was older women who were making her life miserable.
“Please? You’ll find her most sympathetic.”
After a hesitation, she nodded.
When Mrs. Kent drew close, he introduced her to his young visitor. “Can you spare a moment to give Miss Caswell some advice?”
“Me?” Mrs. Kent said with hand to bosom. She smiled at the crimson-faced young woman. “I can try. Shall we take a little stroll, dear?”
Three customers entered the shop. They were content to browse, so Jude gave Jinny the chop and then took the platter behind the counter and tucked into roast beef and potatoes. No sense in wasting food now that a young girl’s hopes were not pinned to it.
Of Mrs. Hooper’s hopes, he cared not.
When Mrs. Kent and Miss Caswell returned, both were smiling in spite of the girl’s blotchy complexion. They approached the counter, where Jude was wrapping a copy of The Return of the Native for a patron browsing the shelves.
“Mrs. Kent advised me to apply to a college for the upcoming term,” said Miss Caswell, “as George has two and a half years more of apprenticeship.”
“Surely her parents would seize this as a means to distance them from each other,” Mrs. Kent said. “And cease pressuring her to marry someone else.”
“I did so enjoy schoolwork,” the girl said. “I rather miss it.”
“Thank you for allowing me to put you on the spot,” Jude said to Mrs. Kent after the girl left with fork and empty platter.
“It was my pleasure,” she said. “I trust she’ll find academics a more fitting pastime than writing Mrs. George Grigg
over and over in her diary. If George is as fine a fellow as she says, he’ll wait until she finishes and begin the marriage on a more mature footing. Or it could be they’ll both move beyond their youthful pledges.”
“I was right to tout your wisdom, Mrs. Kent.”
She snorted. “Any wisdom I may possess was forged in the kiln of folly.”
“I highly doubt that,” he said with a chuckle. “Have you received word from Miss Kent?”
She shook her head. “Soon, perhaps. She’s been away but eleven days.”
It seems much longer, Jude thought, walking her to the door. “You’ve been to the fair?”
“I took a turn around the green that proved most interesting. And now I shall go home and prop up my weary feet. Good day, Mr. Pearce.”
“And to you,” he said, finding himself adding, “I’ve decided to write to my father’s parents.”
She smiled. “Very good!”
That evening after a ham sandwich, he went to his desk and penned a simple page. He told of his parents’ and siblings’ deaths, adding that he earned a decent living in his own bookshop and wished nothing from them.
Yet, how to close?
Declare that he had forgiven them, when they had not asked for forgiveness? When it was his father, not he, they had injured?
He signed his name beneath Regards.
The letter which followed was easier. He smiled while penning her name.
22
“Pythagoras was a teacher and philosopher who lived on the island of Samos in the Aegean Sea, six centuries before Christ,” Rosalind said to the thirteen girls in upper fourth-form geometry. “The Pythagorean Theorem is named for him; however, there is some evidence that the ancient Babylonians discovered it first.”
Using a ruler, Rosalind drew a right triangle upon the chalkboard.
“The two sides connected by the right angle are referred to as the legs. This third side, opposite the angle, is the hypotenuse. If we assign a to the length of one leg, and b to the second, then we may determine the length of the hypotenuse with a simple formula: A2 + B2 = C2 ”
Five hands rose. She called upon Margaret Whetstone, who wished to know if discovered was the correct term. “Should we rather say the theorem was invented?”
“A very good question, Miss Whetstone,” Rosalind said as other heads nodded. “Let us consider a caveman with a family of six to feed. The hunting is sparse, but there are apples on the ground. Small apples, so each person would need two. Even if he has no words yet for numbers, he will discover that he needs twelve. He may invent a method for computing, such as having stones represent family members, but the sum was out there and does not change in any language or situation.”
She smiled at her students. “But be it discovered or invented, it is time for us to put the theorem to use.”
She solved the first example on the blackboard and drew more right triangles. The lesson moved along to a chorus of scratching pencils.
When the hour was finished, she dismissed the girls and crossed the courtyard to her tiny apartment in Fauconberg House. She had two hours before dinner and had just propped her feet upon an ottoman with a library copy of Mary Shelley’s The Last Man when someone rapped at her door. She hopped up and opened it.
Lucinda Morris, instructor of botany and general science, stood in the corridor. Tall and athletic, she possessed a voice that made listeners take a backward step.
“Letters,” she exclaimed, handing over envelopes. “Not one but two! Can the sky be falling?”
“I get letters,” Rosalind said defensively. The rare ones from former students counted, although one satisfactory glance at the envelopes told her that these were not those. “Thank you for bringing them up.”
“You’re welcome. Tennis Saturday?”
“Very well.” She was not good at the game, but anything to make Lucinda leave so that she could read her mail. Alone again, she sat and opened Mr. Pearce’s envelope.
“Sorry, Mother!” she said.
Dear Miss Kent,
I pray this finds you in good health. How are your classes progressing? Do you still take morning strolls? Is there time, at the end of the day, for you to explore other worlds with our mutual friend Mr. Jules Verne?
The Saint George’s Fair was a huge success, judging by the number of visitors in town. I closed shop only minutes ago, after a day of brisk sales. Your mother stopped by at the most opportune time, for a young woman was in dire need of some advice. Your mother is a kind soul, but then, you of all people know this.
I was pleased as punch to discover in my shipment on Monday past, a copy of Culinary Jottings: A Treatise in Thirty Chapters on Reformed Cookery for Anglo-Indian Rites. Yes, that is the title! I took it over to Mr. Galvez, and he graciously agreed to order the appropriate spices and prepare a special meal upon the date of my choosing. I would like to wait until your return, for it would be an honor to introduce you to the food I enjoyed as a boy. Will you think this over?
And now, Miss Kent, I have dominated your attention long enough. Odd, but it seems I just sat down to write. But if you will bear with me:
May your skies e’er be blue.
One plus one equals two.
May equilaterals dissect
Whilst transversals connect.
It is now well past midnight, for it took me two hours and a mathematics text to compose those last two lines. Robert Browning has no cause for worry.
Yours very truly,
Jude Pearce
Rosalind smiled. “You’re an unusual man, Mr. Pearce.”
Her mother’s letter told of meeting Coral Shipsey’s brother and sister-in-law from Buckfastleigh at the fair. Of convincing Mrs. Deamer to gather seashells with her on Sunday afternoon past. Of purchasing an assortment of cold meats from Grundke’s and delivering them to Mr. Moore’s. Of planting petunias and convincing Mr. Hurst to turn a bit of ground for a vegetable patch.
Absent was any mention of her helpfulness to the young girl in Mr. Pearce’s shop. Rosalind was beginning to recognize a humility that was certainly at odds with a stage career.
The apple trees are in full pink bloom, and Port Stilwell is awash in scent. Though I miss you desperately, daughter, I cannot recall ever being so happy. I feel there is some deep purpose to my being here, apart from hiding from reporters who have likely forgotten all about me.
“Would that they could,” Rosalind said to herself, recalling three different articles Miss Beale had shown to her with the same query: Where is Charlotte Ward? It seemed to have become a game among theatre critics, a mocking and cruel one.
May you never discover this, Mother . . . your happiness never be tainted.
23
“Coral is despondent over Mr. Clark again,” Mrs. Deamer said while collecting Charlotte’s dish and empty teacup in the dining room on the morning of the eleventh of May. “I fear I’ve made matters worse.”
“What did you say?”
“That he’s not worth all this angst. It upset her all the more.” Mrs. Deamer sighed. “I would not be young again for all the fish in the bay. Wrinkles are fair trade for fragile hearts.”
Charlotte clucked her tongue. “Indeed.”
“I’ll search for boots as soon as I’ve put these away,” Mrs. Deamer went on.
“I may as well come with you and try them on.”
Mr. Hurst would arrive any moment, and Charlotte did not intend he should do all the heavy work himself, not when the vegetable patch was her idea.
Mrs. Deamer carried a lantern to the door beneath the staircase, and Charlotte followed her down the steps into the dark, cool cellar. After a search that turned up chipped crockery, a coiled rope, a rounders bat and ball, and a basket of yellowed newspapers, they found four pairs of boots lined up against a wall.
Turning one of the most promising pair upside down, Mrs. Deamer shook it and then beat it against the wall for good measure. “You wouldn’t want a spider.”
“Nor a mou
se.” Charlotte eased off a slipper to try it on. She decided upon a pair and went through the kitchen, where Coral sat at the worktable with face bent over a bowl of potatoes.
“Why don’t you sit at the terrace table?” Charlotte asked. “It’s a fine day out.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Kent,” Coral murmured, not looking up from the potato she was paring. “Perhaps tomorrow.”
With a longing glance toward the garden door, Charlotte went over to the table.
“Look at me, dear?”
Coral hesitated, then obeyed. Her cheeks were blotchy beneath reddened, swollen eyes.
Charlotte pulled out the adjacent chair. She prayed for the right words, however much she wished to echo Mrs. Deamer’s.
“I shouldn’t have snapped at Mrs. Deamer,” Coral said.
“She took no offense. She cares for you, as do I.”
“You tried to help me. And Amy. But now he ignores the both of us.”
“You preferred fighting over him?”
“Well, at least I got his attention betimes.”
Charlotte sighed.
“You don’t know him,” Coral said in a rush of words. “He can be kind and thoughtful.”
“I’ve no doubt. When it suits him.” Charlotte folded her arms upon the table. “What do you want from life, Coral?”
“Why, I want Noble.”
“Is that the extent of your dreams?”
Coral opened her mouth, closed it.
“What is it?”
“I should like to own a bakery. I’ve been saving since I was fourteen, but it will take forever.” She eyed Charlotte defensively. “I enjoy making cakes and tarts and such, and I’m good at it.”
“I agree. And I do hope you realize that dream one day.”
The girl’s shoulders eased a bit. “Thank you, Mrs. Kent.”
“What does Mr. Clark think of this?”
“Oh, he would approve.”
“Wait . . . you’ve never told him?”
Coral blew out her cheeks. “I don’t want to bore him. He has enough troubles.”
A Haven on Orchard Lane Page 14
