A Haven on Orchard Lane

by Lawana Blackwell

  “Where is Emory now?”

  “Deceased. Of a riding accident when he was but forty. He had daughters, thus the estate went to me.”

  “Father said the house was a palace.”

  “Our father had a shrewd head for business. Besides the land, he made fortunes investing in railways, coal, pig iron.” Mr. Pearce gave him a sideways look. “Did it pain David to know the estate would never be his? Or yours?”

  “I never sensed that he was bitter. Our home was a happy one.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “That being said,” Jude went on, “the estrangement surely wounded him deeply.”

  “Surely.” Mr. Pearce sighed. “My father was a difficult man.”

  “He’s passed on, then.”

  “Last year.”

  Good! popped into Jude’s mind in spite of himself. “I can’t imagine disowning your own flesh and blood. My mother was an honorable woman.”

  “There was more to it than that. Emory confided to me when I was grown that David’s leaving the Church of England infuriated our father. About the same time, he refused to court Pansy Truscott, whose father’s estate joined ours, though she was besotted with him. Marrying an Indian woman was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back.”

  Tact prevented Jude’s thought from escaping his lips.

  “Our mother passed on of a stomach abcess eight years ago,” Mr. Pearce went on.

  “Did she miss her firstborn?”

  “I’ve no doubt she did. But she had not the fortitude to stand up to Father. She threw all her energies into me.”

  Grandmother Saroj came to Jude’s mind. Soft-spoken though she was, she would have fought tigers to protect him. Tenderness and courage did not have to be mutually exclusive.

  “She did ask for both of my brothers toward the . . .” Mr. Pearce’s voice broke. “When she was delirious from pain. It’s my hope that they’re together now.”

  They shared a silence as Jinny chased waves in the distance, pity softening some of Jude’s resentment. Grandmother Saroj was not married to a tyrant.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Thank you.” Mr. Pearce pulled a watch from his fob pocket and said, “My train arrives in an hour. Shall we proceed to the business at hand?”

  “Business?”

  “My memories of my eldest brother are hazy but endearing. I wish to do right by him . . .”

  “I want nothing from you.”

  “. . . as I do for Emory by providing for his wife and daughters.”

  Jude shook his head. “That wasn’t my purpose in writing.”

  “I believe you. Please understand that I must do this for myself.”

  “Your coming here today is more than enough. I don’t hold your father’s actions against you.”

  “And yet I profit comfortably from those actions.” Mr. Pearce took an envelope from his coat pocket and held it out to him. “This small token cannot repair the past but will allow me some peace of mind.”

  Jude shook his head. “No, thank you.”

  “Rest assured it’s but a drop in the bucket. Will you grant me this?”

  “I appreciate the offer. I do. But accepting money would make me feel beggarly.”

  “And yet I’m the one who is begging. This is family money, Jude. Please allow me to honor my eldest brother the only way I know how.”

  The envelope was being pushed into his chest. After a moment, Jude took it.

  His uncle blew out his cheeks. “Promise you’ll deposit and use it?”

  “I promise,” Jude said.

  “Open it after I’m gone. You’ve made me a happy man.”

  Jude gave the man beside him a grudging smile. “I’m in a fair mood myself.”

  His uncle threw back his head and laughed. “I do like your sense of humor. Must have come from your mother. We Pearces are a stoic lot.”

  “Actually, I believe it did.”

  “Now, if you and Jinny would care to accompany me back to the station . . .”

  Jude pulled on his stockings and shoes, then called to Jinny. As they walked up Fore Street, he prodded his uncle for recollections of his father. His mind pictured the Kent ladies. How happy they would be for him!

  When they reached the station, he said, “I can’t tell you how good it is to have family again.”

  His uncle gave him a sad smile and clamped his shoulder. “I like you, Jude. I almost wish that were not the case, for I shall likely never see you again.”

  Disappointment cut sharply. Jinny ceased her sniffing rounds to trot over to Jude’s side and stare up with questioning eyes.

  “My wife has not spoken to me for four days,” his uncle continued, “ever since I declared my intentions. She would cut Emory’s widow and daughters off in a trice if I allowed.”

  How did one respond to that? Jude took the envelope from his pocket and said, “If accepting this causes you family disharmony . . .”

  “If not over this matter, it’s another. I’m not the first man to be deceived by a comely set of eyes. But that’s my burden to bear, not yours.”

  A whistle shrilled in the near distance.

  “Still,” his uncle said after some hesitation, “if you ever need me, do write.”

  “And the same to you.”

  A minute later, the Midland Railway locomotive pulled to a steamy stop to collect its lone passenger. The men embraced, and then his uncle boarded a first-class coach with a wave of his hand.

  “Well, Jinny . . . this has been a most unusual day,” Jude said when a cloud of smoke was all that was left of the train.

  Jinny cocked her head.

  “Shall we?”

  He slipped a thumb beneath the seal, brought out the cheque, and stared.

  One thousand pounds!

  But no, his eyes had skimmed over another zero.

  A ten-thousand-pound “drop in the bucket.”

  Jude’s knees weakened, and he mumbled, “We must go to the bank.”

  Jinny wagged her tail.

  But first, a letter to write before today’s outgoing posts. And then, a visit to make.

  26

  The angst of the past two days knotted the muscles of Charlotte’s shoulders and back. Seeking release, she sat at the pianoforte and ran her fingers over the keys. In time, she began playing the most depressing song that came to mind, “Little Barefoot.” Softly, she sang.

  “Hundreds passing by unheeding,

  ’Cept to jostle her aside—

  There, with bare feet cold and bleeding,

  She in tones of anguish cried:

  ‘Mister! Please give me a penny . . .

  I want to buy some bread for Ma!’”

  She felt a presence, ceased playing, and swiveled on the bench.

  “Pardon me, Mrs. Kent,” Mrs. Deamer said, “but you barely touched your lunch. And now . . .”

  “I can’t stop thinking of those boys,” Charlotte said. “Has little Albert recovered? What if he’s much worse? There is nothing so maddening as not knowing.”

  “He was better when he left here, so he’s likely recovered.”

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  “But what if the stepmother discovered they were here and punished them?”

  Charlotte frowned. “You’re not helping my mood, Mrs. Deamer.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “No, no. It’s something I’ve considered myself. In any case, their well-being is more important than my melancholy.” A thought entered Charlotte’s mind. She closed her eyes.

  Are you offering me a means to atone for my failures with Rosalind? Is that why they’re constantly in my thoughts?

  When she opened them again, the housekeeper was turning.

  “Wait, will you sit with me?”

  “But of course.”

  “Has God ever spoken to you?” Charlotte asked as they settled into adjacent chairs.

  “Not audibly, Mrs. Kent. No burning bush.” Mrs. Deamer he
sitated. “But I have felt . . . promptings at times during my life.”

  “Promptings. An appropriate description.”

  “Is God speaking to you?” Mrs. Deamer asked. “About the boys?”

  “I believe He’s urging me to help them. Not in a meat-pie-at-the-fair sort of way but dramatically. But what if it’s my own empathy speaking?”

  “Surely empathy is a gift from God.”

  “Surely,” Charlotte said.

  “And Scripture says whoever gives a cup of water to a child in His name . . .”

  The uncertainty in Charlotte’s mind faded. Why was it there, in any case? Age and experience had taught her caution, but when children were being mistreated, was not impulsive action appropriate?

  “But what to do?” she asked.

  “Visit their father? Appeal to his conscience?”

  Charlotte thought for a second, shook her head. “Mr. Fletcher seems a decent man, but Danny may have good reason for not wishing him to be involved. At any length, I’m strongly inclined to believe the stepmother rules the roost.”

  “Appeal to her conscience?”

  “Evidence suggests she has none.”

  “In which case, you would make matters worse.” Mrs. Deamer shook her head. “I hope you don’t assume all stepmothers are as Mrs. Fletcher. My husband’s lavished him and his sister with affection. That Lowell took the wrong path was no discredit to her.”

  “I believe you,” Charlotte said.

  “Perhaps if you spoke with Mr. Moore for advice?”

  “I hate to add another burden to his shoulders. Coral says that Mrs. Moore’s family has been called.”

  “Oh dear,” Mrs. Deamer said.

  “But do you suppose it would do any good to speak with the constable?”

  “Again, Mrs. Kent, you could make matters worse. There is no law against disciplining one’s children.”

  “Discipline!” Charlotte snorted. “Is there a law against starving one’s children?”

  That sparked an idea.

  “Regarding Mrs. Fletcher . . . what if I appealed to something else?”

  “And that would be . . . ?”

  “Greed. Nature abhors a vacuum, and I’ve noticed that people lacking in conscience possess an abundance of the stuff.”

  “Sadly true,” Mrs. Deamer said. “Yet how would you appeal to her greed?”

  “My allowance. My needs are small. What if I asked the boys to assist me in the garden on Saturdays? Just enough work to make my request honest. Mainly, they would be fed and safe. At least for a day each week.”

  Mrs. Deamer looked down at her hands. “I wish I had the means to contribute. But what I’m able to save . . .”

  “Goes to your visits to your husband and brother.” Charlotte would never say so out of respect for the woman before her, but she suspected Mrs. Hooper was as stingy with her wages as she obviously was with Coral’s. Another case of greed, this time feeding off desperation.

  “Don’t lose heart,” Charlotte said to her. “I saw how you were with little Albert. The more maternal influences these lads have, the better.”

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Deamer said quietly. “But I’m afraid there are two matters you should consider.”

  “Mrs. Hooper, yes?” Charlotte said. “Well, she made it clear that Mr. Hurst was retained for only the most rudimentary gardening and that I’m welcome to grow vegetables, but not to expect a reduction in rent. She wouldn’t care a fig if I hired helpers.”

  “I suppose she would consider that she ultimately benefits.”

  “What is the second issue?”

  “The cost of the extra food. The vegetables will take weeks, and you can’t grow a ham out there.”

  “Oh dear, that’s so.” Charlotte mentally calculated her allowance. “I have enough to feed them, if Mrs. Fletcher doesn’t demand too much money. She may appreciate having them out of her sight.”

  “Just mind that she doesn’t think you disapprove of her. Don’t give her reason to refuse from spite.”

  “That will be difficult. I do disapprove of her.”

  Mrs. Deamer gave her a little smile. “Not all stages are in London, Mrs. Kent.”

  Charlotte smiled back. “Thank you, Mrs. Deamer.”

  School was to dismiss in less than three hours. She would have to hurry, lest she place Danny and Albert in an awkward situation. But first, she stopped into the kitchen, where Coral was organizing spice containers.

  “What a grand idea,” Coral said after a quick explanation. “I don’t mind cooking extra on Saturdays at all. Those boys need fattening up.”

  “You’re a dear,” Charlotte said before setting out on foot.

  On Fore Street, she wasn’t quite certain which of the whitewashed cottages Rosalind had pointed out, nor could she recall the face of the woman leaving the bank that day. She went to the gate of the first cottage, where a young woman was sweeping the walk.

  “Hallo there? I’m Mrs. Kent. Are you Mrs. Fletcher?”

  The woman came to the gate with broom in hand. “I’m Mrs. Housely. The Fletchers is four down.”

  “Thank you. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

  “I never mind a break.” She patted the broom handle. “Should you bring this to her? In case hers is broke?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  The young woman tittered. “From riding.”

  “No, but thank you,” Charlotte said, though she appreciated the humor and knew she would share the account later with Mrs. Deamer.

  Four cottages down, she went through the gate, across the small porch, and knocked. Presently a woman of about thirty answered in a green print dress. She stared for a moment before saying, “Yes?”

  “My name is Mrs. Kent. May I speak with Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “I’m Mrs. Fletcher,” she said warily. She was thin, with light-blond hair parted in the middle, plaited over the ears, and drawn back into a meager coil. Her cheeks were sallow, apart from two distinct spots.

  Charlotte knew rouge when she saw it. You vain thing.

  Large hands were clasped at her waist. Charlotte viewed them with disgust, imagining the inflictions they perpetrated upon Danny and Albert.

  Still, she was onstage, so she smiled and warmed her voice. “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Fletcher. May I ask a minute of your time?”

  Lids narrowed a bit over violet eyes that were Mrs. Fletcher’s only redeeming feature. “Did the vicar send you?”

  “Not at all.” But it appeared their business would have to be conducted here on the porch. “I’m a widow, lodging in Mrs. Hooper’s cottage on Orchard Lane. Do you know it?”

  “I’ve seen it. It’s yellow.”

  “It is indeed. And I believe you have sons of employable age?”

  “Employable age?” she chortled. “They’re but ten and six. And not very bright, truth be told.”

  “I’m speaking of light gardening on Saturdays. For wages, of course.”

  The violet eyes and door widened at the same time. “Won’t you come in, Mrs. . . .”

  “Kent,” Charlotte reminded her as she stepped into a tidy parlor.

  “My baby is asleep upstairs, so . . .”

  Relieved that Albert seemed to be at school, Charlotte put a finger to her lips and sat upon a plush yellow chair framed in mahogany. “How old is your little one?”

  “Her name is Teresa,” Mrs. Fletcher said proudly while settling into another chair. “She’s twenty months.”

  “Lovely.” Looking around, Charlotte said, “You have elegant taste. Most parlors are cluttered with bric-a-brac these days.”

  “I have only a day maid on Wednesdays and don’t care to spend betweentimes dusting. Besides, Teresa would want to play with pretties, and it’s not good for a tot to hear no all the time.”

  “What a thoughtful mother you are.”

  She beamed. “Now, how did you come to hear of Danny and Albert?”

  “Actually, my daughter, Rosal
ind, took a stroll our first evening here, in March, and spotted them washing your fence. It was refreshing to know of children who aren’t mollycoddled, so when I decided I needed help with my bit of gardening, they came to mind straightaway.”

  Mrs. Fletcher smiled and shifted forward. “Will you have tea, Mrs. Kent?”

  “Ah, but no thank you. I must nip back soon.” She searched her mind for an excuse.

  Mrs. Fletcher had another subject on hers. “How much do you offer?”

  “Sixpence per Saturday?”

  “Each?”

  “Well, for both.” Charlotte rushed on. “Meals would be provided.”

  “Meals ain’t such a bonus.” She shrugged. “They have small appetites.”

  Charlotte had an unladylike and decidedly un-Christian urge to slap her.

  What to do?

  London isn’t the only stage. She pushed to her feet.

  Mrs. Fletcher stood as well, mouth agape.

  “This has to do with your not wishing to be separated from them, good mother that you are,” Charlotte said. “I admire you for that and will seek elsewhere. Perhaps you know if any of their playfellows—”

  “Sixpence will do. Don’t want it put about that I took advantage of a widow.”

  “How kind of you.” Charlotte fished two shillings from her reticule. “Here are their first month’s wages.”

  Mrs. Fletcher gave her a simpering smile. “You’ll send the money to me directly every month, of course.”

  “But of course. Wouldn’t want the sweet shop to tempt the little fellows.” Charlotte paused at the door. “And don’t worry. I’ll not overwork them beyond their endurance.”

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Fletcher said, not looking worried one whit.

  Charlotte could have danced all the way home. The mental image of herself doing so made her smile. A plump bird flapping its wings.

  Mrs. Deamer met her at the gate, wringing her hands. “Mr. Pearce is in the garden. He asked to wait. I’m afraid I was sorting the linen cupboard when Coral answered the door and told him your mission.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind,” Charlotte said, still floating upon a wave of euphoria. “I trust him to be discreet.”

  “Unlike a certain cook. I’ll have a chat with her.”

  “Be gentle. I didn’t swear her to secrecy. I could not keep a confidence myself when I was young.”