It took Danny what seemed half an hour to finish three rows. He stepped over to Albert’s second and soon met him in the middle.
Brushing his hands, Albert gave the patch a worried look and whispered, “We should have worked slower.”
“That would be dishonest,” Danny whispered back, though he had thought the same.
“Will she send us home?”
“Perhaps she has something else for us to do.”
Mrs. Kent walked over. “Finished, are you?”
Danny’s heart sank. “I’m sorry . . . there weren’t many weeds.”
“Ah, but a stitch in time saves nine.”
“What does that mean, ma’am?” Albert asked.
Brushing her hands against her apron, she gave him a thoughtful look. “That it is best to attend to small things right away whilst they’re more easily mended.”
“But we’ve no more work to do.”
“I didn’t hire you just for the work. I hired you to keep me company as well. My daughter, Miss Kent, has returned to school, you see.”
“So that you won’t miss her too much?” Albert asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“What should we do now?” Danny asked.
“Well, I wouldn’t mind reading some more. What about you?”
28
“Remember your vocabulary test,” Rosalind said to her algebra students at the end of the hour on the twenty-fourth of May. “If you’ll memorize three terms every day, you’ll fare better than waiting until Thursday evening to cram it all in.”
Choruses of “Yes, Miss Kent” accompanied the shuffling of fifteen pairs of feet as they gathered books and pencils. When the last student had left, Miss Beale came through the door as if she had been waiting.
“There is a solicitor here asking for you. A Mr. Pankhurst.”
“A solicitor? But why?”
“He said this regards your mother.”
Divorce, Rosalind thought with quickening heartbeat as she started for the door.
Miss Beal caught her arm. “There is no hurry. Take some breaths.”
Rosalind breathed in deeply, and it occurred to her to wonder aloud, “How did he know where to find me? Mother never publicized my whereabouts.”
“Lord Fosberry, very likely. They were married, after all. Would you like me to stay with you?”
“Yes. Please.”
In the principal’s open office, an older gentleman looked up and stood. He had a kindly face, like someone’s benevolent uncle. Shadows from dimpling showed through a graying beard. Eyes the color of stone were softened by laugh lines. And so with some reservation, Rosalind gave him her hand and the benefit of the doubt.
“I’m delighted to meet you,” Mr. Pankhurst said, clasping her hand as Miss Beale closed the door.
“Thank you, Mr. Pankhurst. You wish to speak with me about my mother?”
“Shall we sit?” Miss Beale said, scooping Hetty from her chair.
Rosalind took the corner chair.
Mr. Pankhurst remained standing. “I do beg your pardon, Miss Beale. But this is a private matter.”
“I asked her to stay,” Rosalind said.
“Again, my apologies,” he said gently, “but I’m afraid I must insist.”
Never having had a father or any other dominant male figure in her life, Rosalind wavered. What if he took offense and left without revealing his mission?
She turned to Miss Beale. Her expression said, “Whatever you decide.”
Rosalind decided she needed moral support more than she needed to appease someone she had not even invited into her day. She gathered courage and said, “I’m afraid I must insist, Mr. Pankhurst.”
“Yes, of course. First, allow me to say that I was a great admirer of Lady Fosberry’s work. As a Londoner, I had the pleasure of seeing her in many productions.”
“Lord Fosberry wishes to divorce her,” Rosalind said with a little chill. As much as she wished her mother to be shed of him, divorce was a harsh reality, the very word whispered as if it were something tainted. A second divorce was akin to a scarlet letter.
“My dear Miss Kent,” he said in gentle voice, “I have distressed you. Whilst I cannot predict the future, that is not the reason for my visit.”
He withdrew an envelope from his breast pocket and handed it over. It was sealed and blank but for a three-shilling stamp and the return address of the firm of Pankhurst and Snelling. “I have here an apology from Lord Fosberry.”
Rosalind snorted. Unladylike, but then, the provocation was great.
“I understand why you should have misgivings,” he said.
“Misgivings indeed! It was a letter from him which caused her breakdown.”
He gave her a pained look. “We men often act rashly when our pride is wounded. But after counseling with his vicar, he fervently desires to clear his conscience.”
“She’s never going back to him,” Rosalind said.
“He does not ask her to do so.”
“Why do you assume Miss Kent has knowledge of her mother’s whereabouts?” Miss Beale asked, making Rosalind glad again of her presence.
“Surely Lord Fosberry informed you we’re estranged,” Rosalind added.
“Because I myself have grown daughters.” He gave Rosalind a tender smile. “Daughters tend to feel a keen responsibility for their parents.”
Miss Beale cleared her throat. “Mr. Pankhurst, that generality is pleasant but lacking.”
He smiled at her. “I can appreciate why Miss Kent asked you to stay.”
To Rosalind, he said, “I desired not to imply some great intrigue. But yes, I happened to make some discreet inquiries, and a nurse described a young woman of your appearance removing Lady Fosberry from the Royal Free Hospital.”
“All this effort for an apology?” Rosalind said. “He accused her publicly. He should be making retractions in newspapers, not disturbing the only serenity she’s had in years.”
The solicitor sighed. “In due time, Miss Kent. This is but a first step. And there is no guarantee that Lady Fosberry would see the retraction . . . wherever she may be.”
“I’ll not give you her address.”
“Yes, I imagine not.” The stone eyes glinted above the kindly uncle smile. “Your feelings do you credit. I would not think of asking. Simply that you post it.”
“Does this contain a cheque for the money he took from her?” Rosalind could not refrain from asking.
“In a sense it does, yet another reason to keep this between the two of them. He proposes the terms of repayment.”
“He intends to repay her,” Rosalind said flatly.
“With interest. It’s only fair.”
She looked at Miss Beale.
The headmistress gave her an uncertain look, straightened in her chair, and said, “Do you give her your word as a gentleman that the envelope has what you claim?”
“You have my word,” he said with fervent earnestness.
Where was the harm, then?
“I’ll send it to her,” Rosalind said.
The kindly uncle smile resumed in force. “I’m in your debt, Miss Kent.”
He rose with a little bow, wished them good-day, and escorted himself from the office.
“Will wonders never cease?” Rosalind said.
“My very thoughts,” Miss Beale replied. “Will you post it in the morning?”
“I’m not sure. Half-term break is but a week away, so I may just bring it to her myself. It would take almost as long to get there in any event.”
She thanked Miss Beale for her support and crossed over to Fauconberg House to freshen up for dinner. A letter from Mr. Pearce waited in the basket upon the foyer table. She carried it upstairs to her parlor and opened it. He asked how her classes were progressing. There was no poem, but he did relate a joke from Punch.
Why do chickens dislike Shakespeare?
Because Macbeth did murder most foul.
She smiled. Two paragraphs late
r, the page trembled in her hand.
“His uncle visited?” she said to the fireplace.
He wrote of his disappointment that there could be no relationship with his father’s family, now that he wished to have one. But at least he had answers to some questions and part of what would have been his father’s inheritance.
He closed with, After I post this, I will share my news with Mrs. Kent. I thank God for leading you both to Port Stilwell. And not only because your mother’s counsel led to my sudden monetary gain, although, quite frankly, it does not hurt. I plan to order a diamond-studded toothbrush for myself and a crystal water bowl for Jinny.
Smiling again, she put his letter aside to read again before bedtime. A glance at the clock spurred her into action. She refastened her comb, smoothed wrinkles from her gown, and crossed the courtyard. In the dining hall, one hundred and seventy girls stood at their places. She was the last to the faculty table.
“I beg your pardon,” she said to Miss Beale and the other teachers.
Miss Beale sent her a stern look before leading in prayer, which rattled Rosalind. The principal was a stickler for promptness. She did not dwell on this, nor join the others in conversation, instead thinking of Mr. Pearce’s good news.
“I thought you didn’t care for veal,” said Janet Shergold, who taught history.
Rosalind looked down at the half-eaten stew upon her plate. “I didn’t notice.”
Janet glanced at Miss Beale and lowered her voice. “I was late twice last term and received the same sour look. Nothing came of it.”
But then, after the last crumbs of almond cake were eaten and everyone dismissed, Miss Beale approached with a somber expression.
“I’m sorry I was late,” Rosalind said.
Miss Beale waved a hand. “Do you have the letter with you?”
“Why, no. Shall I fetch it?”
“Bring it to my apartment.”
Miss Beale’s parlor was crammed with a settee and an overstuffed chair, a lamp table and writing desk, and shelves of books. A basket filled with newspapers and periodicals rested beside her chair, with Hetty curled at the apex.
“I’m having second thoughts over Mr. Pankhurst,” Miss Beale said. “Why did he ask you to post the letter?”
“Because I refused to give the address,” Rosalind replied. Wasn’t she there?
“But why did he say post? Not deliver? How does he know that your mother isn’t here in Cheltenham?”
“Do you think I’m being watched?”
“There seems more to this than he’s letting on. And why would he ask you to post the letter with half term so near?”
“Perhaps he isn’t aware that it’s near.”
Miss Beale’s brows lifted. “I can’t imagine anything catching Mr. Pankhurst unawares. What if he wants to ensure that you go to your mother? One way would be to give you a letter of supreme importance . . . within days of a school break.”
“So that I could be followed.”
“It’s possible.” Miss Beale pursed her lips. “And then again, this could be an old woman’s delusions. I may be looking for monsters that aren’t there.”
Disappointment tightened Rosalind’s chest. “I won’t chance that there aren’t monsters. I shall have to stay here.”
“That might be best, dear.”
“I’ll post the letter, then. I can’t keep it until July. But I so wish I could be there when she opens it. What if it’s not what Mr. Pankhurst claims?”
“Would she mind if you read it yourself?”
Rosalind grimaced. “I shouldn’t want anyone reading my mail.”
“But of course.”
“Still, she would understand my motive.”
Especially when reminded of the inquiries she had made into Mr. Pearce’s character. A daughter had a duty to protect her mother too.
“You don’t have to do that here, if you’d rather . . .” Miss Beale began.
“No, I trust you. And I may need your counsel.”
Rosalind broke the seal and took out two pages. The script was precise, with little flourishes, as if the writer had labored for artistic perfection. For some reason, this annoyed her. She read aloud.
“My dear Charlotte,
How can I begin to say how wretched I am? My sleep is haunted by memories of my actions. I beg forgiveness for every grief I have heaped upon you.”
She let out a breath and exchanged smiles with Miss Beale. “A promising start.”
“I intend to repay the seven hundred pounds you so generously lent to me. To double it! Fourteen hundred pounds would ensure a comfortable future, thus relieving your daughter of the burden of providing for you.”
Kind words, but Rosalind was beginning to feel uneasy.
“Being that there is no hope for our marriage, I believe it is in both our best interests to end it on amicable terms. You have obviously settled somewhere peaceful. For my part, I wish to marry again. Lady Blake is of kind and generous character, and most eager to join her life with mine.”
“He doesn’t allow grass to grow beneath his feet,” said Miss Beale.
“But alas, there is only one legal ground for divorce. I cannot force my pen to write the word! Granted, there would be publicity, but far more if there were a lengthy trial, where Jack Boswell would have no choice but to testify under oath to your secret meetings.”
“Who is he?” Rosalind muttered. “Lord Fosberry accuses my mother of adultery yet again?”
“I do not cast stones, dearest Charlotte. Had I been more attentive, you would not have sought solace in the arms of a stableboy and footman. A brief appearance before the High Court of Justice in Westminster, before reporters get wind of it, and you will become the independent woman you once were.”
Pulse pounded in Rosalind’s temple. “You serpent!”
In haste to digest the rest, no matter how repulsive, she read silently, then said to Miss Beale, “If mother does not go to London and admit to . . . secret liaisons with the footman, Lord Fosberry will be forced to keep the money for the hiring of a skilled detective to find her and serve a claim form, and then there would be expenses for staying in a hotel during a lengthy trial.”
“That’s extortion, plain and simple,” Miss Beale said.
“How does he think he can succeed? Did he not read the stableboy’s denial of his charges?”
“Where there is smoke, there’s fire, in many people’s minds. Perhaps he counts on your mother considering that some already assume she’s guilty, simply because it was in print. And that she needs money desperately.”
“Well, she doesn’t, thanks to Aunt Vesta. Why would this . . .” Rosalind shook the accursed letter. “. . . this Jack Boswell . . . why would he testify against her?”
“For payment? Lord Fosberry seems to have a lot of it to throw around now.” Miss Beale angled her head. “I wonder . . .”
“What is it?”
“I find it odd that your mother had but seven hundred pounds to give him. It would be a fortune to me, but given her long career . . .”
“She had me to support for most of my life, long distance though it was. Still, you would think she would have had more.”
“Your aunt Vesta. Was she wealthy?”
“Comfortable,” Rosalind replied. “She had two servants.”
“Yet she left you a sizeable legacy.”
Rosalind pondered this. “When I arrived here, I ceased contact with my mother. Do you think the legacy actually came from her? Is it possible to do that?”
“I shouldn’t think it would break any laws.”
“It would be just like her. Imagine! For years, I thought she was the most selfish woman alive.”
“You were a child. And taught to think that way.”
“Still, it hurts. I intend to ask her.”
“Should you? If she wanted you to think it was from your aunt . . .”
“She feels as if she’s taking charity from me. It would relieve her of that.”
Miss Beale nodded at the letter in Rosalind’s hand. “You should show that to her straightaway.”
“Straightaway.” Rosalind nodded. “I’ll post it in the morning.”
“In person. They’ll expect you to go home for half-term break. You’ll leave on Wednesday instead. Catch them off guard.”
“Two days? But I can’t just up and leave again.”
“I’ll take care of your classes until I find a replacement. We have applicants to spare.” Miss Beale folded her arms. “It pains me to lose you, Rosalind. You will always have a place here, when this issue is settled. But for now, your staying is no good. You’ve received letters from Port Stilwell, yes?”
“I have.”
“It’s but a matter of time before the wrong person intercepts one, or strikes up conversation with a Fauconberg House resident who may have seen your mail.”
“But how am I to get away undetected?”
“Hmm. We’ll find a way.”
“What will you say to the staff?”
“That you’ve eloped with Mr. Slater, of course.”
Rosalind had to smile. Mr. Slater was a philanthropist whose donations earned him the right to a rambling and disjointed speech of at least an hour every Founders Day.
Miss Beale became serious again. “You should encourage your mother to speak with a local solicitor. They’re not all bad apples.”
“I’m sorry to have involved you in this melodrama,” Rosalind said.
“Nonsense. I pressured you into this ‘melodrama,’ as you say. May as well see it through. For now, get some sleep.”
29
Conversing with Mrs. Deamer after five years in Lincolnshire was feast after famine. Charlotte was mindful that she must not interfere with her duties. Yet where was it written that she could not lend a hand? The chats were well worth the effort.
“Now, we make a pleat here, before you tuck in the corner,” Mrs. Deamer said at the foot of Charlotte’s mattress.
Twenty years ago, she would have felt domestic work beneath her. Not in an arrogant sort of way, but simply because that was the mindset of most British.
“I believe this is the first time I’ve ever changed bedding,” Charlotte confessed. “Or rather, helped change bedding.”
A Haven on Orchard Lane Page 18
