A Haven on Orchard Lane

by Lawana Blackwell

  “I had to ask my former housekeeper to teach me before I arrived here.”

  “We’re quite the pair,” Charlotte said. “Women of reduced circumstances.”

  “Port Stilwell is a far cry from the Strand,” Mrs. Deamer said, tucking in the other corner.

  “As it’s a far cry from Egypt. Where was your favorite place to travel?”

  “Oh, that would be Tuscany. The food . . . nothing in England compares.”

  “Don’t say that too loudly,” Charlotte said, pointing to the floor.

  “Ah, you’re right.” Mrs. Deamer brought the folded counterpane from the chair. “What was your favorite play?”

  “Most likely Lady Audley’s Secret. Have you ever seen it?”

  She shook her head. “I’m surprised, though. Not Shakespeare?”

  “Brilliant though he was, his were never my favorites to perform.”

  Mrs. Deamer started spreading the counterpane with Charlotte’s help. “My ears reel from disbelief.”

  “Well, most of the audience will have read the play, and thus are predisposed to appreciate it. All that is required is to act your part with passion, or at least competence. They know that Ophelia will be tragic, Lady Macbeth treacherous, and so forth. But with a clever contemporary work, they hang on to every word, looking for clues in your character, wondering how it will all tie together in the final act. The tension is delicious.”

  “What did you like about Lady Audley’s Secret?”

  “Playing the villainess. I actually had them hissing. Once, someone threw a shoe at me! The Adelphi had to post a guard at the stage door every night.”

  “And that’s good?”

  Charlotte sighed at the memory. “It was grand!”

  “Do you miss it?”

  “At times.” Charlotte picked up a pillowcase. “But that part of my life is over. And this part, well, it’s very good.”

  “I’m happy for you,” Mrs. Deamer said and turned to collect the pillows.

  Not before Charlotte caught the pain in her face. She went over to her, rested a hand upon her shoulder. “You’ll have a better life one day, Mrs. Deamer. I pray that every night. Please don’t give up hope.”

  Mrs. Deamer, face turned away, nonetheless nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Kent. It has already gotten better. I had friends once. If you’ll forgive my presumptuousness, you’ve filled that void.”

  “And you for me,” Charlotte said, gently jostling her shoulder. “We’re two characters in a play. Come, time for the big musical scene. What shall we sing?”

  “Sing!” Mrs. Deamer laughed.

  “What’s so amusing?”

  Both heads turned. Rosalind stood in the doorway smiling, but with dark circles beneath her eyes.

  “Have you taken ill?” Charlotte asked, hurrying to embrace her.

  “Oh, not at all.” Her daughter set down a Gladstone bag and gave her a squeeze. “I haven’t slept the past two nights. And I reek.”

  Charlotte took a sniff. “Tobacco?”

  “The school doctor, Mr. Arnall, smuggled me out. He asked if I minded his pipe, and what could I say?” Rosalind yawned. “It was his coach. Only, we were forced to creep nine miles in a torrent so that I could leave from Gloucester Station, and I could not open a window because of the rain.”

  “Shall I draw a bath, Miss Kent?” Mrs. Deamer asked.

  “If you please.”

  When she was gone, Rosalind leaned to fish around in her open bag. “I brought just a nightgown and some linens. Miss Beale is sending my trunk to Exeter on Saturday, under the name Hetty Whitecrest. That’s her cat.”

  “But why did you leave early?” Charlotte asked.

  Straightening, Rosalind handed her an envelope. “This will explain. Lord Fosberry’s solicitor brought this to me. I felt compelled to read it. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Of course not.”

  “You’ll want to sit.”

  “I’ll be fine. You sit.”

  Neither sat. Charlotte unfolded the two pages. Her pulse jumped at the sight of Roger’s pretentious script. Her stomach knotted when she read the accusation.

  “How dare he!”

  “Is Boswell the footman he mentions, Mother?”

  “Yes. And just the sort of weak man Roger can easily dominate.” She looked up at her daughter. “I never . . .”

  “But of course you didn’t.”

  Tears stung Charlotte’s eyes. “If you have doubts . . .”

  “None at all.” Her daughter shook her head.

  “Thank you, Rosalind.” She swiped her eyes with her fingertips and shook the accursed pages. “He’s right. Others will believe it.”

  “Perhaps if you went to the newspapers? Gave your side? We could leave for London in the morning.”

  “I won’t drag my life out into the court of public opinion, Rosalind. In any case, it would be like throwing paraffin into a fire. Scandal is so much more fun than the benefit of the doubt.”

  “Very well,” Rosalind said. “We should at least leave Port Stilwell.”

  “Leave?

  “And soon. People have seen my letters.”

  “Wherever would we go?”

  “We found this place. We can find another.”

  Charlotte put a hand to her racing heart. “I need some time. Go and have your bath.”

  Alone, Charlotte went to her window. Saturday would be Danny and Albert’s third visit. Last week after a hearty breakfast, they planted tomato seedlings, and then she read them to sleep again. After lunch, she taught them to play dominos, which led Albert to exclaim that this was the best day of his life.

  She could not seesaw from believing that God was directing her to help them, to abandoning them. There was no middle ground.

  And what of Mrs. Deamer? Would the next tenants seek her friendship, or play Lord of the Manor?

  Yet a third reason came to mind. There was mutual admiration going on between Rosalind and Mr. Pearce. How could Charlotte pluck that seedling from the ground before it had a chance to grow?

  She waited until Rosalind had finished her bath before knocking upon her door. Her daughter sat at her table, clad in a dressing gown with a towel turbaned about her head.

  “We’re staying,” Charlotte said.

  “But if they find you—”

  “I shall go to court and fight. I’ll not allow Roger to make a fugitive of me.”

  “Are you certain?” Rosalind asked, a hint of relief in her eyes.

  “Quite so.”

  “Miss Beale says you should see a solicitor.”

  “I’ll call upon Mr. Lockhart tomorrow.”

  “How do we know that he’s honest?”

  “Well, Mrs. Hooper had him draw up our lease, yes? She knows Port Stilwell’s people better than anyone, I expect.”

  Rosalind hesitated, nodded. “I shouldn’t judge everyone by Mr. Pankhurst.”

  Charlotte smiled. “Caution is only natural. Once bitten, twice shy.”

  “May I come with you?”

  “Of course.”

  After supper, Rosalind went to bed. Charlotte tucked covers about her shoulders and said, “At least there is some good news.”

  “Does it concern Mr. Pearce’s uncle?” Rosalind said while covering another yawn, so that Charlotte had to lean close.

  “It does.”

  “He wrote to me. Mr. Pearce, that is. Not the uncle.”

  “That’s very nice, dear,” Charlotte said, turning off the lamp. “Sleep well. Don’t trouble yourself tonight.”

  She need not have added the latter, for the sound of soft snores accompanied her across the room.

  30

  Mr. Lockhart’s office was tidier than Rosalind expected, given the cracked windowpane and peeling signboard. The carved oak claw-foot desk and Persian carpet were awe-inspiring. An immense colored print of the Bay of Naples almost covered one wall, and on another were six framed paintings of Mount Vesuvius in all stages of eruption.

  Mr
. Lockhart inspired less awe, with wild muttonchops sprouting from cheeks, crumbs in his moustache, and vocal cords of gravel.

  “I had neither the time nor the inclination for theatre while at University College, Mrs. Ward,” he said. “Which was fortunate, for I had not the funds either.”

  “Mrs. Kent for the time being,” Rosalind reminded him.

  “Yes, of course.”

  Her mother smiled, though her eyes were shadowed. “It is not a crime not to go to theatre, Mr. Lockhart.”

  “Thank you for saying that . . . Mrs. Kent. And I strongly advise you to stay close to home.”

  “She hardly goes anywhere as it is,” Rosalind said.

  “Mostly to church,” Mother said. “But no one will bother me there.”

  Mr. Lockhart sighed and folded his hands upon the desk “If I were searching for someone in an unfamiliar town, I would make it a point to watch church doors.”

  “If I wore my veil?”

  “Have you been wearing it?”

  “Not since I arrived.”

  “Then you may as well perch a stuffed peacock upon your bonnet. You’ll draw the same attention.”

  Moved by her mother’s pained expression, Rosalind said, “I’ll stay home with you.”

  “No. You’ve given up—”

  Mr. Lockhart cleared his throat. They turned to him again.

  “Don’t accept anything offered you, unless you trust the giver. You cannot be summoned unless the claim form is delivered to your hand. Never open the door yourself. These people are clever. I have heard of a claim form presented as a wrapped gift.”

  “Should I share my identity with our cook?”

  “She needs to know nothing but that it’s a divorce.” His eyes studied her beneath bushy brows. “Have you shared your identity with anyone in Port Stilwell?”

  “Our housekeeper, Mrs. Deamer.”

  “Mother . . .” Rosalind groaned.

  Her mother met her eyes. “I would trust her with my life.”

  “I would not have a profession if most people were so trustworthy,” Mr. Lockhart said. “But absolutely no one else. An ounce of prevention, and so forth.”

  He turned to Rosalind. “How many from Cheltenham know that you’re here?”

  “Just Miss Beale. She was to have the postman deliver my mail to her and warn the staff to alert her if anyone approaches with questions over my sudden absence.”

  “That’s quite a weak link,” Mr. Lockhart said to Mother. “I cannot advise strongly enough that you should leave Port Stilwell.”

  Mother shook her head. “I cannot do that.”

  He sighed. “Very well. But again, discretion is of the utmost importance.”

  “Please take no offense, Mr. Lockhart,” Rosalind said. “But can we trust your discretion?”

  He gave her an understanding smile and touched Roger’s letter upon his desk. “I am embarrassed whenever one of my profession compromises his integrity. Anything Mrs. Kent says to me regarding this situation I must keep to myself.”

  “I’m grateful,” said her mother. “But if he finds me and this goes to trial?”

  “As you may be aware, solicitors are not qualified to argue in court. But I maintain contact with some of my fellow alumni in London.”

  “Barristers,” she said in a flat voice.

  “Hopefully, it will never come to that.”

  He placed fountain pen into its holder, signaling the meeting was over.

  Charlotte’s mother began opening the drawstring to her reticule. “Your fee, Mr. Lockhart?”

  “I send out invoices at the beginning of the month.” He winked at her, adding, “Depending upon my inclinations to chuck it all and go fishing. In any case, you’ll find me reasonable.”

  The tension in Rosalind’s shoulders eased a bit. For his folksy ways, the solicitor inspired trust and competence.

  “What is wrong with hiring a barrister?” she asked her mother as they walked back up Fore Street under steel gray clouds.

  “They’re expensive. I was forced to retain one for my . . . divorce from Mr. Gilroy. Before your father.”

  “Whatever happened to Mr. Gilroy?”

  “Bad habits dug his grave years ago.”

  “Well, we have the money.”

  “You’ve spent enough on me.”

  Rosalind linked arms with her. “I know all about Aunt Vesta’s supposed legacy.”

  Her mother stopped walking. “Who told you?”

  “You just did,” Rosalind said, smiling.

  “I didn’t mean to imply . . .”

  “Mother, it’s too late to deny it. I’ve figured it out, with Miss Beale’s help.”

  Appearing on the verge of tears, Mother said, “I wanted your future to be secure. You’ve had to leave Cheltenham because of me. And now . . .”

  “And now, I’m happy to be back.”

  “Do you mean that?”

  “Yes.” She drew in a breath of salt air. “I was too busy to realize how much I missed being here.”

  Mother patted her hand. “What a treasure you are.”

  They continued on in companionable silence, turning up Orchard Lane and passing trees in young leaf. At length, Mother said, “It was so very kind of Mr. Pearce to send those books. The boys were delighted.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Rosalind said. “What books? What boys? The fence boys?”

  Her mother related her visit to the stepmother and the events which followed.

  “Marvelous!” Rosalind said. “But she charges you a hefty fee, I imagine?”

  “She tried. I’m sure she meant it for their university fund.”

  Rosalind smirked at her. “How did Mr. Pearce come to be involved?”

  As she explained, Rosalind found herself wishing they had stopped by the bookshop. But then, Mother needed to stay close to home. Perhaps the timing of the Fletcher boys’ needing her was fortuitous.

  “I should visit the shop after lunch so that he doesn’t continue to write,” Rosalind said. “I’m sorry you’ll not be able to come along.”

  “I wouldn’t even if I could. I plan to have a good, long lie-in.”

  At the cottage, Mother showed her the books Mr. Pearce had brought over. They were beautiful copies, most bound in leather.

  “What a timely gift,” Rosalind said, pressing her fingers over the embossed cover of The Coming Race by Edward Bulwer-Lytton.

  Mother picked up a copy of Percy Greg’s Across the Zodiac. “Why do you suppose he sent that one? And this one? They’re too advanced for the boys, and I’ve never expressed interest in science fiction.”

  The gleam in her tired eyes spoiled her attempt at an innocent expression.

  Voices came from inside the bookshop. Perhaps Mr. Pearce had forgotten to turn the Closed sign after his lunch? She stepped closer and pressed her cheek against the glass. Mr. Pearce was leaning against the counter with arms folded, conversing with Mrs. Hooper.

  “Oh, crabshells!” Rosalind muttered, jumping back as Jinny’s paws hit the glass. She was four steps away when the door opened behind her.

  “Miss Kent!”

  Rosalind turned. Mr. Pearce grinned from his doorway while Jinny bounded over with welcoming barks.

  “I can hardly believe my eyes!”

  She leaned to pat Jinny’s head. “I see that you’re occupied.”

  “Not at all,” he replied, but then Mrs. Hooper loomed at his side.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Hooper,” Rosalind said, straightening again. “I’ll just . . .”

  “But the term isn’t over,” Mr. Pearce said. “Is it?”

  “Perhaps she heard of your mysterious financial windfall?” Mrs. Hooper said with a chuckle.

  Rosalind stared at her. “I do beg your pardon!”

  “Mrs. Hooper, that was uncalled for,” Mr. Pearce said.

  “Oh, you young people!” She rolled her eyes. “Surely you recognize jest? No doubt Miss Kent has some compelling reason to share. Do come in, Miss K
ent. Mr. Pearce, nip upstairs and make some tea, will you?”

  “Another time, Mrs. Hooper.” He took her elbow. “We’re to meet at Mr. Lockhart’s at four o’clock tomorrow?”

  “Yes, four,” she huffed and pushed past him. “Good day.”

  Rosalind stepped aside lest she be trampled.

  “Come in, please,” Mr. Pearce said.

  She did. It was improper that they be alone, now that unspoken feelings lay between them. But propriety could surely be pragmatic. This was a public place, and they stood just inside the door. She could very well be shopping for a book.

  And there was the dog.

  “What happened?” He closed the door. “Are you unwell? Your mother?”

  “No, we’re fine. My mother needs me.”

  “How can I help?”

  “You helped by giving books to her. But I’m afraid that’s all I’m able to say.”

  “Very well,” he said after a moment. “I apologize for Mrs. Hooper. She brought over some documents regarding my purchasing the shop.”

  “Congratulations on your good fortune,” Rosalind said.

  “It still seems a dream.”

  “But how sad that your uncle desires no future contact.”

  “I can only hope he’ll change his mind one day.”

  “Well, don’t give up hope. People do change. And thank you for the books.”

  He smiled. “Did you notice the two science fiction novels?”

  “Yes, so thoughtful. I look forward to reading them.”

  Silence followed. He glanced down at his feet and said, “I’ve thought of you every day.”

  The abrupt change from books to feelings caught her off guard.

  “We’ve spoken so few times,” he went on, “yet . . .”

  She found her voice. “It seems we’ve known each other for ages.”

  “Truly, Miss Kent?” He grinned, patted his chest. “My heart races.”

  She smiled. And mine.

  “Your eyes make little half-moons when you smile,” he said. “It’s endearing.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Would you take offense if . . . I asked you to move away from the window?”

  “You must find out for yourself,” she replied, surprised at her own boldness.

  He took her elbow and led her over to the corner, beside the rack of stationery goods, then turned and faced her. As he removed his eyeglasses, his green eyes were warm upon her.