A Haven on Orchard Lane

by Lawana Blackwell

  She lifted her chin. Should she close her eyes? She had so little experience, having been kissed by but one man, and so long ago.

  Don’t think of Reginald.

  Mr. Pearce’s expression sobered. He stepped back and cleared his throat.

  “Forgive me, Miss Kent.”

  “What is wrong?” she asked.

  “I quite forgot myself. Do forgive me.”

  “Will you stop saying that?”

  “Yes, of course.” He gave her a sad look and moved over to open the door. “I don’t wish to be rude, but will you please go now?”

  Three steps away from his shop, she realized his misgivings. Humiliation spun her around. He was standing in the same spot, watching her through the window, and moved aside when she pushed open the door.

  “I’m happy for you, but I don’t care a fig about your money.”

  “Not for one moment did I assume so,” he said. “Mrs. Hooper has no barrier between brain and vocal cords.”

  “Oh.”

  He shifted his feet. “Why didn’t I . . . carry through?”

  Staring at his shifting feet, she replied, “Yes.”

  “Well, you seemed repulsed.”

  “I did?”

  “Your frown said as much.”

  She looked up again.

  He shrugged. “It is one thing to befriend someone who is basically a mongrel.”

  “Mongrel!”

  “Quite another to—”

  “You think I care about your lineage?” she asked with heat in her face. “Actually, I do. I think it’s lovely how your grandparents found each other and meshed their cultures so well.”

  He looked relieved. “Thank you for that. Then why the expression?”

  “I was thinking . . . of my former beau.”

  For a moment, he stared. Then a slow smile. Folding his arms, he said, “I see. Still feel something for him, do you?”

  “That’s not amusing, Mr. Pearce.”

  He sobered. “Pardon.”

  “I couldn’t help . . . well . . .” She shuddered at the memory of Reginald’s viselike embraces, the feel of a wet sponge across her lips.

  “You’re making that face again, so I have my answer. I quite traumatized you, didn’t I?”

  “No trauma,” she assured him. “Just an unpleasant memory.”

  “I’m sorry. But does that mean I can only go uphill from there?”

  She smiled, removed her hat again.

  He stepped forward and took her into his arms. She closed her eyes, tilted her chin. The kiss was sweet. Dry. And made her light-headed.

  “This is the best day of my life,” he murmured into her hair while her head rested upon his shoulder.

  “Mine too,” she murmured back.

  “Perhaps that’s why my grandmother sewed all those handkerchiefs. She had an inkling you’d come along.”

  She smiled to herself, glanced at the door, and stepped back from his arms. “We quite forgot the window.”

  “I didn’t forget. But I didn’t want to chance your changing your mind again. By the by, perhaps you wouldn’t mind addressing me as Jude?”

  “Only if you don’t mind my being Rosalind.”

  His eyes glinted again. “I would never mind your being Rosalind.”

  31

  Infinitely soothing, Charlotte thought at the garden table while pulling seedlings from cucumber sprouts in trays. Clearly God had planned it so, so that His creation would not starve.

  She heard hinges creak and looked over at Rosalind, coming through the gate. “Hello, Mother. Did you rest?”

  “My limbs, yes. My head, no.”

  Rosalind slipped into the seat facing her. Her face fairly glowed in spite of her hat; Charlotte suspected it was only partly because of her walk.

  “I’m sorry,” Rosalind said.

  “Please, don’t be. I feel much better now with my hands in soil.” She smiled at her daughter. “May I assume your meeting with Mr. Pearce went well?”

  Rosalind smiled. “You may assume my meeting with Jude went well.”

  Charlotte raised her brows.

  “He’s invited me to lunch on Tuesday. Mr. Galvez will prepare an Indian dish. Do you mind?”

  “Of course not. I’m delighted for you.”

  “And I’m delighted that my trunk arrives tomorrow. I’ll have something to wear.”

  Charlotte studied her gown. Brown, trimmed in blue, and rigidly tailored. “As you’ll be in Exeter anyway, why not buy a ready-made gown? I’m sure Mrs. Deamer would be quite happy to accompany and advise you.”

  “I have gowns.”

  “Yes, well . . .”

  “You take issue with the way I dress?”

  “To be frank, your clothes are like uniforms.” Charlotte cast for the right words. “I just wonder if your generation . . . you women who are educated . . . fear that accenting your femininity would be at odds with your newly won rights.”

  Rosalind smiled. “Miss Beale does say ‘frilly is silly.’”

  “Well, it can be, taken to extremes. Imagine a woman of my age and size in laces and flounces. I would resemble a Christmas tree.”

  “Now you exaggerate, Mother,” Rosalind said, but smiling as if picturing the thought.

  Saturday morning, Danny sat almost mute, avoiding looking at Rosalind though she sat directly across from him.

  “Miss Kent is my daughter, remember?” Charlotte said from the head of the table, wondering if he had forgotten. “She’s home for good now, or at least for a very long time.”

  “You’re the lady who got lost,” Albert said. He was perched on the very edge of his chair, more standing than sitting, apparently so as to reach his food better.

  “Indeed, I am,” Rosalind replied. “I would be wandering still had you boys not set me in the right direction.”

  Albert smiled. “Perhaps you would have gone into the woods.”

  “Oh my!” She feigned a shudder, which made him chortle.

  Charlotte smiled and looked at Danny. “Miss Kent and Mrs. Deamer are to take the train to Exeter after breakfast.”

  “Exeter has the big church,” Danny murmured, pushing eggs around his plate with his fork. “I went there with Mother and Father. Before Albert came.”

  Danny had never spoken of his mother. Charlotte’s heart ached at his blank expression, as if his grief had turned into dull acceptance over the years.

  “What a sweet memory you must have of that day,” Rosalind said.

  “I can’t remember all of it,” he said, adding to Charlotte, “Father bought fish and chips. Not at the cathedral but a café. And chocolate cake.”

  “Chocolate cake,” Albert said wistfully. “I saw one in the kitchen.”

  “It’s not polite to hint, Albert,” Danny whispered.

  Charlotte raised brows at Coral, bringing in some tea. She nodded and smiled back.

  Silence passed other than the clicks of cutlery against china.

  “Boys, can you guess this riddle?” Rosalind asked. “What has a face and hands . . . but no body?”

  After a moment, both heads shook as if they had a string attached.

  “A clock!”

  Albert laughed, and Danny pushed his lips into a strained smile.

  “Could it be that they were punished for speaking to me the evening they were washing the fence?” Rosalind asked Charlotte while the boys helped Coral take dishes into the kitchen. “Does Danny resent me for that?”

  “I shall certainly ask.”

  After seeing Rosalind and Mrs. Deamer off from the porch, Charlotte turned to the boys. “Albert, please ask Coral if you might assist her in the kitchen.”

  He scampered away without asking why his brother wasn’t included.

  “Danny, what is wrong?” she asked.

  “Nothing is wrong, Mrs. Kent,” he replied.

  “You couldn’t even look at Miss Kent. Why?”

  He crossed his arms, holding himself, and began to sniffle. She t
ook the handkerchief from her sleeve and handed it to him.

  “Will you stop having us here?” he asked after blowing his nose.

  “Whyever would you think that?”

  “You hired us because you miss her terribly.”

  Charlotte leaned to draw him into her arms. “Nothing will change. Why, I should miss you terribly if you weren’t here.”

  She felt his small body relax, heard his yawn.

  “You’re sleepy.”

  He tensed again. “No, missus.”

  “Danny, I’m not angry,” she said, straightening to stare into his eyes. “You’ve done nothing wrong. But it’s unnatural for children to be so tired.”

  She waited.

  A goldfinch twittered.

  “Albert wets the bed if I don’t put him to the pot,” Danny blurted.

  “During the night? Does he not go before turning in?”

  “He does.”

  “And so you must stay awake to do this?”

  “He sleeps so hard.”

  “Is he punished if he has an accident?”

  Danny was trembling. “Yes.”

  “By your father and stepmother.” She said it this way so he would not have to name names, merely eliminate one. Please let there be only one.

  “Not Father.”

  “What does your stepmother do?”

  “Um . . .”

  “Does she strike him?”

  The trembling increased. “Please don’t speak to her.”

  “I won’t.” Not that she did not wish to march over there this minute and give her a piece of her mind, but the boys would suffer reprisals. A benefit from having lived with Roger was the awareness of how brutes conducted themselves. In their pettiness, they consistently had to have the upper hand.

  “Are there marks on Albert?” she asked. “Is that why he wouldn’t sit?”

  He turned his face to her. “Please, please don’t look at them. Please, Mrs. Kent! Albert speaks without thinking and would mention it. We’re not even to tell Father.”

  “What would happen if you did?”

  He shook his head. “We can’t.”

  “Surely there is a way I can help you.”

  “You do! That’s why I was afraid you would stop.”

  Charlotte sighed and wished Rosalind and Mrs. Deamer had not left. Holding this in without exploding was going to be difficult.

  She brushed back his hair. “Very well, Danny.”

  For now.

  32

  “We should see the cathedral before burdening ourselves with packages,” Mrs. Deamer said to Rosalind.

  “Have you been many times?” Rosalind asked.

  “Many. We attended services when my husband was on official business.”

  This she said with voice lowered, though the man, woman, and four children several feet away from the railway bench were caught up in conversation.

  “May we get ice creams too?” carried over in a young voice, causing Rosalind and Mrs. Deamer to trade smiles.

  They got to their feet as the South Devon line locomotive sounded from the west, prompting the family and a half-dozen other passengers to crane their necks and gather bags.

  “Why, Miss Kent!”

  Noble Clark approached, bedecked in a well-fitting black suit and eye-catching red-striped cravat. He switched his satchel to his left hand and then grasped hers.

  “You’re home! But when?”

  “Since Wednesday.”

  “Well, such an extraordinary coincidence! You’re off to Exeter, then?”

  No, we thought to dress up and watch trains, Rosalind thought but was then ashamed. She despised sarcasm.

  “We plan to visit some shops and collect my trunk. You’ve met Mrs. Deamer.”

  “I have had that pleasure.” Beaming, Mr. Clark said, “You cannot imagine how good it’ll be to have friendly faces along on the journey, for I’m on pins and needles!”

  “Whatever do you mean, Mr. Clark?” Rosalind asked, but his attention was diverted by the locomotive squealing to stop. A guard ran down the line, opening doors.

  Mr. Clark bounded past other passengers to an open carriage, turned, and waved.

  “We’ve no choice, have we?” Rosalind muttered.

  “You need your trunk,” the housekeeper reminded her.

  He offered his hand, assisting them into the carriage. Rosalind nudged Mrs. Deamer to the forward-facing seat and settled beside her.

  He owes us, she thought.

  Mr. Clark seemed content as he boarded, but then having an audience was likely worth riding backward. Perching hat upon shelf and satchel upon the seat, he said, “No doubt you’re wondering why I’m bound for Exeter. Auditions are to be held today for the chancel choir.”

  “In the cathedral?” Rosalind asked.

  He nodded. “One of the tenors suffered a heart attack in the midst of the ‘Tyrolese Evening Hymn’ a fortnight ago, poor chap.”

  “I read of his death in the Gazette,” Mrs. Deamer said.

  “He was fifty-seven and had a good run, don’t you agree? If I’m performing at that age, I’ll consider myself to have led a full life.”

  I wonder if the tenor felt the same. Rosalind turned to Mrs. Deamer. “We shall have to see the cathedral last, then. Will the shops hold our parcels?”

  “But wait!” Mr. Clark said. “You mean to go to the cathedral? Excellent!”

  “After the auditions, of course,” Rosalind said.

  “You could accompany me. Two birds with one stone. Please?”

  Rosalind could only stare at him.

  “It’s that I’m most anxious. The auditions are a capella, naturally more difficult. And there will be tenors from all about Devonshire.”

  “We can’t spare that much time, I’m afraid,” she said. “My mother’s expecting us to take the three o’clock return train.”

  “But you planned the cathedral tour, in any case. You’ll have a good view of Lady Chapel whilst auditions take place. You could take in the rest beforehand.”

  His voice broke. “My mother and father refused, saying it’s a wild goose chase. How do you think that affects my courage? This means more to me than anything.”

  Stifling a sigh, Rosalind looked at Mrs. Deamer, who smiled back.

  “Very well.”

  “Oh, thank you!” He clasped his hands against his chest. “Can you imagine what I chose as my audition piece?”

  “Mozart’s Requiem?” Mrs. Deamer asked.

  He eyed her with obvious fresh respect. “I’m quite sure you’ll hear that today, but not from me. You see, most singers will choose somber pieces. Joyful would seem flippant in light of the recent tragedy.”

  “That seems reasonable,” Rosalind said with grudging interest.

  He tapped his temple. “I’ve given this much thought. But the choral director, being only human, will grow fatigued with a parade of melancholy.”

  “What is there besides joyful or melancholy?”

  “There is sweet. Hence, I decided upon Brahms’s ‘Cradle Song.’” If the director has children, this will surely bring on fond memories. He may even recall his own mother singing it. And, as sleep is likened to death, any thoughts the song prompts toward the unfortunate tenor will be comforting, not morbid.”

  “I think you’ve made a wise choice, Mr. Clark,” Mrs. Deamer said.

  He beamed at her. “And here is the genius part! I shall sign up as ‘Noble Young,’ almost ensuring that I am last.”

  “But if you’re chosen, will not the director take issue when you confess your actual name?” Even knowing the point was moot, Rosalind had to ask.

  “I’m not the first performer to adopt a stage name, Miss Kent. Why not now, as this will surely lead to greater things? And Noble Young has a great, positive quality to it. You would be predisposed to favor a man with such a name.”

  Oh my. Rosalind realized her mouth was open and closed it.

  Mr. Clark gave her an appreciative smile. “I w
as also struck mute when the idea first came to me.”

  Closing his eyes, he sang softly,

  “Lullaby and good night,

  With roses bedight . . .”

  Rosalind winced when he hit the first off note.

  “With lilies o’er spread

  Is baby’s wee bed.”

  He continued on, and when finished, opened his eyes.

  Rosalind let out the breath she had been holding.

  “Brahms was indeed the perfect choice,” Mrs. Deamer said.

  “There you are! And now, the coup de gras! The original Prussian. It’s a mite tricky, for I learned it but two days ago.”

  “Guten Abend, gute Nacht,

  Mit Rosen bedacht,

  Ich werde toten

  Meine Katze—”

  “Mr. Clark?” Mrs. Deamer said.

  “I beg your pardon; I wasn’t finished.”

  “You just sang that you wish to kill your cat.”

  “I’m quite sure you’re mistaken. I don’t own a cat.” But he looked a bit concerned as he sang on.

  “Da das Weinen

  Halt mich wach . . .”

  “Because its mewling disturbs your sleep.” Mrs. Deamer shrugged under Rosalind’s stare. “Our housekeeper of twenty years was from Frankfurt.”

  Mr. Clark blinked. “Why would Mrs. Grundke sabotage me? She’s quite fond of me! When I was seeing Gisela, she would serve me sausages and potatoes.”

  “Ah,” Rosalind said, “and you broke off with her daughter.”

  “No, I simply stopped coming by. In any event, that was two years past, and Gisela is happily married to Mr. Healy, who owns four fishing boats.”

  “Still, you owed her an explanation.”

  “Well now, you see, that would have been unkind.” He rolled his eyes. “What was I to have said, that her accent was beginning to grate upon my nerves?”

  “Whatever the reason, it isn’t decent to drop people like a child weary of a toy.”

  Mr. Clark’s face reddened. “Miss Kent, I thought better of you. I can scarcely believe I considered courting you.”

  “Please clear your mind of that notion straightaway.” Rosalind was about to mention Coral Shipsey when she felt a touch upon her sleeve.