A Haven on Orchard Lane

by Lawana Blackwell

  “I know,” she said, eyes narrowing. “But next time, wait. I was on the way.”

  “Aren’t we to have a treat?” Albert said.

  She pressed her lips for a moment. “I wish to say something to the two of you. How old do you think your father is?”

  Danny could only stare at her while Albert shifted in his chair.

  “Well?”

  “F-forty?” Danny stammered.

  “Forty-six. And I’m twenty-nine. Do you know what that means? It means he’ll die before I do. Maybe not this year, maybe not the next, but before you’re grown. People die, as you well know. And I’ll be in charge of you. No one else. Not even your Mrs. Kent, who’ll be dead before even your father goes.”

  Danny sat frozen to the chair, his nose as wet as his eyes.

  “Even if you go running to your father again, and he sends me away, when he dies you’ll be handed over to me.”

  “Father said you won’t hit us again,” Albert squeaked.

  “I won’t hit you. I’ll clean your sheets and your clothes and feed your bellies. We’ll get on just fine. But you are never to hold my daughter again, or I’ll make you pay when your father dies. Do you hear me?”

  If only Father would come home early! Danny found his voice. “Her leg—”

  “I know what goes through your minds!” She was fairly hissing. “That she’s only your half sister. Well, I’ll smother you in your beds before I allow you to do things to her. Now . . . out of my sight!”

  Teresa burst into fresh tears in the corner. Danny jumped down from the chair, took a crimson-faced Albert by the hand, and led him through the door to the garden. They sat upon the bench and wept in each other’s arms.

  “I thought she loved us.” Albert sniffed.

  “She loves only Teresa.” He had figured out long ago that his stepmother did not love Father, could not possibly. “But it’s not Teresa’s fault.”

  “Will we tell Father?”

  “No!” She was right; people did die. Mother. Grandmother and Grandfather Fletcher. “She said she won’t hit us. We mustn’t touch Teresa, ever.”

  He flinched at the squeak of the door. Their stepmother advanced with Teresa on her hip and a dish in her hands.

  “Bis-cuits!” she sang. She slid Teresa to her feet, motioned for Danny and Albert to sit apart, and placed the dish between them.

  Danny could only stare at Stepmother.

  Albert hesitated, then reached for one. “Chocolate!”

  “Mine!” Teresa said, lunging for the dish.

  His stepmother held her back and scooped up two biscuits. “Two, darling. One for each hand.”

  As Teresa shoved both into her mouth, their stepmother pulled a handkerchief from her apron and leaned to wipe Danny’s face. “Now, now. Dry those eyes. We understand each other. Everything will be fine. Have a biscuit.”

  The biscuit was dry in his mouth. Any tenderness she had shown them over recent days was not real. Everything was not fine.

  “Thank you,” he mumbled.

  But the past few days had been far better than when they were hungry, beaten, and neglected, he reminded himself. Every night henceforth, he would ask Mother to ask God to allow Father to live for a long time.

  Chewing, drooling chocolate, Teresa reached for the dish.

  “No more, darling,” Stepmother said. “You’ll spoil your supper.”

  Her quick little hands snatched two more biscuits.

  “No, Teresa!” While Stepmother struggled to open her fist, Teresa pushed the other biscuit into her full mouth.

  Albert laughed.

  “Shut up!” Stepmother hissed, and he fell sober. Her voice softened for Teresa, though it shook. “Give . . . give to Mother, darling.”

  “No, no, no!” Teresa cried and slapped her.

  “Stop that!” Stepmother held her out to avoid flailing arms and legs. When Teresa could not reach her mother’s reddened cheeks, she sank her teeth into her wrist.

  “Ouch! Stop!”

  Stepmother was able to wrestle her arm away and set the girl down. Rubbing her wrists, she said through tears, “Why did you bite?”

  But Teresa turned and made for the dish. Stepmother scooped her up again, this time from behind, where hands and feet and teeth had no place to strike.

  “Door!” Stepmother shrieked.

  Danny jumped up, ran around her, and opened the door for her to carry the screaming girl through. He stuck his head around and waited for any more commands. But she continued through the kitchen.

  One biscuit remained upon the dish when he returned to the bench.

  “I’m sorry,” Albert mumbled, cheeks full.

  “It’s all right. You may have it.”

  He listened to his brother’s crunching and thought of the stricken look upon his stepmother’s face. The only person she loved in the world had turned against her, at least for a while. When you loved but one person, he thought, your happiness rose and fell, depending upon that person’s treatment of you.

  Not that he felt any pity. Teresa would calm herself. His stepmother would cuddle her, kissing the top of her head.

  If she could have but attempted to love him and Albert, and Father, perhaps she would not allow a baby’s fit of anger to make her so sad. Perhaps, even, she would be three times as happy!

  Albert paused from slurping his fingers. “Why are you looking at me?”

  “I love you.”

  His brother’s grin exposed brown teeth. “I love you.”

  Danny decided he would try to love as many people as he could. Already, besides Father and Albert and Teresa, he loved Mrs. Kent, Miss Kent, Mrs. Deamer, and Miss Shipsey. So why not ask Mother to ask God to give them all long lives?

  Or perhaps he would try asking God himself. After all, he was ten years old.

  40

  Charlotte padded into the kitchen in slippers and a wrapper on Tuesday morning. Between last night’s window-rattling thunder and her own episodes of intense body heat, she had hardly slept.

  “Ah . . .” She sighed at the sight of steam rising from the kettle.

  Coral, slicing bacon, said, “You’re awake early, Mrs. Kent.”

  “I’ve been awake for hours. But you know, inertia is the strongest chain.”

  They spoke in low tones, though larder, pantry, and bathroom buffered Mr. Smith’s bedchamber.

  “Inertia?” Coral asked.

  “The force which keeps you in bed or chair when there is something you need to do.”

  “Ah. Please take no offense, Mrs. Kent. This doesn’t apply to you. But inertia sounds a lot like laziness.”

  “Well, it’s not.” Charlotte thought for a second. “Though they may be cousins.”

  Coral laughed, set down the knife, and went over to the sink to wash her hands. “I’ll have you some tea in a tick.”

  “Thank you. I hope you’ll have some too.” Pulling out a chair at the table, she eyed the stack of bacon slices. Mr. Smith’s appetite was a wonder to behold. “Your toast and marmalade mornings are over.”

  “But only for a little while.” Coral poured hot water into the teapot and added a pinch of leaves. She brought the pot to the table, then collected cups and spoons, milk and sugar.

  “Let’s allow it to steep a bit longer.” Coral leaned closer and lowered her voice even more so. “This is probably nothing. But Mr. Smith asked Sunday why you and Miss Kent and Mrs. Deamer don’t attend church.”

  A warning bell rang in Charlotte’s mind. But then, was that not a perfectly natural question? “What did you say?”

  “That I couldn’t say.”

  “Did he persist?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Well, then.” She smiled. “I’m sure he was good company for you.”

  Coral nodded. “Reminds me of my oldest brother, Jack. Big lumbering giants, they are. It was nice of him to walk with me and not mind going early. I thought Noble’s eyes would pop out.”

  “No . . .” Charl
otte groaned.

  “I’m over him, Mrs. Kent. But I have to admit I enjoyed seeing him stare at us. Poor Amy was practically dancing to keep his attention.”

  “Oh my. Poor Amy, indeed.”

  “Saving for my bakery is the most important thing now,” Coral said, pouring tea into cups. “Though I would have to leave here, as Owen’s is so popular.”

  “I would hate to have you leave, but I do understand. Where would you go?”

  “Anywhere. As long as there’s a train station, so I can visit my family.”

  “Exeter?”

  “That would be ideal. But I look over the notices in the Gazette when you’ve finished, and rents are higher than here.”

  After a sip of tea, Charlotte said, “But so would be the wages, wouldn’t they? What if you applied for a position in an established bakery or restaurant?”

  Coral tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Where I could bake, instead of having to concentrate on meals.”

  “You would gain more practical experience whilst saving and waiting for the right opportunity.”

  “But where would I live, then? If I must pay for a room . . .”

  Charlotte sighed. “Coral, do you really want this bakery?”

  “More than anything.”

  “You don’t have to say you do to please me. Truly.”

  Eyes watering, Coral said, “Anything, Mrs. Kent.”

  “Then you must ask more questions. You cannot assume that all hotels and bakeries don’t provide rooms for staff. Or pay enough to live on and continue saving.”

  “You’re right.” Coral added a fourth spoonful of sugar to her tea. “I’ve been waylaid by, what did you say? Inertia!”

  “And not laziness. Will you ever drink that?” Charlotte pointed to her tea.

  “Oh. Yes.” Coral took a sip from her cup and drew up her lips. “Too sweet.”

  “Imagine that.”

  From the pantry corridor came the squeak of door hinges. Mr. Smith entered in pajamas and wrapper, his black hair sticking up on one side. He yawned, scratched his face, and looked about, eyes finally stopping on Charlotte and Coral.

  “Oh . . . I beg your pardon.” He started to turn.

  “You don’t have to leave,” Charlotte said. “I’m in a dressing gown as well.”

  He gave them a sheepish smile. “Good morning. I was hoping to make some tea.”

  Coral rose. “I’ll freshen the pot, Mr. Smith. Please, have a seat.”

  “Thank you.” He pulled out a chair. “The thunder woke you too?”

  “It never allowed me to sleep.” Charlotte glanced at the window. “We may be in for more. It’s a pity for your work.”

  “Such is the life of a traveling artist. I have some detailing to do. And perhaps I could sketch the cottage between showers. It’s quite unique.”

  Casually, Charlotte said, “You’ll not ask us to pose on the porch, will you?”

  “Would you care to?”

  “I’m shy. And fat.”

  He winked at her. “You’re not exactly Humpty Dumpty, Mrs. Kent. But no, the cottage alone will suffice.”

  Coral brought over the teapot. “We’ve some bread pudding left over from last night, if you can manage sweets this early.”

  “None for me, thank you,” Charlotte said.

  “I would enjoy some,” Mr. Smith said. “It’s a wonder you had any left. I daresay I had three dishes last night.”

  Four, Charlotte thought, smiling to herself. “Miss Shipsey plans to have her own bakery one day.”

  “I endorse that plan heartily. You’re an artist with flour and sugar.”

  “Oh now, you flatter me,” Coral said, setting a dish of bread pudding before him. “Mrs. Kent advises me to apply somewhere in Exeter where I can gain more experience.”

  He set his teacup into the saucer. “Don’t just apply. Promote!” Forefingers drawing a square in the air, he unfolded his plan. “Fill a half-dozen flat boxes with samples, and carry them to the best hotels and restaurants there.”

  “Why, that’s an excellent idea, Mr. Smith,” Charlotte said.

  They both looked at Coral. All animation had left her face.

  “Miss Shipsey?” Mr. Smith said, fork raised to his mouth.

  “Mrs. Hooper,” she said. “She does some business in Exeter and knows everyone from miles about. If she learned I was applying elsewhere, she would give me the sack.”

  This was no surprise to Charlotte.

  Mr. Smith chewed, swallowed. “You need a promoter. Allow me that honor. I would reveal your identity only to those who are interested in hiring you.”

  “You would do that for me? But I can’t allow you to take time from your work.”

  “I wouldn’t be. I’m to meet my editor, Mr. Kaye, in Exeter on the twenty-eighth of June, returning the day after. I could catch the early train and deliver your boxes. That would give you nearly three weeks to plan.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” Charlotte said.

  He ducked his head modestly but then said, “I gained my book contract with tenacity. Muscling my way in to see the right people . . . with utmost courtesy, mind you. I would be representing the head baker at an esteemed lodging house in Port Stilwell.”

  Coral laughed. “Mr. Smith! I’m not—”

  “Is there any untruth to that?” he asked, holding up the dish of half-eaten pudding.

  “Well . . .”

  Charlotte had to smile and wondered that he had not found his way into the theatre business.

  “I would ask for appointments. That way, when you go up there on your own, you won’t be facing some great unknown. We could rehearse your interviews so that you’ll have the confidence you need. Just as if you were to be in a play.”

  “Rehearsing would be good,” Charlotte said. Her confidence in Mr. Smith’s genuineness became more solid. If he knew who she was, he would never have made the theatre reference.

  He pushed out his chair. “I’ve enjoyed our visit. But I must dress and finish some detailing before breakfast.”

  Breakfast? Charlotte thought.

  Coral smiled at her as if to say that it didn’t matter. And why should it, when he was so willing to help her?

  That gave Charlotte pause.

  She asked to speak with him on the porch after lunch, while Rosalind was reading in the parlor, Mrs. Deamer upstairs, and Coral in the kitchen. The rain had lightened into a mist that blurred the trees on either side of the lane like an impressionist painting.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked with a worried expression.

  He was young enough to be her son, so she gave him what she hoped to be a look of motherly concern.

  “You must get quite lonely in your travels.”

  “My work dominates so much of my energy that I don’t notice,” he replied, but the sadness in his dark eyes said she was not far off the mark.

  “Coral . . . Miss Shipsey . . . she’s a wonderful girl.”

  He nodded. “You’re concerned that I’ll hurt her?”

  “She’s been hurt before.”

  “I’m not interested in having a girl in every port, Mrs. Kent. I feel a bond with people from humble beginnings. I would have done the same had she been a man.”

  Charlotte let out a breath. “I’m so happy to hear it. I hope I’ve not offended you.”

  He shook his head. “It’s good that you look out for her.”

  “I feel that bond with her too, Mr. Smith. I’ll leave you to return to your work.”

  “Allow me.” He stepped over to take the door handle, pausing to give her the tenderest of smiles. “If I were to have romantic notions, Mrs. Kent . . . they would be for someone else.”

  You can’t possibly be saying . . .

  She had known of young swains who pursued much older women, but always wealthy ones. Silly, wealthy women. The theatre world was full of such cases.

  “But she has a beau,” he went on. “I hope he knows how fortunate he is.”

  She
felt fortunate herself, for the years of training that had kept her from revealing her ridiculous thoughts. “I believe he does, Mr. Smith.”

  41

  Fog swirled about Jude’s feet. Shouts came from the bay, and the sound of the steam engine winching fishing boats ashore. Mrs. Galvez answered his knock, holding a scrap of red meat.

  “Mr. Pearce! You’re just in time.”

  He grimaced. “When you said breakfast . . .”

  “For Jinny, as if you did not know!” She laughed and tossed it to the pup.

  Jinny carried the offering in her teeth to her usual spot beside the door. No animals were welcome in Flores. Mr. Galvez had such fear of hair, animal or human, finding its way into food, that he kept his own as short as a Caesar’s.

  “I appreciate the invitation,” Jude said as he followed Mrs. Galvez through the empty dining room. “My usual is boiled egg and toast.”

  “It will not be breakfast fare. We decided it is high time to have a Spanish dish on the menu.”

  The kitchen was well lit, with whitewashed cob walls, windows on either side of a long worktable, and another to the right of the stove, where Mr. Galvez was dishing something into a bowl. He was a thick man, with full lips and a jutting brow.

  “Ah, good morning, Mr. Pearce!”

  “Whatever you’re cooking smells good.”

  “It’s paella! Sit, sit!”

  Mrs. Galvez slid into the chair Jude held out for her and began pouring tea into cups. “Thank you for agreeing to be our little pig.”

  “Your what?” Jude said, chuckling as he took his own chair.

  “Guinea pig,” Mr. Galvez corrected on his way to the table.

  “Ah yes.” She laughed at herself and handed Jude his cup.

  “Now, be honest. Brutal, if you must,” Mr. Galvez said, passing around steaming servings.

  The three picked up forks and blew in unison. Jude tasted, chewed, and swallowed the mixture of rice and vegetables, prawns and sausage. Tears burned his eyes.

  Mr. Galvez spit his out into his dish. His wife swallowed and drew up her lips.

  “As I feared . . . too much salt,” Mr. Galvez said.

  “Too much everything,” said Mrs. Galvez. “But it’s the most popular dish in Spain. That’s what Woman’s Gazette said.”