A Haven on Orchard Lane

by Lawana Blackwell

  Fleur-de-lis, he thought. Claret red and gray, perhaps?

  The combination of her gratitude and his being dressed to the nines, and she would be his again! Amy would be heartbroken, of course, but such was life. He was beginning to tire of Amy, as it were, with her hints about marriage.

  The boarding whistle shrieked behind him. Just before the arched doors leading to the city, a laughing small girl was lifted into the air by a pair of hands. A smartly dressed woman beamed at the scene and held a familiar-looking satchel. A porter pushed past with a trunk, and Noble could see the back of the man.

  Mr. Smith.

  He set down the girl and gave the woman a quick embrace. She stepped back with eyes shining while he took the little girl’s hand.

  Married!

  The woman met Noble’s eyes, gave him an odd look. Spinning around, Noble hurried to another exit, then out onto Station Road. A hand upon his shoulder jerked him backward. He found himself staring up at Mr. Smith.

  “Why, hallo! You’re the singer, aren’t you? Why are you here?”

  The giant hand still clamped his shoulder. Noble swallowed. “To purchase a music box for my mother.”

  Mr. Smith smiled. “Small world, isn’t it? I’m here to meet with my editor for lunch, and my sister and niece insisted upon meeting my train.”

  “Lovely.” Noble stretched his lips to show his sincerity.

  He gasped as fingers dug into his shoulder bone.

  “But I don’t wish to have my personal business bandied about Port Stilwell. I shall have to insist that you forget that you saw me.”

  “Y-yes.”

  Mr. Smith studied him for a moment and moved his hand to clap his back. The motion propelled Noble a step forward.

  “Good man! I look forward to hearing you sing on Sunday. A gift from God, your voice. Now, go and buy your music box. If I hear gossip, I will know its source.”

  Noble watched him walk back toward the woman and child just outside the station house. He realized that his hands were shaking.

  Any joy from the prospect of browsing shops was gone. Noble entered a clock shop on Howell Road and purchased the first music box the assistant showed to him, a handsome wooden case with eight bells which played six tunes. Carrying the parcel to the station, he found an empty bench. Never had he felt so alone.

  When the ten o’clock train pulled in, he did not look for an empty carriage but took one occupied by a pair of older women in animated conversation. They gave him terse nods and lowered their voices.

  “I said to her that Milton is a hardworking man and deserving of shirts that are ironed.”

  “You did? And what did she say?”

  “She said, ‘What does it matter, when it’s only the fish that sees him?’”

  “Oh my!”

  “Who sees our sheets? We iron them, don’t we?”

  The train started moving. Noble sighed, set his hat beside him, and rested the back of his head against his seat. If only Mr. Smith had not seen him. If only he had gone about his business instead of standing there and staring!

  He sighed again. The women silenced and turned faces toward him. He did not recognize them from Port Stilwell.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “It’s just that I’ve witnessed a tragedy.”

  Both sat straighter. One, with silk flowers upon her hat, said, “What happened?”

  “Um . . . from where do you hail?”

  “Feniton,” both replied.

  “Ah.”

  They were waiting, but Noble’s hands began trembling again.

  “Did someone die?” said the second woman. No hat covered her gray topknot.

  He glanced at the windows and lowered his voice, as if Mr. Smith were sprinting alongside. “It concerns a young woman’s beau.”

  “He’s unfaithful!” the hatless woman hissed.

  “I saw the evidence.”

  “Just like my sister’s husband!” the hatted one said.

  “But my life is in peril if I warn the young woman.”

  “Your life? He threatened you?”

  A chill ran through him. He rubbed his shoulder. “Most emphatically.”

  They exchanged looks and stared. The sympathy upon their lined faces made him feel a bit better, not so alone in the world.

  “Do you love her?” asked the hatless woman.

  “But of course he does!” her companion said.

  To Noble, she said, “What will you do?”

  “Nothing,” Noble said with a shudder. “I dare not.”

  The hatted woman stretched forward to pat his hand. “We can’t fault you for being afraid. But how many chances does a young man have to be a hero?”

  Noble’s eyes watered. “None.”

  43

  Early Tuesday morning at the front gate, Charlotte asked Mrs. Deamer, “Did you pack a wrap?”

  “Yes.” Mrs. Deamer lifted her portmanteau. It was especially fine, of burnished leather, and spoke of a more genteel life.

  Charlotte was certain that her friend would rather possess a carpetbag and an unruffled past. Were Roger in prison, could she be as decent? She found herself rather enjoying that mental picture, so she pushed it from her mind.

  “I changed the bathroom linens,” Mrs. Deamer was saying as Rosalind joined them. “There are more in the cupboard if you need some before Friday.”

  “Don’t worry,” Charlotte said, and then looked out into the lane, toward the rattle of hooves and wagon springs. “Do I hear a carriage?”

  Her daughter winked at her. A pair of horses came into view, followed by Mr. Plummer’s wagon. Rosalind clapped her hands. “Very good!”

  The plan was for Rosalind to accompany Mrs. Deamer to the station as part of her morning walk. Charlotte asked, “How did you arrange this?”

  “I didn’t. Jude insisted.”

  “I’m overwhelmed,” Mrs. Deamer said. “Please thank Mr. Pearce.”

  Mr. Plummer led the horses to turn the wagon around and helped her into the seat beside him. From the gate, Charlotte and Rosalind wished her a safe journey.

  “This cottage is too quiet,” Rosalind said as they entered the hall.

  “That will change when Mr. Smith returns.” Charlotte turned to her. “What would you think of having the boys here every day for the summer? Except Sundays, of course.”

  “Have you the energy?” Rosalind asked.

  “Oh yes. You?”

  Rosalind nodded. “I could tutor them. I miss teaching.”

  “They’re bright enough to become heads of class. Why don’t you stop at the bank during your walk? Ask their father?”

  Though Danny had assured them, perhaps too fervently, that their stepmother no longer mistreated them, Charlotte preferred to have all future dealings with Mr. Fletcher.

  “Should we ask the boys first?” Rosalind suggested.

  “They’ll love the idea.”

  Her daughter frowned.

  “What is it?”

  “Please don’t think I mean this to hurt you, but Aunt Vesta made every little decision for me, even chose my friends. I had no confidence in my own judgment. I didn’t particularly care for Reginald upon first meeting, but when people said how perfect we were together, I assumed they knew more than I did.”

  Eyes clouding, Charlotte said, “I’m so sorry.”

  Her daughter put a hand upon her shoulder. “I would not appreciate these days so much had my past been perfect.”

  “Thank you, daughter.” Charlotte patted her hand. “We’ll speak with the boys, then.”

  Rosalind set out upon her walk, and Charlotte went inside, into the kitchen. Coral stood polishing a copper pot, three more on the table before her.

  “Can you do that sitting?” Charlotte asked.

  Coral gave her a weary smile. “Not as vigorously.”

  “The cabbages are ready. Shall I pick one for supper?”

  “You have a green thumb, Mrs. Kent. I’ll cook it with some salt beef.” She covered a yawn
and glanced at the clock. “Ten of nine. The morning is crawling.”

  “He’ll be here. Perhaps we shall need two cabbages.”

  The quip did not lighten Coral’s expression. “What if Mrs. Hooper finds out?”

  Charlotte sat at the table. “You used your own funds for ingredients, and baked during the time you would still have been abed.”

  “Even so, she could sack me for disloyalty.”

  “That’s a huge could. Rosalind and I would stoutly protest.”

  Voices came from the hall, and Coral’s face blanched.

  “That’s not her,” Charlotte said, though in truth she wondered.

  Rosalind entered, frowning. “I came upon Mr. Clark halfway down the lane. He says he has an urgent private message for Coral.”

  “Noble?” Coral blew out her cheeks. “Amy must have come to her senses. Would you please say to him that I want nothing to do with him?”

  Quick footfalls sounded, and Mr. Clark sprinted into the room with blond hair wild about his head.

  “I must speak with you, Coral!”

  She shrugged. “Speak, then.”

  He swiveled glances at Charlotte and Rosalind. “Privately?”

  “No,” Coral said, setting the pot onto the table with a sharp rap.

  He sighed and looked about. “When is Mr. Smith due back?”

  “The eleven o’clock train,” Charlotte replied.

  He closed his eyes and groaned. “That’s when I’m to leave. My bags are at the station. I shall have to get there early enough to hide.”

  “And why would you do that?” Rosalind asked.

  “Because he threatened to harm me if I inform anyone that he’s married! I saw him yesterday, with wife and child in Exeter Station!”

  “I believe you’re mistaken, Mr. Clark,” Charlotte said after exchanging looks with Rosalind. “Perhaps his editor is a woman, who brought along her child? A sister?”

  “This was his wife,” Mr. Clark said. “A man can tell.”

  Coral pursed her lips. “He said his editor was a mister-something. Don’t you remember, Mrs. Kent?”

  “Why yes.” Charlotte felt a bit queasy. Not only had he never mentioned a wife, but he’d given them to understand that he was a bachelor. Why, then, the deception?

  “And he threw away some boxes,” Mr. Clark went on.

  “What did you say?” Coral asked.

  “Pastries. They were yours, weren’t they?”

  “Mr. Clark, please have a seat,” Charlotte said. “Let us all sit.”

  They gathered at the table, and Mr. Clark began. “I spied upon him from behind a post. He gobbled down two or three pastries and dropped the rest into a rubbish bin.”

  Covering her face with her hands, Coral cried, “Why did he offer? I never asked him to!”

  “I would have thought better of him,” Rosalind said. Her eyes met Charlotte’s again. “Mother, are you all right?”

  Charlotte nodded back, insides knotted. One did not have to be in theatre to be an actor. Were this an ordinary household, she would simply have been mystified, but she was certain now that Mr. Smith was either a reporter or connected to Roger.

  With a strained voice, she said, “We are grateful to you for bringing this to our attention, Mr. Clark.”

  “I didn’t intend to. I tossed and turned all last night, from fear of his finding out.”

  “Mr. Smith threatened you?” Rosalind said.

  He rubbed his shoulder. “I have the bruises to prove it.”

  “Oh dear!” Charlotte exclaimed.

  “That part, at least, was a blessing in disguise.” Mr. Clark pulled in a breath. “I needed the push to get out of Port Stilwell.”

  Coral uncovered her tear-stained face “That’s quite drastic, don’t you think?”

  Rosalind nodded. “What if you spoke with the constable?”

  “You don’t understand. I’ve no desire to be teaching when I’m forty, or working in the shop.” He took his watch from his pocket, glanced at it. “I must leave soon.”

  “Where will you go?” Rosalind asked.

  “London. It’s been my dream since childhood. With so many performing venues, surely I’ll find a place. I’ve got a bit of money saved.”

  He’s going to starve, Charlotte thought. This was not the time to inform Noble that he greatly overestimated his gifts.

  “Perhaps if you gave yourself a trial period,” Rosalind was saying. “A fortnight?”

  Tears sprang to his eyes. “I’ll sweep streets if I must, until opportunity comes my way. If I don’t do this now, I never will. Can you not understand?”

  “I can,” Charlotte said. “Wait here.” Ignoring her daughter’s odd look, she went upstairs to her writing table.

  Dear Mr. Irving

  I trust this finds you well. Can you possibly find some position for the bearer of this letter, Mr. Noble Clark? As a stagehand? A cleaner? He is desperate to perform, but I believe you will find his hands more practical than his voice.

  Back in the kitchen again, she handed the envelope to him and said, “I cannot promise anything. If there is a position, it will be labor. But you would have access to trade newspapers and learn of auditions.”

  He stared at the envelope. “Mr. Henry Irving? But how do you . . .”

  “It’s a long story. Farewell, Mr. Clark.”

  “Thank you.” He got to his feet and gave Coral an earnest look. “I’ll come for you when I’ve made my mark. You’ll forget all about Mr. Smith by then.”

  She frowned at him. “He wasn’t my beau, Noble.”

  “He wasn’t?”

  “Never.”

  “Oh. I thought . . .” He cleared his throat. “I’ll see myself out.”

  Safe journey, Charlotte thought as they listened to his footfalls.

  Rosalind turned to her. “Could Lord Fosberry have sent Mr. Smith?”

  “Why would he stay so long, then?” Charlotte replied. “He’s surely a reporter.”

  “We should search his room.”

  “We can’t intrude upon his privacy.”

  “We have due cause, Mother,” Rosalind said.

  Coral pushed her chair away from the table. “And, begging your pardon, but it’s my room.”

  They entered and set to work. At the writing desk, Charlotte thumbed through blank sketching pages and Johnson’s Dictionary. Rosalind and Coral unmade the bed and raised the mattress.

  Nothing.

  Charlotte moved on to rifle through the few clothes hanging in the wardrobe, Rosalind to the chest of drawers. Coral grimaced and felt inside a boot, then its mate.

  “Would he have hidden anything in another part of the house?” Charlotte asked.

  “He would want to keep it close,” Coral said. She looked about the room, eyed the top of the wardrobe. “I wonder . . .”

  She pulled the chair from the desk, dragging it across the carpet.

  “Wait, Coral,” Rosalind said. “I’m taller.”

  With Charlotte and Coral at either side of the chair, Rosalind lifted her skirts, climbed upon the seat, and looked over the top of the wardrobe.

  “Eureka.”

  She brought down a handful of papers to spread upon the writing table.

  An unsealed envelope bore the name Thomas Smithson.

  “Could this be his actual name?” Charlotte said.

  “If so, he’s clever to use one similar to his own,” Rosalind replied.

  Also there were a railway timetable from Paddington Station and a torn sketch that had been wadded and then smoothed.

  “Why, that’s me,” Charlotte said.

  Her image sat upon a garden bench, reading a book. A long eraser tear scarred the paper. She assumed he had decided against tossing it into the stove, with the intent to copy it over.

  “So it is you, Mrs. Kent,” Coral said.

  “He made me slim, at least. A camera would have alarmed me, so he was forced to improvise.”

  Rosalind opened the enve
lope. Inside were a half-dozen pound sterling banknotes. She tucked the flap again.

  “One would expect him to hide his money,” Charlotte said.

  The banknotes and timetable could have been related to the assignment he claimed to have. But the sketch, combined with Mr. Smith’s deception, was enough evidence against him.

  “We should leave these where they are,” Rosalind said.

  “But what if he comes into here first?” Charlotte said. “I would like the advantage of surprise, not give him time to make excuses.”

  “Very well.” Her daughter scooped them up and stepped onto the bench again.

  They straightened the room and returned to the kitchen, where the drama had begun. Coral filled the teakettle at the sink.

  The safety she had felt but an hour ago was an illusion, Charlotte thought.

  “Lavishing attention upon the boys,” Rosalind said with tight expression. “Offering to help Coral. It was all calculated to win our trust. And our affection.”

  “Could it be that he was truthful in his reason for being here?” Charlotte ventured. “But then he recognized me and realized there was money to be had on the side?”

  “I doubt that,” Rosalind said. “There is likely no contract for a book. He’s with a magazine or newspaper.”

  “I should have known,” Charlotte said.

  “How could you have?”

  “He never questioned me about my life, my background. I’m certain it was so as not to arouse my suspicions, but it’s unnatural for people who spend time together.”

  “How do you suppose he found you?” Rosalind asked.

  Coral moved from the stove. “I’ve spoken to no one of you, Mrs. Kent. Not even to my family. I’ve learned to be discreet, as Mrs. Deamer put it.”

  “Thank you, Coral,” Charlotte said, both relieved and guilty, for the thought had entered her mind.

  “But . . .” Coral went on. “Mr. Smith did ask certain questions. Sometimes. In the course of conversation.”

  “Besides the church question you mentioned?”

  “Yes.”

  “Such as?”

  “Why do you never go anywhere . . . why is it that you and Miss Kent seem never to discuss any past happenings . . .”

  Charlotte’s pulse quickened. “And how have you answered?”