A Haven on Orchard Lane

by Lawana Blackwell

  Little over an hour later, Mr. Lockhart was stashing their bags and Coral’s basket beneath a train carriage seat.

  “Go with God, ladies,” he said.

  46

  Jude stepped outside his shop. His last patron had departed with a copy of Fry’s Almanac an hour ago. In either direction, a half-dozen townspeople went about their affairs. None were headed in his direction, so he went back inside to lock the moneybox.

  “Stay,” he said when Jinny had taken a couple of hopeful paces toward the door. “I’ll be but a moment.”

  Jinny gave him a wounded look but went back to flop against the counter. Just in case a customer did enter while he was away, her presence would signal that he would return shortly. His regulars would feel free to browse the shelves.

  He passed Mr. Blyth’s tobacco shop and walked into Clark Mercantile.

  “Have you any rounders catching gloves?” he asked. “Small, that is. I should like to buy two.”

  Mr. Clark scratched his blond beard, turned to the shelves behind and took down a box sandwiched between badminton birdies and shoelaces. “There has been a sudden interest in the game.”

  “Yes, I offered my old one to a friend a fortnight ago but can’t locate it. I may have donated it to the church jumble sale.”

  Mr. Clark moved aside the lid and handed over two gloves. Jude held the supple leather of one and imagined the dull smart of ball against padded palm. I should hire an assistant. Make time for such—

  “More padding there,” said Mr. Clark. “It’s a new company. Even sent a left-hander, which I sold to Mr. Travers for his son. The boy was so grateful, I thought he would weep.”

  “How nice that they make a left-handed glove.”

  “It actually goes on the right hand, as you can imagine.” A frown tugged the corners of Mr. Clark’s mouth. “Yes, the Travers boy knew how to express gratitude. Unlike some sons.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jude said, hoping not to be pressured to listen to a tale of family dispute while needing to return to his shop. The brand name embroidered near the hem of the glove caught his eye.

  Urry.

  Identical to that on Mr. Smith’s glove. Which was, as Jude recalled, well padded.

  “This isn’t a new company.”

  “Aye, but it is. Relatively speaking.” Mr. Clark lifted the box, showed him the smaller script beneath the brand name. Established 1877.

  “Perhaps they went out of business for a span of time? I saw an old glove recently bearing the same name.”

  “That’s highly unlikely, Mr. Pearce. I had never heard of them before and have been doing this for nigh forty years. Besides, you can believe they would use the earliest date they have. We Brits appreciate dinosaurs.”

  Jude fished three shillings from his pocket. Don’t ask. None of your affair.

  “Is anything the matter, Mr. Pearce?” Mr. Clark asked.

  “Have you sold these to only boys?” Jude found himself asking.

  “Yes, apart from a tall fellow who required one for a nephew.”

  Carefully, Jude asked, “What if I wished to age this glove?”

  “Age?”

  “Make it appear well used. Older.”

  Mr. Clark pursed his lips. “Wouldn’t be difficult. Soak it in seawater, dry it in the sun. Pound it with stones. But why, in heaven’s name, would you do such a thing?”

  “I wouldn’t. Just one of those things to wonder. Such as . . . where do odd stockings go?”

  “Ah. Curiosity killed the cat, Mr. Pearce.”

  Jude smiled. “Good that I have a dog.”

  On his return walk, he thought that it was obvious why Mr. Smith would do such a thing. Men, himself included, would do almost anything for a woman’s praise. It began with their mothers, he suspected, for one of his earliest memories was of perching upon the side of a pool, calling for his own to watch him jump into the water.

  His eyes smarted, and he reined his thoughts back to the situation at hand.

  Women were blessed with deeper sentiment than men. He envied them that. A glove with a poignant family history would be more appreciated than one purchased after Mrs. Kent mentioned the ball and bat in the cellar.

  But to invest such effort for fleeting praise meant, surely, that Mr. Smith was keen on Rosalind. How could Jude fault any man for recognizing what a gem she was?

  Did he wish Mr. Smith would leave Port Stilwell?

  Yes! Tomorrow!

  But could he fault him? No, of course not.

  Something troubled him about the man, though.

  It’s your own jealousy, he said to himself.

  47

  Darkness made strings of jewels of the lamplit windows of the tenements branching out from Waterloo Bridge Station.

  A different story behind every one.

  One part of a transient childhood was curiosity over the lives of stationary people. Did any look from their windows and wonder at the people in moving trains?

  “Mother?”

  Charlotte turned. Rosalind’s face was somber with concern.

  “I’m fine,” she murmured over the rustle of belongings being gathered by Mr. and Mrs. Vacher.

  They had not had the liberty to speak of their situation since the young couple boarded at Bridgwater, but then, what more was there to say? Her fear that London would chew her up and spit her out yet again? As comforting as it would be to lean on her daughter, Charlotte had been a burden long enough.

  And there was an advantage to knowing the city like the back of her hand.

  “We shall need to stay on Waterloo Road for the night,” she said as they disembarked onto platform 7. Beneath the four-faced clock reading twenty past nine, some four-dozen passengers moved toward exit doors, their voices echoing through the almost-empty station.

  “Perhaps tomorrow we’ll have opportunity to look for something clean but reasonable in Kensington,” she went on.

  Rosalind smiled, some of the worry leaving her face.

  A man upward of forty advanced, with trim beard, fine clothes, and an intent expression. Charlotte tightened her grip upon her bag and nudged Rosalind’s arm. The best thieves did not look the part.

  He glanced over his shoulder and said softly, “I beg your pardon, ladies, but would you happen to be acquainted with a Mr. John Lockhart from Port Stilwell?”

  Charlotte stared at him, needing a moment to absorb his unexpected appearance.

  Rosalind was quicker. “Mr. Miller?”

  “I am,” he replied.

  “We were to look you up tomorrow,” Charlotte said with recovered composure.

  “Mr. Lockhart telegraphed, asking if I would meet two women, one wearing a veil and a younger with brown hair. I was intrigued. May I ask your names?”

  “He didn’t say?”

  “He wanted as few people as possible to know we were leaving,” Rosalind said, “and he wouldn’t have been able to include your name on a telegram in any case.”

  Rosalind offered her hand to Mr. Miller. “I’m Rosalind Kent, and this is my mother, Charlotte Ward.”

  “Indeed?” He smiled at Charlotte. “What an honor! Mrs. Miller and I were among the audience hissing you in Lady Audley’s Secret.”

  Charlotte offered her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Miller.”

  “My pleasure. May I carry your bags? My coach is outside.”

  He was inviting them to stay in his home, Charlotte realized. “You’re very kind, but we wouldn’t think of imposing.”

  “I beg you to reconsider,” he said. “When my wife learns whom I was to meet, she’ll be gravely disappointed at the missed opportunity to have you stay under our roof.”

  And thus it was that, minutes later, they were crossing Waterloo Bridge in a plush coach behind a team of four horses. The relief over having been met so warmly and not having to find a hotel room so late made Charlotte almost giddy.

  “How did you come to be acquainted with Mr. Lockhart?” she asked with hat and veil in her lap.

>   “We shared a staircase at University College London and became fast friends. I’ve tried to persuade him to join my practice here, but to no avail.”

  His tone became serious. “We have a half-hour ride. Given your identity and that this is the first favor Mr. Lockhart has asked of me, I assume your situation is urgent?”

  Charlotte explained from the beginning, then gave over to Rosalind to recount her meeting with Roger’s solicitor, Mr. Pankhurst.

  Mr. Miller listened with head tilted, the light from gas lamps moving across his face at intervals. “It’s good that you did not delay. I shall visit the office of The Cornhill Magazine in the morning.”

  “Can you stop the story?” Rosalind asked.

  He shook his head. “I’m afraid not. But we’ll threaten a lawsuit for libel if a grain of it is untrue.”

  “A lawsuit.” Charlotte sighed.

  “I realize that theatre people have learned that fighting scandal fans the flames,” he said, “hence, even the most outrageous claims see print. But you already have one falsehood to disprove in a divorce court. You simply cannot afford more.”

  And Danny and Albert cannot afford to go back to where they were, Charlotte thought. There was no guarantee that Mr. Fletcher would stay strong in his family were his reputation ruined.

  “Will they take your threat to heart?” Rosalind asked.

  He fell silent for one, two, three, four shifts of light across his face. The fifth reflected a smile. “I believe they will.”

  The coach turned northward and slowed. Through the left window, Charlotte thought she recognized the dark forms of the trees of Hyde Park, which would mean they were on Park Lane. They rocked to a gentle stop outside a three-storey mansion of ghostly white stone. Seconds later, the coach door was opened by the driver, a young man in livery dress.

  “Mr. Miller, I am certain we cannot afford you,” Charlotte said.

  “Ah, but you can, Mrs. Ward. As I made mention, this is the first favor Mr. Lockhart has ever asked. My assisting you would go toward the great debt I owe to him.”

  “And what debt is that, may I ask?”

  “Few students at university desired to room with the Hebrew fellow.”

  “You’re Jewish?” Rosalind asked.

  “Miller is a common name among us. John Lockhart thought nothing of it and became a fast friend.”

  He motioned toward the open coach door. “Shall we?”

  A housemaid in black and white opened the door. They went from a marble-floored hall with a massive staircase, into a parlor with warm paneled walls. A woman with startlingly short auburn curls put aside her needlepoint canvas and rose from a sofa.

  “And so these are our mystery guests, Mr. Miller? Welcome to our home.”

  Charlotte warmed to her at once. She crossed the carpet and took the proffered hand.

  “Mrs. Miller . . . your husband is a true Galahad.”

  Mrs. Miller nodded. “Always.”

  “I’m pleased to introduce . . .” her husband began.

  His wife touched a finger to her lips and studied Charlotte. “Theatre?”

  “In another life,” Charlotte replied.

  “Are you Charlotte Ward?”

  “I am. I was. And this is my daughter, Rosalind Kent.”

  “Oh my!” Mrs. Miller squeezed her hand, then went over to offer hers to Rosalind. “We must have a long talk about your experiences. There is so much I am keen to know.”

  “Ruth . . .” said her husband. “They’ve traveled a long way.”

  They had indeed, and both were on the waning side of an emotionally draining day. But like her host, Charlotte believed one good turn deserved another.

  “If I may freshen up and see my daughter off to bed, we’ll have our long chat.”

  Mrs. Miller endeared herself even more by shaking her head. “Over breakfast.”

  She rang for a housemaid, who led them upstairs to elegantly appointed bedchambers and offered to run baths. For all her exhaustion, and in spite of a bath and clean sheets, Charlotte tossed and turned, her mind dragging her again and again through the day’s events.

  Too early, someone rubbed her shoulder.

  “Mother? It’s ten o’clock.”

  Charlotte opened her eyes, roused herself from her pillow, and took note of her daughter’s dress and straw hat. “Why didn’t you wake me earlier?”

  “Mrs. Miller forbade it.”

  “What a dear woman. Have you breakfasted?”

  Rosalind smiled. “I have and took a turn through the park. I’ve been invited to look over their library but thought to look after you.”

  Charlotte hurried through her toilette, downstairs, and into the parlor.

  Mrs. Miller brushed aside her apologies and rang for a tray. “I’ve had more time to think of questions to ask.”

  Between bites of the toast and jam and tea, Charlotte answered those questions. Her hostess, as she suspected, had had aspirations toward theatre in younger years.

  “Is Edward Sothern as amusing in person as onstage?” Mrs. Miller asked.

  “Even more so. He has almost a mania for practical jest.”

  The conversation distracted Charlotte from thinking of the trouble at hand. Still, the day crawled. Mr. Miller returned after lunch, when Charlotte, Rosalind, and Mrs. Miller were ensconced in wicker chairs in the luscious garden.

  “They have lost readership to more recent magazines and cannot afford to lose a libel suit,” he informed them. “I gave them to understand that I work closely with Barrister Emil Helsby. He’s well-known for having won the verdict for the defendants in the Peerless Case.”

  All Charlotte recalled of newspaper accounts of that case was that it had to do with shipping.

  “They have agreed to allow you to read Mr. Smith’s story before it is published and will remove anything you perceive as injurious to your reputation.”

  That was good, or at least the best she could hope for.

  “Can we afford Mr. Helsby?”

  Mr. Miller smiled. “He’ll be most reasonable. It is good to have friends. And should there be a divorce trial, he would consider it a privilege to represent you in court.”

  Charlotte breathed a sigh. “I’m so grateful, Mr. Miller.”

  “But there is more,” he went on. “The Fletcher boys are to remain.”

  Voice flat, she said, “Their story isn’t ‘injurious to my reputation.’”

  “Exactly so.”

  “Why is including them so important?” Rosalind asked.

  “Because this is the age of Dickens, may he rest in peace. It tugs upon the heartstrings, the failed actress putting aside her misery to lift them up from abuse. Pardon me for putting it that way, but that’s how the magazine plans to tell it.”

  He leaned forward. “As your attorney, I must advise you that such a story would help your case in a divorce court.”

  “No. They can accuse me of failure and misery if it so pleases, but I’ll not have the boys suffer. Is there anything you can do?”

  “I assumed you would reply so. They’ve offered a compromise. If you’ll pose for a photograph and allow them to publish it, they will omit all reference to the boys’ troubled home life. Only that you struck up a touching friendship with them.”

  This was greatly disappointing but better than the worst she had feared.

  “Will they hold to that?” Charlotte asked.

  “I have it in writing. A lawsuit for breach of contract is more easily won . . . and less sensational . . . than one for libel.”

  “Mother?” Rosalind asked.

  Charlotte’s eyes stung. “I have no choice. But I ask one thing.”

  “And that is?”

  “That we do not see Mr. Smithson throughout this entire process.”

  48

  The tree behind the Bickle cottage sagged with plums. Now that they had regular meals, Danny and Albert did not have to set upon them like locusts. Sweetness was their goal more than sustenance. The
lowest limb, which Danny jumped to bring lower, provided enough fruits to satisfy.

  “Let’s bring some to Miss Shipsey,” he said to Albert while wiping juice from his chin with his sleeve.

  “We haven’t a basket,” Albert said.

  “We can carry them in our arms.”

  “I want to climb.”

  “Very well. I’ll help you up, and you can toss them to me.”

  He gave Albert a boost and was soon catching plums and picking missed ones from the grass. When they had a good number, he helped his brother from the tree. They sat upon the grass and sorted out those with visible wormholes, leaving fourteen with unblemished satiny red skin.

  Albert took a bite of the biggest.

  “Why did you do that?” Danny asked.

  His brother looked apologetic but continued chewing.

  Rather than trust him to carry, Danny took off his shirt and bundled the plums into the cloth.

  “Perhaps she’ll make a pudding and invite us to stay,” Albert said between chews as they set out for Orchard Lane.

  “It’s not Christmas.”

  “But if we ask?”

  “You don’t give a gift and then ask for it to be returned, which would be the same.”

  When their knocks were not answered at the yellow cottage, they went around to the garden. No one. Danny decided they should leave the plums upon the porch.

  “Let’s look for a basket in the hut.”

  The kitchen door opened, and Miss Shipsey exclaimed, “I thought I heard voices! I was upstairs, packing my room.”

  She exclaimed over the fruit and invited them into the kitchen. Everyone was away, she said, but the dairyman had delivered, thus she needed them to help drink the milk before it soured.

  “Where are they?” Danny asked as they stepped inside.

  “Away. As I said.”

  “In the shops?” Albert asked.

  “No,” she replied.

  “Mr. Smith too?”

  “Yes.”

  “When did they leave?”

  “Yesterday. Will you have almond biscuits with your milk?”

  “Yes, please,” Danny said.

  She handed him his shirt. “Then go and wash your hands.”