A Haven on Orchard Lane

by Lawana Blackwell

  When they returned with decidedly cleaner hands, two beakers of milk and a plate of biscuits waited upon the table.

  Danny sat, took a biscuit, and thanked her before taking a nibble.

  Albert shoved two in a row into his mouth and gulped from his beaker. Turning to Miss Shipsey, he said, milk drooling down his chin, “Are they in Exeter?”

  “No. Wait and swallow before you speak, Albert. And do try and keep crumbs from the floor.”

  Miss Shipsey’s pinched expression worried Danny. Had something happened to Mrs. Kent and the others?

  Still, he nudged his brother. “Stop asking questions.”

  “But will Mr. Smith return by Saturday to play rounders?”

  “Mercy!” Miss Shipsey exclaimed. “You do go on and on!”

  Albert ceased chewing. His milky bottom lip began to tremble.

  She stepped closer and put a hand upon his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Albert. I’m just out of sorts. None of your doing.”

  He swiped a hand under his nose and blinked up at her. “You’re not out of sorts. You’re nice.”

  That made her laugh. She patted his shoulder, went around the table, and pulled out a chair. Resting elbows upon the table and leaning forward, she said, “You’re dear boys. I can’t bear the thought of your hopes being crushed. Mr. Smith’s job finished early so he returned home.”

  “He’s gone?” Danny said.

  She mumbled something he did not understand and nodded. “He wasn’t meant to be here forever, remember?”

  “Where does he live?” Albert said.

  “He lives in London.”

  Danny watched his brother wipe his eyes. He did not wish to think ill of Mr. Smith, but it was unkind to up and leave without a good-bye. It left a person empty. Mother had done so, only she had had no choice.

  “Is that where Mrs. Kent and Miss Kent and Mrs. Deamer are?” he asked.

  Miss Shipsey locked eyes with him. “The three of them are not in London. And that’s enough of that.”

  Danny nodded.

  Knocks sounded.

  “Mrs. Kent!” Albert exclaimed.

  “She wouldn’t have to knock,” Danny reminded him.

  Miss Shipsey wore the pinched expression again as she got to her feet. “Finish your milk and biscuits.”

  At the doorway leading to the hall, she looked back at them before closing the door with a decisive click.

  “Something’s wrong,” Danny whispered to Albert.

  Albert stopped chewing again, eyes wide. “Did they die?”

  “No!” Of that, he was certain. Or almost certain. Danny slipped from the chair.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Sh-h-h! Stay put!”

  It was wrong to spy upon Miss Shipsey. But Danny had to have relief from the dread growing inside. He crept across the kitchen to the door and angled his head down so that his ear met the keyhole.

  “—the loveliest pup in the world? I wish I had a treat for you!”

  A man’s voice came next. Mr. Pearce’s, he realized. “I assumed she would have long since returned from her walk. Perhaps I’ll happen upon her on my way back.”

  “Um . . . she’s not in town. She and Mrs. Kent are away.”

  “I see. Are they in Exeter?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Is everything all right, Miss Shipsey? I don’t mean to pry, but I was told it’s important that Mrs. Kent stay close to home.”

  Another silence, then, “They’re in London, Mr. Pearce.”

  Danny thought, London? But Miss Shipsey had said otherwise at the table. He pressed his ear harder.

  “I don’t think she will mind my saying as much,” Miss Shipsey went on, “but only to you. Please keep that to yourself.”

  “Are they in some sort of trouble?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Pearce, but it would be best to come from them.”

  “Have you any idea when they’ll return?”

  “Soon, I should expect. You’ll understand when Miss Kent explains.”

  Another silence fell, and then Mr. Pearce said, “Will you give these rounders gloves to Mr. Smith, then? I’ve misplaced the one I promised, but the Fletcher boys should each have one in any case.”

  Danny’s pulse leapt.

  “How very kind of you,” Miss Shipsey said.

  Wait! Danny thought. Why did Miss Shipsey not say that Mr. Smith was in London as well?

  “And when you see the boys,” Mr. Pearce went on, “do invite them to come round and choose more books.”

  “I shall.”

  Mr. Pearce said then that he must return to his shop. Even from his listening point, Danny recognized disappointment in his voice.

  He crept back to his chair.

  “Who is it?” Albert said.

  “Later. Don’t ask any questions.”

  The door swung open, and Miss Shipsey breezed into the kitchen. “That was Mr. Pearce. He brought these gloves. Wasn’t that lovely?”

  “For us?” Albert said and winced at Danny.

  “But of course!” She laughed and held one up in each hand. Placing the smaller before Albert, she said, “They’re certainly not for me. Will you have more milk?”

  “If you please?” Albert replied.

  “No, thank you,” Danny said, trying on his glove. The leather smelled sharp yet sweet, and it was soft against his skin. He stretched out his fingers and thought he had never owned anything so fine.

  Later, they walked down the lane with full bellies and gloves upon left hands. Danny felt uneasy, relating everything he had heard at the door, but there was no one else in whom he could confide with Mrs. Kent away. Father spoke more nowadays, but he still looked tired around the eyes, and so Danny did not wish to trouble him.

  “Why did she not say to him that we were there?” Albert asked.

  “I don’t know why.”

  “Will they come back? Miss Kent and Mrs. Kent and Mrs. Deamer?”

  “She said that they would.”

  “They must!”

  “Yes.”

  Three or four steps later, Albert turned to him. “We should thank Mr. Pearce. You’re supposed to show gratitude.”

  “I don’t think now is a good time.”

  “But he has more books for us.”

  “That’s why you want to go. Not to thank him.”

  “I want to do both,” Albert said.

  As did Danny. More books would be nice. What else had they to do?

  “As long as you don’t mention what I heard at the door.”

  Mr. Pearce’s dog, Jinny, rose from beneath the bookshop window as they drew close. They crouched beside her on either side and laughed when she licked crumbs from their faces. Mr. Pearce came out.

  “Good afternoon, boys.”

  Danny got to his feet. “Good afternoon, sir. Thank you for the gloves.”

  Mr. Pearce’s brows lifted over a smile. “You’re welcome. But how did you get them so quickly?”

  Danny had not considered that the man would wonder. Stretching his lips, he said, “We’re very quick.”

  “Indeed. Well, come inside, then.”

  Jinny led the way and flopped down before the counter. Mr. Pearce helped them decide upon books: A Great Emergency and From Nowhere to the North Pole for Danny, and Jan of the Windmill and Carrots: Just a Little Boy for Albert.

  “May we bring one to our sister?” Albert asked.

  “You mustn’t ask that,” Danny said.

  “No, I wish I’d thought of it myself.” Mr. Pearce took a wide and thin book from a bottom shelf, Mother Goose Rhymes.

  He was as kind as Mr. Smith. Perhaps kinder. After all, Miss Kent seemed to spend a lot of time with him.

  The knot inside Danny’s chest softened a little.

  “I like the pictures,” Albert said, leafing through the book of rhymes.

  Mr. Pearce nodded. “As do I.”

  The door opened a couple of inches but clicked shut again. Jinny rose and trotted o
ver to wait. A woman was visible from the back as she waved to another woman in the near distance.

  “We must go,” Danny said. He thanked Mr. Pearce and was pleased when his brother did as well.

  Mr. Pearce folded his arms.

  “Say . . . if you play on the green Saturday, ask Mr. Smith to send one of you by. Perhaps I can close shop for an hour or so.”

  “Mr. Smith’s returned to London,” Danny heard himself blurt.

  Mr. Pearce cocked his head. “He has?”

  “You weren’t supposed to say that!” Albert said but added to Mr. Pearce with a catch in his voice, “He’s not coming back!”

  The door opened, and the woman entered. Danny recognized her vaguely; she bought fish at the beach at times. Her brown hair was caught up into a straw hat.

  She smiled at the three of them, stooped to pet Jinny.

  Mr. Pearce said, “Good morning, Mrs. Fallon.”

  “We have to go,” Danny repeated to Albert.

  On the walk home, his brother said, “Why did you say that to him, if Miss Shipsey didn’t want him to know?”

  “I don’t know,” Danny said. “You spoke too.”

  “Only after you did.”

  Albert was right, and there were too many unanswered questions. He had hoped Mr. Pearce, being an adult and friend to Miss Kent, could have sorted them out. But a backward glance on their way through the bookshop had told him that Mr. Pearce was just as baffled.

  49

  A Mr. Crocker arrived just after Thursday breakfast with camera and stand. He was polite and soft-spoken, not attempting to coax a smile from Rosalind’s mother, who sat in a parlor chair with hands clasped, her faraway look unruffled by the powder flash.

  “May I take two more, Mrs. Ward?” the photographer asked, pushing aside his cloth.

  “She agreed to one,” Rosalind said sharply.

  He nodded understanding, and she felt guilty for directing her anger at him.

  “The others are in the event of a developing error,” he explained. “Only one will be used.”

  “As long as it’s the same pose,” Mr. Miller said to Mother, “I can’t see the harm. You wouldn’t wish to sit through this again.”

  “Very well,” Mother said.

  The draft of Mr. Smith’s story was not due to arrive until sometime tomorrow. Over breakfast, Mr. Miller had advised Mother that they should prepare for the eventual claim form. Thus, when Mr. Crocker left, Mr. Miller had notebook and pencil ready.

  “I’ll need a list of your friends in Lincolnshire to start,” he said from the chair adjacent to Mother’s.

  “I had none.”

  “Servants,” Mr. Miller went on. “Tenants. Merchants.”

  “A housemaid, Alma Willis, risked her position to help me.”

  “What of the stableboy?” Rosalind said from the sofa.

  “Yes, I meant to mention him next,” Mother said. “Oswald Green.”

  Mr. Miller penciled into the notebook balanced upon a crossed knee. “Did you have much association with Oswald?”

  “He helped me to escape.”

  The pencil froze.

  “He also contacted The Daily Telegraph to refute the charges Lord Fosberry made in that same newspaper,” Rosalind added.

  “How may we contact him?” Mr. Miller asked.

  “Why, through his employer,” Mother replied. “Mr. Perry, who owns a courier service. He came to my aid as well.”

  “In Spilsby?”

  “No, here in London.”

  Mr. Miller got to his feet. “Excuse me. I must send for my secretary.”

  As he left the parlor, Rosalind’s mother turned to her. “You don’t have to sit through this.”

  “I should be here for you.”

  Mother smiled, shook her head. “I’m fine. It’s a relief, actually, not waiting for another shoe to drop.”

  “I wouldn’t mind a stroll,” Rosalind admitted.

  “Well, then. Off you go.”

  A housemaid directed her to the morning room, where Mrs. Miller sat in an overstuffed chair reading a newspaper. After reporting how the photography session went, Rosalind asked, “Is there a post office nearby?”

  “Oh dear. The nearest is Charing Cross Road, almost a mile and a half. Mr. Miller sent our driver on an errand. Feel free to use carriage and driver when he returns.”

  “Thank you, but I enjoy rambling about. And Mr. Miller may need the carriage again.”

  “Well, you’ll be close to Trafalgar Square. Have you ever been to the National Gallery?”

  “I haven’t.”

  “Oh my. You simply must. Shall I come with you?”

  “You’re very kind, but I shall be fine on my own. Will you explain to Mother if I’m not back for lunch?”

  “But of course. I’ll give you directions. By the by, if you go to the gallery, you’ll want to purchase a keepsake guide. Follow it backward, and you’ll avoid most of the crowd. And there is a tea room around the corner on Orange Street.”

  Rosalind set out southward, passing charming limestone houses in the villa style, with irregular balconies, rotundas, and verandahs for viewing the breadth of Hyde Park, to her right. It was a perfect distance, not only for the exercise. The thought of telegraphing Jude had occurred to her during the photographer’s visit, and thus she needed time to consider whether or not she should.

  They were not engaged. Would accounting for her absence be presumptuous?

  But what if he discovered she and Mr. Smith were away at the same time? That had not occurred to her during the rush to leave Port Stilwell. What if he assumed the worst? After all, his former fiancée’s change of heart had come out of the blue.

  You can explain when you return, she said to herself. Jude was reasonable. He would understand. It would be a relief to have nothing more to conceal from the man she loved.

  She sighed happily. She had assumed love was breathless, the overwhelming stuff of novels. Instead, she simply wished he were walking here beside her.

  By the time she reached the stone cross on Charing Cross Road, Rosalind had her answer. They were not schoolchildren. If Jude should think her presumptuous for not wishing to cause him worry, she had his character all wrong, and it would be good to find that out.

  She entered the post office. Could she say what she must in one line? One line, which would be read by at least one other on the receiving end?

  The solution came to her.

  “I would like to send a telegram to Mr. Lockhart in Port Stilwell,” she said to a young male clerk.

  Please explain all to Mr. Pearce.

  Rosalind paid the sixpence admittance in the entrance hall of the Grecian-style building on the north end of Trafalgar Square, and paid another sixpence for The Pall Mall Gazette Guide to the National Gallery. She started in the glass-domed vestibule of the main staircase, with its large paintings of the British school, but then moved on as advised to room 22 and its collection by J. M. W. Turner. In general, there were more and more visitors in each room as she went down the numbers, but she was able to see every painting with little hindrance.

  Her stomach sent up growls at half past three as she left the Florentine School in room 1. She easily found Mrs. Northey’s Tea Room and smiled at the waitress’s raised brows when she ordered two watercress sandwiches, two honey cakes, and tea.

  This is London. She’ll forget me before the top of the hour.

  Another thought occurred, albeit one most reluctant. Had Noble Clark procured employment?

  None of my concern.

  But it was. Mother would ask when this business with the magazine was over. And they were rather in his debt.

  Her meal finished, she returned to the square, to a hansom cab stand she had passed, and asked the driver, “How far away is the Lyceum?”

  He doffed his cap. “But a half mile, miss.”

  Half a mile was an easy stroll, even a London half mile. But that would put her two miles from the Millers’, and she had bee
n away far too long as it was. She asked the driver to take her there.

  As the horse clip-clopped up Wellington Street, she spotted a familiar head of flaxen hair sweeping beneath the Lyceum’s six-columned portico. She had her answer and was tempted to call to the driver to carry on. But what if Mr. Clark were to hear as well, look up, and see her? She sighed, waited for the hansom to stop, and stepped down onto the pavement.

  “Please wait,” she said to the driver. “Mr. Clark?”

  The broom went still, and he turned his face toward her. His amber eyes widened. “Miss Kent?”

  “I see you were hired.”

  His face was flushed, whether from the work or embarrassment or both. “It’s my first day, actually. Why are you here?”

  “Mother has some business with a solicitor.”

  He nodded at the broom in his hands. “Until I can find a part onstage. I was anxious in Exeter but am much better now. I’ve been practicing my vocals.”

  “Very good.”

  “Please say to Mrs. Kent that they’ve offered me a room above stage. It’s got but a cot and pegs on the wall, but I don’t have to pay rent.”

  “She’ll be happy for you.” Rosalind smiled and offered her hand. “And I’ll leave you to your work. Wouldn’t want to cause you to get sacked on your first day.”

  He said thickly, “It’s good to see a familiar face, Miss Kent.”

  She was glad then that she had stopped. She turned again for the cab.

  “Oh, Miss Kent?”

  She turned again.

  “Mr. Irving asked your mother’s address yesterday. I didn’t see the harm in giving it. He said someone had sent a letter days ago, but he didn’t know where to forward it.”

  Rosalind groaned inwardly. More Lord Fosberry threats? “Did he mention the return address?”

  “He didn’t. But you could ask. He’s in the office.”

  She followed him through an arched doorway, a poster to the right announcing the latest production, The Bells: A Drama in Three Acts.

  In the office, Mr. Irving rose from his desk chair to clasp her hands.

  “Why, Miss Kent. How good to see you again. Is your mother here as well?”

  “She is not. But she will be as grateful as I am that you hired Mr. Clark.”

  “Mr. Clark arrived at a good time,” Mr. Irving said, “as Mr. Rook decided to retire.”