A Haven on Orchard Lane

by Lawana Blackwell

  “Mr. Clark said that a letter arrived for Mother? Do you remember from where it came?”

  He went over to another desk, fished into a basket, and drew out an envelope. “It’s not yet been posted.”

  Her stomach churned at the sight of the Lincolnshire return address. Still, she thanked him.

  “Please give your mother my regards,” he said.

  On the steps again, she bade another farewell to Noble Clark.

  “I hope your dreams come true.”

  He smiled. “There is nowhere to go but upward, yes?”

  The maid who answered the Millers’ door directed Rosalind to the garden, where Mother and the Millers sat at a table set for high tea.

  “Why, you’re just in time,” Mrs. Miller said as her husband got to his feet. “We have your place here.”

  Rosalind thanked both and explained that she was not hungry, though she did accept tea from Mrs. Miller and a sponge cake Mr. Miller proffered.

  “Did you enjoy the gallery?” her mother asked.

  “Very much so. Apart from Da Vinci, I had no idea how many artists were also mathematicians.” She stirred sugar into her tea. “Did you locate Oswald Green?”

  “He left two hours ago,” Mother said. “It was good to see him.”

  “His testimony will be invaluable,” Mr. Miller said. “If we should have to call upon him.”

  “I hope so.” Rosalind pulled the envelope from her pocket. “Because I fear that we may.”

  50

  The return address gave Charlotte a start, but the handwriting was not Roger’s pretentious script. She took a steadying breath and opened the envelope.

  Dear Lady Fosberry,

  Do you remember me? I am Alma, upstairs maid.

  Alma. Had Roger found out that she had helped her?

  Charlotte read on.

  We miss you. Even Mrs. Trinder speaks well of you now, with Lord Fosberry gone nigh three weeks. It was wrong of me, but I listened to him and Lady Blake easy through the grate from the parlor. She could no longer live with her conscience, said she, and would not marry him. He begged her to change her mind. I heard weeping. In the end, she said the only way would be for him to live six months in Sweden, after which he may divorce you without a trial.

  The page trembled in Charlotte’s hands.

  “Can you keep it still, Mother?” Rosalind said, leaning against her shoulder.

  “Does this relate to your case?” Mr. Miller said.

  Charlotte took a breath. “It does.”

  I hope you will not mind Lady Blake marrying Lord Fosberry afterward. She is most kind. She pays our wages to keep up the house and grounds. Even Jack Boswell seems content these days. I hear him whistling in the hall. It was him who urged me to write to you. He said, only to me, that when Lord Fosberry was in his cups, he declared he would not honor his word to relay to you that there would be no trial.

  How typical of Roger to want to keep her in torment! How did a person go through life with such a streak of petty spite?

  There is more, Lady Fosberry. Jack said that his lordship refers to you as a word I must not write. I only inform you of this now if ever you suffer any regret over leaving.

  Charlotte thought, Only that I waited so long.

  “Mrs. Blake has to be insane,” Rosalind muttered.

  “There were some obvious eccentricities,” Charlotte said. “But I’m grateful to her.”

  “To whom?” Mr. Miller said.

  Charlotte nodded and hurried through the final paragraph, which expressed Alma’s best wishes.

  “May God bless you too, Alma,” Charlotte murmured, passing the letter across the table to Mr. Miller.

  After reading, he lowered the page and smiled. “This is quite extraordinary.”

  His wife stared down at her teacup with an expression of curiosity and acceptance.

  “Please, you may see it as well, Mrs. Miller,” Charlotte said. “You’ve been most gracious. And there is too much good news here for three people to contain.”

  “I quite pity this Mrs. Blake,” Mrs. Miller said when finished. “Should you not write to her and warn her?”

  “She should not,” Mr. Miller said before Charlotte could even consider this. “That she was aware of his original plan shows a willingness to overlook his character failings. A letter from you will not change her mind.”

  Charlotte felt selfish relief. She could not imagine the revenge Roger could concoct were she to break up his engagement. And perhaps he would treat Mrs. Blake well, given her vast wealth.

  Mr. Miller clapped his hands. “We must celebrate! Dinner at Verrey’s!”

  The wave of euphoria gave way to heaviness of heart, and Charlotte found herself asking, “May we not? Or rather, will you go without me?”

  “But of course,” Mr. Miller said.

  “We’ll stay in,” said his wife, who turned to Charlotte. “Are you unwell, Mrs. Ward?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not ready for London.” But there was more to it.

  Rosalind studied her. “You should turn in early tonight, Mother. You’ve had an exhausting two days.”

  Charlotte did not argue.

  Cocooned in bedclothes that evening, she thought of her two failed marriages.

  Would have been three, perhaps, had Patrick lived.

  She had read Scripture enough to know that God did not desire broken marriages. Her failure, she realized, was in not taking the vows seriously. For allowing infatuation, loneliness, ego, and the desire to be as her peers to propel her into hasty unions. Did not the gospel of Luke admonish those who chose to build a wall to count the cost beforehand? Could marriage be likened to a wall?

  She shifted from the sodden part of her pillow and wiped her eyes with her fingers.

  And yet, in spite of my failures, Father, she prayed, swallowing past the lump in her throat, you’ve killed the fatted calf for me.

  The following morning, Mr. Miller returned to work in his office. Mrs. Miller went the second mile by insisting upon showing Rosalind some of the London sights. Assuring both that she did not mind the solitude, Charlotte spent most of the day in the garden, reading the three newspapers the Millers took, and simply meditating. As painful as her latest London memories were, she did enjoy the sounds of the park and the aroma of plane trees in summer leaf.

  Rosalind and Mrs. Miller returned just before six. Charlotte joined them in the parlor, where they described tours of the South Kensington Museum, including its new India Museum. Mr. Miller arrived soon afterward.

  “You will be pleased,” he said, handing her four typed pages.

  Mr. Smithson’s article was surprisingly fair. Almost to the point of boredom. He wrote of her day-to-day goings-on in the house, from gardening to reading to playing piano to chess to conversing over dinner.

  The boys were portrayed as overactive lads who appeared on her doorstep when the youngest suffered an injury on his way to school. Three sentences were devoted to her reading to them, teaching them gardening.

  “Surely Mrs. Fletcher will not take issue,” she said.

  Mrs. Hooper would, however, for he labeled her the town gossip, with ears raised to hear any scrap of scandal she could pass on.

  “That was unkind.”

  “Balaam’s ass spoke the truth too,” Rosalind muttered.

  “Rosalind!” Charlotte said, stifling a laugh.

  She continued reading aloud. Three entire paragraphs described how Mr. Smithson taught Danny and Albert to play rounders, along with every other town boy.

  “What an egotist,” Rosalind said.

  “He kept his word, though,” Charlotte said. “Perhaps there is some decency in him after all.”

  “He was constrained to keep his publisher’s word, rather,” Mr. Miller reminded her.

  “Still, if not for him, we would not have the letter from Alma. Like Joseph’s brothers’ ill deed, good came from it.”

  “You are far too charitable, Mother,” Rosalind said, tho
ugh with an affectionate smile.

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not.” Charlotte read aloud the article’s final paragraph.

  “We parted ways most amicably, with my stating my wish to see her on the London stage again one day. ‘I am too happy here in Port Stilwell’ was Mrs. Ward’s quick reply. And why should she not be? She has her garden, her lovely daughter, the affection of two boys, and the culinary delights of Coral Shipsey, the most skilled pastry cook in Devonshire.”

  51

  Mr. Lockhart met Charlotte and Rosalind at Port Stilwell Station the following afternoon.

  “Mr. Miller telegraphed,” he explained. “Arrive 2:30, all well. I cannot wait to hear the rest.”

  He was forced to wait because of five others upon the platform, but only until they were settled into his carriage.

  “Splendid!” he said, after handing Alma’s letter back to Charlotte. “But do save this. If he were to change his mind, you have some proof there of his intent.”

  That put a small damper on Charlotte’s mood. “I shall.”

  Rosalind frowned. “If he changes his mind, Lady Blake will break their engagement, and he won’t have the funds to bring her to court.”

  “Yes, of course, Miss Kent,” he said. “But save the letter.”

  He either resented Rosalind’s intrusion upon his instructions, or was simply weary, for he drove in near silence, shoulders hunched, not bothering to ask of their trip, nor of the health of his dear friend.

  At the cottage, he helped them down from the carriage, removed his bowler hat to mop his brow with his handkerchief, and turned to Rosalind.

  “There is other news.”

  “Yes?”

  “When I received your telegram, I went straightaway to Mr. Pearce’s shop, only to find a note in the door that it would be closed for an indeterminate amount of time. I saw Mrs. Hooper walking with his dog some time later and asked his whereabouts. She replied that he had left for India on the previous afternoon.”

  Rosalind blinked at him. “India?”

  “By way of Bristol, I would suppose.”

  “Oh dear,” Charlotte said.

  The door opened, and Mrs. Deamer stepped onto the porch, as grim faced as Mr. Lockhart. Charlotte shook her head, and Mrs. Deamer stepped back into the house.

  “Are you quite certain, Mr. Lockhart?” Charlotte asked.

  “Quite certain. Mrs. Hooper said . . .”

  He mopped his brow again.

  “What did she say, Mr. Lockhart?” Rosalind pressed.

  “That his heart was broken from Miss Kent chasing after Mr. Smith.”

  “That woman!” Charlotte hissed.

  Rosalind’s face went pasty white. “I should have asked you to speak with him before we left.”

  “I’m very sorry, Miss Kent. Perhaps he’ll regret his hastiness and return before the ship sails.”

  “He may indeed, Rosalind,” Charlotte said, one hand upon her shoulder.

  “No. Thanks to Phoebe Drummer, he won’t.”

  “Coral blames herself,” Mrs. Deamer said in the kitchen. “She informed Mr. Pearce that you were in London.”

  “Without saying why?” Rosalind asked Coral, seated at the worktable, her face buried in her arms.

  She raised her pink and damp-eyed face. “I said that you would return soon and explain. But I didn’t let on that Mr. Smith was there. I allowed him to believe he was still here.”

  “Mrs. Hooper must have informed him,” Mrs. Deamer said. “According to her, Mr. Smith sent word through the stationmaster that he would post the remainder of his rent from London. She’s been here twice, demanding to know what we did to drive away such a wonderful man.”

  “She’ll not think so kindly of him when his story is printed,” Charlotte said as she wrapped an arm around her quietly weeping daughter.

  “Mrs. Deamer, will you draw a bath? And, Coral, please bring some warm milk upstairs.”

  Later, when Rosalind lay upon her pillow, Charlotte brushed her damp hair from her forehead with her fingers.

  “My fault,” Rosalind rasped. “I praised Mr. Smithson in his hearing.”

  “Not your fault,” Charlotte soothed. “Are we to point out the good deeds of women only?”

  “But I can’t recall praising Jude for his.”

  “I’m sure you did.”

  Her daughter blew her nose. “I ache all over.”

  “Yes, there is no feeling like it.” Charlotte sniffed, tears fresh in her own eyes. “You poor darling.”

  “He has to come back sometime. His shop . . . Jinny.”

  “I expect he’ll return.”

  “He must allow me to explain.”

  “Yes.” Charlotte rubbed her shoulder.

  An hour later, when she was certain Rosalind was asleep, Charlotte slipped from the bedroom and went downstairs. She eased into a parlor chair, hip aching from lying so long propped upon an elbow.

  Mrs. Deamer entered. “How is she?”

  Charlotte shook her head. “Will you sit for a while?”

  “Of course.” Mrs. Deamer took the paisley chair.

  “Did Albert and Danny come today?”

  “They did. We read together, they weeded the garden, and Coral fed them. But we were worried for you, and our hearts were heavy over what we learned of Mr. Pearce. We sent them home soon after lunch. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “I feel so sorry for her.”

  With a sigh, Charlotte said, “I should have urged her to tell Mr. Pearce my background as soon as I realized they were serious.”

  “I don’t know. I was stunned that he would react in such haste. He seemed to be of such steady temperament.”

  “I thought so as well.” Charlotte shook her head. “Reasonable people speak to each other. Is a man who would stalk away under a presumption one she would wish to have in her life? What of later misunderstandings?”

  “I hate to say it . . . but perhaps Mr. Smithson brought on a blessing in disguise?”

  Charlotte had to smile. “More than one, actually.”

  Upstairs, she told her of the letter.

  “Incredible!” Mrs. Deamer said. “You’ll not have to hide anymore.”

  “I shall become a fixture in town.”

  “But what of future reporters?”

  “Mr. Smith’s article proved that I’m dull as dishwater.”

  Mrs. Deamer clucked her tongue. “Not so!”

  “Well, they’re not likely to come just to report that I still play piano in the parlor. And he praised Coral’s baking skills in his article to be published. I should expect she’ll not be working for Mrs. Hooper for much longer.”

  “Sadly for us; happily for her.”

  “Is she all right?” Charlotte asked.

  She tilted her head. “Time will heal.”

  “I hope.” Charlotte paused, said carefully, “And how were your visits to your husband and brother?”

  “The same. One belligerent; one contrite.”

  “Ah. I’m sorry. We have all had an emotional week.”

  “Indeed,” Mrs. Deamer said. “We should stay indoors tomorrow, lest a meteor drop upon us.”

  “I would chance that to go to church,” Charlotte said. “It’s been a long time. But I shan’t leave Rosalind alone. She may seek out that meteor.”

  52

  “Please go,” Rosalind said from her bed as her mother propped the breakfast tray upon its legs on either side of her. “All of you.”

  “I’ll not leave you.”

  Fresh tears stung her eyes. She fished a wadded handkerchief from beneath her pillow and blew her nose. “I need to be alone, Mother.”

  Answering questions, even hearing voices through the walls, agitated her senses. She wished simply for quiet, to curl up under the bedclothes and sleep.

  Mother went over to the chest of drawers, brought back a fresh handkerchief from the top drawer, and handed it to her.

  “Only if you’ll e
at, then.”

  The smell of the bacon made her queasy, but Rosalind forced down half the coddled eggs, a bite of toast, and the cup of tea while her mother watched.

  She set the cup back upon its saucer. “No more.”

  “Very well.” Mother moved the tray and set it upon the foot of the bed. “Now to dress.”

  “I’m not going to church,” Rosalind reminded her.

  “But you must wash your face. Brush your teeth and hair. And go downstairs. Staying in bed in your nightclothes will only feed the despondency. I know this.”

  Rosalind had not the strength to dress, but she had less to argue. The sooner she complied, the sooner her mother would leave her to her own misery.

  Swollen eyes stared back at her in the bathroom mirror and stung when she pressed the wet cloth to them. When she returned to her room, her mother was taking from the wardrobe the yellow calico Rosalind had purchased in Exeter.

  “That’s not a housedress,” Rosalind said.

  “Today it is,” her mother said. “Yellow is the most cheerful color.”

  She sighed and allowed herself to be bullied still more.

  From the parlor sofa, she responded with a nod to the subdued farewells of Mother, Mrs. Deamer, and Coral.

  Coral hesitated at the door, dark circles under her eyes. “You won’t know I’m here unless you need me . . .”

  Rosalind shook her head and watched her turn with defeated posture.

  “Coral?”

  She turned.

  “But thank you for offering.”

  Coral gave her a grateful little smile.

  The sounds of footfalls against the porch and the steps drifted through the open windows, along with murmurings at the gate. Then silence, but for the clock’s ticking and birdsong.

  Where is your ship now, Jude? Will you look up at the stars at night and think of me at all?

  Five weeks to reach India, and the same to return. He would spend at least that much time there, would he not? Perhaps he would meet an Indian woman.

  Tears burned her eyes again. She blew her nose.

  Rosalind heard the squeak of the gate. Footfalls again. Knocking.