A Haven on Orchard Lane

by Lawana Blackwell

  Mother and the others had left but twenty minutes ago. Had someone forgotten something? But none would knock.

  More knocks sounded, followed by three distinctive barks.

  Her heartbeat quickened. She started to rise but sank back into her chair.

  Mrs. Hooper!

  The desire to feel a connection to Jude by seeing Jinny was strong, but not as strong as the desire not to see Mrs. Hooper. Go away, go away, go away! she thought to the clock’s rhythm.

  “Rosalind?”

  She cocked her head at the muffled but familiar voice.

  What did Coral put into my tea?

  “Please, Rosalind?”

  She crossed the room into the hall and opened the front door.

  To the sight of Jude! Grinning at her!

  She fell into his arms. Or did he fall into hers? It mattered little. All her worries fled in the face of his embrace while Jinny yipped happily.

  “I thought you were on your way to India,” she said against his shoulder.

  “Mrs. Hooper’s doing,” he said. “When I asked her to keep Jinny, I did not wish her to know my affairs, so I said I had a personal matter to attend. But she had seen travel literature on my counter some days ago and assumed so.”

  “Where did you go, then?”

  “To London . . . to look for you.”

  She stepped back from him. “You were in London?”

  “May I explain in the garden?” he said. “I left Jinny so abruptly that she needs to stay close.”

  Rosalind knelt down to stroke her furry back. “I understand, Jinny.”

  They shared a bench, holding hands, Jinny resting her snout upon Jude’s boot.

  “When I learned you were in London . . .”

  “From Coral.”

  He winced. “I was most persistent.”

  “I’m not angry with her,” Rosalind assured him, then confessed, “I was.”

  “When I learned that Mr. Smith was also there, I feared you realized some attachment to him.”

  “That’s why you went? To try and persuade me to change my mind?”

  He shook his head. “I was devastated but would not dare to presume to ask you to change your mind. Your mind is your own.”

  Hearing this made her appreciate him all the more. “How did you learn he was there?”

  “I’m not at liberty to share that. Do you mind? It was not from Miss Shipsey.”

  “Very well.”

  He squeezed her hand and said that, shortly after hearing Mr. Smith’s whereabouts, he assisted Mrs. Fallon from the Sea Gull Inn.

  “Mr. Smith was constantly in my thoughts. I asked if she recalled his staying. She recalled very well, but for one night and with no complaint over the noise.”

  “That’s not what he said to us. How naïve of him not to realize that word would have gotten out eventually.”

  “Perhaps this was his first experience with small-town life,” Jude said, then went on. “I had learned of another misrepresentation from him and was concerned that he might be connected with your mother’s need for seclusion, if you were in some danger.”

  After a sleepless night, he said, he went to London the very next morning. He stayed at the Langham and haunted the entrance and restaurant for three days.

  “And then I gave up and came home last night,” he said, “only to happen upon your mother outside Saint Paul’s this morning, with Mrs. Deamer and Miss Shipsey. She explained what led you both to go to London. She was an actress? Somehow, I am not surprised.”

  “She has that way about her,” Rosalind said.

  “She urged me to come here straightaway, that she believed God would understand.”

  “I believe so too. By the by, her name is actually Mrs. Ward.”

  “Mrs. Ward. I shall try to remember.”

  “And Mr. Smith’s is actually Smithson.”

  “I may forget that one,” he said and leaned in for a kiss.

  53

  Rosalind and Mr. Pearce and Jinny came around from the garden when Charlotte, Mrs. Deamer, and Coral returned from St. Paul’s.

  Jinny, being no one’s fool, trotted directly to Coral.

  Charlotte laughed with the others. How happy her daughter looked! Such a far cry from this morning!

  “Will you stay for lunch?” she asked Mr. Pearce, who looked every bit as happy.

  Over a plate of fried sole, peas, and potatoes, he described his stay in London. “I never ventured from the Langham, truth be told. The lift was an adventure. I could have ridden up and down all day were it not for my quest to keep a lookout in the lobby.”

  “That was terribly kind of you,” Charlotte said. “I’m amazed at how everything sorted out so.”

  “But I’m not sure how to address you now,” Mr. Pearce said. “Rosalind said your name is ‘Ward.’ Will you return to that?”

  “I have already in London. It’s my family name, so I’m happy to have it again. And Rosalind doesn’t mind.”

  Her daughter smiled and shook her head.

  Charlotte smiled back. She’s not likely to keep Kent for very long either.

  “But you didn’t learn who put Mr. Smith on to you?” Mr. Pearce asked.

  “I don’t suppose it matters now.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know, Mother?” Rosalind asked. “For curiosity’s sake, if nothing more?”

  Charlotte thought this over. “Yes. For curiosity’s sake.”

  The Congregationalist minister from Seaton, a Mr. Povey, concluded Paulina Moore’s funeral a fortnight later with a Scripture from the Psalmist. “‘Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.’”

  It seemed most of Port Stilwell was at Saint Paul’s. Several men, including Jude, stood in the back to allow pews to women and the elderly.

  After the burial and closing prayer in the churchyard, Charlotte and Mrs. Deamer, Rosalind and Jude, and Coral stood in a queue to pay their respects to Mr. Moore.

  “I wish I could have known her,” Charlotte said to him when her turn came.

  “Thank you for saying that,” he said with a sad smile.

  Mrs. Fletcher answered Charlotte’s knock the following morning, carrying a blond-haired tot.

  “This is Teresa?” Charlotte said. “What an adorable little girl.”

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Fletcher said with a begrudging smile.

  “May I speak with you and Mr. Fletcher?”

  Her smile tightened into wariness. “Why?”

  “May I explain just the once?”

  She was led into the kitchen, where Mr. Fletcher looked up from coffee and newspaper with a concerned expression. Danny and Albert gave her cautious looks.

  Charlotte understood. As a rule, those who mistreated others were insanely jealous of their victims’ affections.

  “Do you think the boys could go outside?”

  Relief flooded their young faces, and at the nod from their father, they sprinted through the kitchen door.

  “But why are my sons news?” Mr. Fletcher asked when Charlotte informed them of the upcoming story.

  “Because I was once an actress, Mr. Smithson chose to write of my life here. The boys are mentioned but briefly, as visitors to the cottage.”

  Mr. Fletcher shook his head, as if to help his mind absorb it all. “It does not mention me, nor Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “Not at all,” Charlotte said.

  “Still, I would rather it were not in print.”

  Charlotte nodded. “As would I. My solicitor fought to suppress this.”

  Mrs. Fletcher hefted the child higher up on her hip. “We could reconsider if the reporter agrees to add something of Teresa.”

  Her husband gave her a pained look.

  “It’s only fair,” she whined.

  Can you be any more ignorant? Charlotte thought. “I am truly sorry. It’s quite set in stone. And I hope it doesn’t predispose you against the request I’m about to make.”

  She asked if the boys could come o
ver six days weekly until the start of school. “The garden demands lots of attention during the summer.”

  “And how much more are you willing to pay?” Mrs. Fletcher said.

  “Not a penny more, Sabrina,” said her husband, adding to Charlotte, “We’ll call them in and ask. But I should think they would be delighted.”

  On Wednesday, the twenty-seventh of July, Rosalind brought The Cornhill Magazine from pillar-box to parlor and looked on as Charlotte read to Danny and Albert the portion having to do with them.

  “Are we famous?” Albert asked.

  “A wee bit,” Charlotte replied. “But you must not let it go to your head.”

  He looked askew at her.

  “Become a snob,” Rosalind explained. “Think yourself better than others.”

  Danny looked at the article again. “But Mr. Smith didn’t play rounders with us every day.”

  Rosalind coughed.

  “I suppose he remembers differently,” Charlotte said, giving her daughter a warning look.

  Port Stilwell residents went about their business after the article, save Mrs. Hooper, who called at the cottage on Friday afternoon after the boys had left for home.

  “You were an actress!” she gushed in the hall. “You know, I had an inkling.”

  “Did you?” Charlotte said.

  “I’m extremely disappointed in Mr. Smith . . . son,” she said with a frown. “To libel me so, when I provided respite from his desperate situation!”

  “You can’t always know what goes on in someone’s mind.”

  “Indeed!” Mrs. Hooper excused herself and went then into the kitchen and, according to Coral later, raised her wages thirteen shillings per month.

  “And she insisted upon my having tomorrow off,” Coral said while bringing a dish of crimped salmon and caper sauce into the dining room for supper. “She’ll send over restaurant meals.”

  “How will you spend the day?” Mrs. Deamer asked. “Visit your family?”

  Coral shook her head. “Show Mr. Smith’s article to restaurants and bakeries in Exeter.”

  “Clever girl, you!” Rosalind said.

  “Why, thank you, Miss Kent. But is that wrong? To take advantage of her giving me the day?”

  “Did she ask you not to seek employment in Exeter?” Rosalind asked.

  “She did not.”

  “Then the day is yours to do as you please.” Charlotte took a sip of tea. “It is truly an ill wind which blows no good.”

  Charlotte answered the door on Saturday morning, expecting Danny and Albert, but finding instead Mr. Moore clutching his hat, mourning band around his coat sleeve.

  “Mr. Moore?” she said. “Do come in.”

  “May we speak out here?” he said. “It’s rather private.”

  “But of course.” She stepped onto the porch. “How are you?”

  His face clouded. “I thought I was prepared, but it’s more difficult than I imagined.”

  “I’m so sorry. How may we help you?”

  His shoulders rose, then fell. “You can forgive me . . . if you’ve a mind to. I have wronged you greatly, Mrs. Ward.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  He glanced away. “I recognized you at first sight. I was assigned to Marylebone for six years, and Mrs. Moore and I went often to the theatre. But when you introduced yourself as Mrs. Kent, I assumed you desired privacy after . . .”

  “You read of my breakdown,” Charlotte said to make it easier for him.

  “Paulina so enjoyed news of the theatre. I knew she would be delighted to learn you had chosen Port Stilwell as your haven.”

  “I had not asked you to keep confidence,” Charlotte reminded him.

  “That is so, but it was implied when you introduced yourself.”

  “If it gave her some joy, I’m glad you shared that with her.”

  “There is more,” he said. “By the time her brother and his wife visited, she was delirious from laudanum and imparted that information. I asked both to keep this in strictest confidence. But when I saw the article in The Cornhill Magazine, I noticed that the author’s name, Smithson, is the maiden name of Paulina’s sister-in-law. I feel this was no coincidence. And I fear this has caused you undue harm.”

  Charlotte needed a moment to absorb this information, and then said, “Far from it, Mr. Moore. You will be comforted to learn what a marvelous gift your wife gave to me.”

  54

  “Multiplying by two-digit numbers is not as difficult as it appears,” Rosalind said on Friday, the fifteenth of October, while chalking 23 x 871 upon the blackboard.

  She turned and faced thirty dubious looks from nine- and ten-year-old faces.

  “How many of you know how to add?”

  All hands rose.

  “And how to carry?”

  Hands went up again.

  “But of course you do!” She smiled. “We shall simply combine adding with multiplying, one step at a time. Why, you’ll soon be able to do this in your sleep.”

  Her students laughed.

  Rosalind taught mathematics first subject of the day, when the children’s minds were fresh, then went on to grammar, her least favorite, while hers was somewhat fresh. But she worked just as hard to make it interesting.

  At lunch recess, she held the door and watched her students carry their pails down the steps. By calling back offenders to spend recess at their desks, it had taken her but a fortnight to train them not to bolt like cattle.

  Teaching younger boys and girls of fishermen and shopkeepers and quarry workers was vastly different from teaching older girls from the upper class. But Rosalind had learned from Miss Beale the keys to discipline: preparedness and consistency. The rewards were great. She was learning family connections and finding her own place in Port Stilwell’s community.

  Danny Fletcher sent her a wave from a group of schoolmates. She returned his wave, happy to see how sociable he was becoming. She gave Jude much credit for that, with his Saturday afternoon rounders games on the green. The solution he found for keeping his shop open was simple. Young Amos White was quite competent and delighted to earn extra wages. It mattered little to Jude that the occasional fish scale turned up upon a shelf or in the money box. This was a fishing village, after all.

  On the seventeenth of October, Jude came to lunch after church. Mrs. Meeks, the new cook, served a decent grouse pie with turnips and mushrooms. Forty-three years old and widowed, with children and grandchildren in town, she was unlikely to leave for some hoity-toity restaurant in Exeter, as Mrs. Hooper had stated so eloquently of Coral Shipsey.

  “Anyone care for a game of Twenty Questions after dessert?” Mother asked as Mrs. Deamer brought a compote of apples into the dining room.

  “I was hoping Rosalind would go for a walk,” Jude said.

  “You were?” Rosalind teased. “Have I offended you?”

  He mugged a face at her. “A walk with me.”

  “You know that’s not possible.” The six members of the school board had made it clear when they hired her that unmarried women teachers were to be chaperoned when appearing in public in the company of any non-family male. Not fair, considering how Noble Clark had courted with impunity, but her only choices were to teach, or to sit home and complain over the rules.

  She had had a third choice, actually: Miss Beale had asked her to return to Cheltenham. Her mother was becoming involved in the community, was even on the committee to plan the Christmas pantomime. But Rosalind no longer wished to live with one foot in one life and another here.

  Jude, with whom she would love to be sitting in the garden, unchaperoned, had much to do with that decision.

  “Shall I come with you?” Mrs. Deamer asked.

  Jude thanked her, and they set out later, Jinny exploring ahead, Mrs. Deamer in the middle so there would be not even a hint of impropriety. They made small talk until Jude came to a halt at the Bickle cottage.

  “Mrs. Bickle’s son desires to sell. But I’d like your op
inion.”

  Rosalind eyed the crumbling stones, rotting wood, and weed-choked garden. “Whatever would you do with it?”

  “Have it torn down and build another using the same stones, plus more from the quarry to make it larger. It’s in a good spot, close to the shop and school. The garden is well shaded and could be lovely.”

  Close to the school . . .

  “You should show her the garden,” Mrs. Deamer said. “I’ll wait.”

  Rosalind gave her a suspicious look. What whispered conversation had occurred when she answered Jude’s knock? But Mrs. Deamer gave her a benign smile.

  She glanced about. Cottagers were at Sunday dinner or resting. Apart from Mrs. Deamer, there were no witnesses to their picking their way through calf-high weeds with Jinny in the lead.

  The garden was bigger than Rosalind would have supposed, surrounded by a lichen-covered wall crumbling in spots. The earth was packed and scattered with yellow leaves from a decent-sized plum tree. Beneath it, Jude smiled, took her hand, and got upon one knee.

  “Jude?” She had known this moment was inevitable, but still, her heart raced.

  Jinny trotted over with leaves clinging to her coat and nudged his free hand.

  He laughed and rested that hand upon his dog’s head. “Will you marry us, Rosalind?”

  She smiled, took a breath. “I will, Jude.”

  “Thank you, my darling. You’ve made me a happy man.”

  Getting to his feet, he removed his eyeglasses and kissed her, Jinny barking her approval.

  Rosalind closed her eyes and relished being in his arms.

  Thank you, Father. Thank you for nosebleeds and good men . . . and second opportunities.

  At length, Jude stepped back and reached into his waistcoat pocket. The ring he brought out was gold, with an oval amethyst stone surrounded by seed pearls.

  “I’ve wanted to show this to you since you first smiled at me with those half-moon eyes. My grandfather bought it in Bombay for my grandmother. She would have loved you. But if you would prefer a new one . . .”

  “No. It’s beautiful.” She allowed him to slip it onto her third finger, at least to the second knuckle. “Oh dear. She had small hands.”