Another voice saved her the trouble.
“Ladies, ladies!”
Her mother stepped into view. The two young women silenced themselves, though even from one storey above, Rosalind could see the tension in their postures.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Kent,” Amy said, lowering her head.
“I’m sorry as well,” said Coral. “Will you speak to Mrs. Hooper?”
“Of course not,” Mother said. “Although it’s a wonder everyone in town did not hear you. This young man . . . has he mentioned marriage?”
“Yes!” both chorused, then gave each other hard stares.
“Indeed? For how long has he held out hope to the both of you?”
“Nigh two years,” Amy said after a moment.
“Because she won’t leave him be!” Coral said with hands upon hips.
“I didn’t force him to stop by Mum’s!” Amy shot back. “And he says I’m prettier than you!”
“He said your ears stick out like coach doors!”
“Young ladies!” Rosalind’s mother interjected. “I don’t wonder he won’t make up his mind. He’s enjoying the attention you lavish upon him.”
Rosalind smiled, chin resting upon the windowsill.
“If he firmly commits to one of you,” Mother went on, “the other will give up in due time. Where is the thrill in that?”
“Begging your pardon, Mrs. Kent,” Amy said at length. “If she would just stop badgering him, he could make up his mind.”
“And if you—”
Mother held up a silencing hand. “What if you both ceased badgering him?”
They stared at her.
“When he is no longer the fox to your hounds, he will be forced to choose.”
“How would we go about that?” Amy asked. “If I don’t allow him to walk me home, what’s to stop her?”
“The same here,” Coral said.
“You walk with each other,” Mother replied. “It will rattle his world.”
“I’d rather keep company with a snake!” Coral exclaimed.
“As would I!” said Amy.
“Very well, then go on this way for another two years.” Mother took four steps toward the cottage. “You’re obviously enjoying this as much as Mr. Clark is.”
“Wait, Mrs. Kent . . . please.”
Mother turned toward Amy, the speaker.
“It’s wretched! I don’t sleep nights.”
“Wretched,” Coral sniffed.
“Well, there you are. You have something in common, besides a fondness for reptiles. I shall be interested in seeing what you do about it.”
After a moment of silence, both mumbled in unison, “Yes, Mrs. Kent.”
Mother folded her arms. “By the by, Amy . . . I’m not choosing sides, but one cannot choose the circumstances of one’s birth. It’s not Christian to hold that against a person.”
The laundress nodded, head lowered.
But Mother wasn’t finished. “And Coral . . . I never look down on anyone for working hard, as Amy does. Better to have rough hands than idle ones.”
By the time Rosalind caught her curls up into a comb, slipped on her bronze-and-white-striped silk gown, and hurried downstairs to the parlor, Mother was sitting ensconced on the sofa, reading calmly as if she had been there all morning.
“I saw what happened out there,” Rosalind said, slipping beside her.
“Did you?”
“From the window. You gave wise counsel.”
Mother lowered her book and smiled. “Thank you. Experience is a good teacher, though the tuition can be painful to pay.”
“Where was Mrs. Deamer?”
“Dusting lamps. We were having a chat when we heard the girls. I entreated her to allow me to intervene.”
“Will they take your advice?”
“Who can say?” She sighed. “But I will tell you that men such as Mr. Clark are not suited for the long haul. So it may be that the loser is the winner.”
The following three days brought rain showers, impeding Rosalind’s walks. She finished Off on a Comet from her belongings and The Moonstone from Mrs. Deamer’s limited collection.
Good Friday was fittingly overcast but without showers. Saturday dawned sunny, as did Easter morn.
There were two surprises in the dining room.
First, the bowl of colored eggs upon the table.
“Lovely,” Rosalind said to Mrs. Deamer as she slid into her chair. “Coral must have stayed up for hours.”
“I think not,” Mother said, taking her own chair. “Show us the evidence, Mrs. Deamer.”
The housekeeper wiggled her fingers. The tips were faintly stained, with a brownish mingling of pink, green, and blue.
Rosalind took an egg from the bowl. “Will it not wash off?”
“This was the best I could do,” Mrs. Deamer said. “Fortunately, my gloves will conceal them in church.”
That was the second surprise.
“You’re going?” Mother asked.
Mrs. Deamer gave her a careful smile. “Actually, may I accompany you? I cannot in good conscience miss Easter. But I’ll sit by myself.”
“You’ll not only walk with us but sit with us,” Mother said.
“Thank you,” Mrs. Deamer said after a moment.
Mother smiled and closed her eyes.
“Sleep, sleep, old sun, thou canst not have repassed,
As yet, the wound thou took’st on Friday past,
Sleep then, and rest; the world may bear thy stay;
A better sun rose before thee to-day.”
Mrs. Deamer’s eyes shone. “John Donne.”
Rosalind looked up at her. Mrs. Deamer had obviously not been born into service.
The three of them set out later. They had to pick their way on new grass bordering the still-drying lane. Townspeople gave each other greetings outside Saint Paul’s, and Rosalind’s mother responded in kind.
“You’re quite chipper this morning,” Rosalind said.
“How can anyone be less than optimistic on this day, with its new beginnings?”
Yet not all beginnings were appreciated. Noble Clark stood in his usual post, looking as perplexed as a cat with a wooden mouse.
“Over there,” Mrs. Deamer whispered with a nod toward the churchyard.
Coral and Amy stood under the lych-gate, chatting as if best friends.
Perhaps, Rosalind thought later, seated between Mother and Mrs. Deamer, that explained Mr. Clark’s failure to attach his voice to many of the notes to “Christ Arose.”
“I almost pity him,” she whispered to Mother.
Pews were filled with worshipers as Rosalind scanned backs of heads for Mr. Pearce.
Could he be Anglican? Methodist?
She realized with some guilt that Mr. Moore was well into the sermon on gratitude for the cross by the time she gave it her attention.
I do thank you, Father, Rosalind prayed silently. If you choose never to answer another prayer of mine, your gift of salvation is enough. More than enough.
She was out in the yard when Mr. Pearce approached.
“Miss Kent,” he said. He looked handsome in a black suit and blue-and-gold cravat. Jinny stood close by his side, panting happily. “How good to see you again. I wondered if you had returned to Cheltenham.”
“I leave in a fortnight,” Rosalind said before introducing him to her companions.
“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance,” Mother said, offering her hand.
“And I yours, Mrs. Kent,” he replied. Mrs. Deamer did not offer hers, so he gave her a respectful bow of the head.
“And this is Jinny,” Rosalind said.
“You’re a sweet pup, aren’t you?” Mother crooned, leaning to pat her head. Jinny licked her hand.
“Jinny . . .” Mr. Pearce admonished.
“Please don’t scold her,” Mother said. “I take it as a compliment. ‘Nature teaches beasts to know their friends.’”
He laughed. “Shakespeare.”
“Mr. Pearce’s late grandfather used to read Shakespeare to him,” Rosalind said.
“Shakespeare and the Bible,” he said.
“That’s quite a legacy,” Mother said.
“Thank you.”
“I did not notice you inside,” Rosalind said and then wished she had not.
His bespectacled green eyes met hers. “I saw you. I ofttimes slip in at the last moment. Jinny tends to dawdle on the way.”
“Would you care to take lunch with us, Mr. Pearce?” Mother asked.
He gave her a regretful smile. “Thank you, but I’ve been invited to dine with the family of Mr. Black, the chemist. In fact, I must excuse myself and catch up to them.”
“But of course,” Mother said.
“I hope I see you again,” he said to all but looked directly at Rosalind.
Her heart gave a little flutter. She was surprised that, in her advanced spinsterdom, her heart remembered how to do so.
15
“Did you say there is a lending library here?” Mother asked Rosalind over their usual toast and tea on Tuesday morning.
“On Fore Street, toward the beach,” Rosalind replied.
“I finished The Small House at Allington last night. I would like to get the final book in the series, if possible. Mrs. Deamer may care to read something new as well.”
“Why don’t we go after breakfast? Surely we qualify as Port Stilwellians. I have some banking business to tend as well.”
“Um . . . I thought you might take care of that for us after your morning walk.”
“This would be my morning walk.”
“I shouldn’t wish to hold you back.”
Rosalind sighed. “I leave in less than a fortnight, Mother. You should become familiar with the town. Unless you plan on venturing out only on Sundays.”
Her mother nodded. “You’re right. It’s time to learn my way about.”
Half an hour later, they pulled on boots and coats and set out down Orchard Lane, then south onto Fore Street. Smoke rose from cottage chimneys as fires welcomed fishermen trudging home after their night at sea. They touched the brims of their caps as they passed.
Rosalind passed the boys’ cottage with her usual pang of sadness. She had not seen them since the evening of the fence washing. The first shops came into view. Beyond, the bay rippled and sparkled like silver in the sun. She stopped before the door to Lloyd’s Banking Company, LTD.
“I’ll wait,” Mother said.
“Actually, I shall need you to come with me. We’ll set up an account you can draw upon.”
“Thank you, but I shan’t need money.”
“You can’t be certain of that. What if you see something you’d like to buy?”
Her mother looked away. Her shoulders rose, fell. “It grieves me no end that you’re forced to support me when it should be the reverse.”
“I’m happy to do so,” Rosalind said. “What else is money for? To sit in the bank’s dusty vaults?”
“You’ll need it during your old age. I warn you, it comes sooner than you think.”
“As long as I don’t lose my senses and buy diamonds, I have enough.” She took her mother’s arm. “Please?”
Mr. Fletcher resembled more a highway foreman than a bank clerk, with his pockmarked cheeks, thick moustache beneath bulbous nose, and thin brown hair plastered above a wide face. But he was dressed dapperly in a gray suit and had the clean fingernails and manners of a gentleman.
“Welcome to Port Stilwell, Mrs. Kent,” he said to Mother with a smile after Rosalind explained her mission. “It will be our pleasure to serve you.”
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Rosalind asked when they were back again on Fore Street.
“Thank you, Rosalind,” Mother replied in a subdued tone.
Knowing how difficult this was for her, Rosalind did not press for conversation. They continued on to the corner of Fore Street and Lach Lane, where the Maude Harris Lending Library was situated above the office of John Lockhart, Solicitor.
Mother turned to her. “I gather you’ve not visited Mr. Pearce’s shop again?”
Rosalind shook her head.
“Perhaps you should buy yourself a book.”
“I should, to repay his kindness,” Rosalind said, her thoughts having taken her there more than once. “But will he think I’m forward?”
“For purchasing a book?”
“It’s just that . . .” She took in a deep breath. “Coyness is not a skill I possess.”
“Be glad for that,” Mother said.
“I so enjoyed conversing with him. I’m sure it was written on my face. What if he assumes I’m . . .”
Mother smiled. “Badgering him, as Amy Hugo would say?”
“Precisely.”
“If you enjoyed yourself, it means he enjoyed himself as well. A good conversation draws energy from both sides.”
Her mother rested a hand against the small of her back. “I’ll find my way upstairs. You go and purchase your book. What have you to lose?”
Outside Pearce’s, Jinny raised head from paws and got to her feet. Rosalind knelt to pat her head.
“You’re a good pup.”
The animal wagged her tail.
Inside, Mr. Pearce bade her good morning. He was assisting a well-dressed young couple, so Rosalind looked through the shelves.
“This Baedeker’s Guide to Northern Italy and Corsica gives you everything you could wish for,” he was saying, “Maps and railway timetables, hotels and restaurants, and the operating hours of museums and galleries.”
The young man snickered. “I daresay we won’t visit museums and galleries on our honeymoon.”
The young woman let out a stream of high-pitched giggles.
Father, please strike me mute if I ever twitter like that, Rosalind prayed under her breath.
“Then, Thomas Cook’s guide is more concise,” Mr. Pearce went on.
After the couple left with their purchase, he came over to where Rosalind was inspecting a copy of Roget’s Thesaurus.
“I’m sorry you had to hear that, Miss Kent.”
“Thomas Cook does not offend me,” Rosalind said, reshelving the book.
He laughed appreciatively. “May I take your coat?”
“No, thank you. I shall need to join my mother soon.”
His smile was so warm that Rosalind became a little flustered. You’re twenty-seven years old! she chided herself.
“I thought to buy a book,” she said.
“You’ve come to the right place.”
“I’ve just recently finished Off on a Comet.”
“Ah, Jules Verne.”
“A student lent it, and I rather enjoyed the departure from drawing-room intrigues and penniless heiresses. Have you any of his others?”
“I have them all,” he said, moving to the second bookshelf. “And I’ve read them.”
“Thus you would recommend . . .”
He took down a cloth-covered blue book. “Around the World in Eighty Days. Can you guess why?”
“Because it’s also an adventure?”
“There is that.” He smiled again. “Because there is a main character who is a woman. Mr. Verne apparently held to women staying home, for the most part.”
“I’ll forgive him that,” Rosalind said, “as long as his stories entertain.”
He escorted her to the counter, where she took two shillings from her reticule. He was gathering her eight-penny change from a metal box when Jinny’s muffled barks sounded.
“Shall I?” Rosalind asked.
“If you please?”
She moved over to open the door. Jinny trotted inside and showed her gratitude by licking her hand. “How long have you had her?”
Mr. Pearce came around the counter. “The summer before last, I was out for a stroll on the cliffs, and she came out of nowhere and stuck to my side. I did all I could to chase her away, but to no avail. When no one replied to the notice in my window after sev
eral weeks, I put it away and decided it was meant to be.”
Rosalind’s mother opened the door and stepped into the gap. “I asked directions of the librarian. Good morning, Mr. Pearce.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Kent,” he said. “Won’t you come inside?”
“Are you quite sure?” She nodded at the two books tucked into her left arm. “I have just patronized the competition.”
“You’re always welcome here. I’ve donated books to the lending library.”
“Clearly an exceptional man,” Mother said.
“You flatter me, madam,” he said with a smile and then glanced at the wall clock. “I wonder . . . would you both consider joining me for lunch? There is a good café, Flores, but four doors up the lane.”
“Can you leave the shop untended?” Rosalind asked.
“A fellow must eat.”
As tempting as it was, she thought of the meal that Coral would be preparing.
“I’m afraid it’s too late to give notice to Miss Shipsey, our cook,” Mother said, voicing her thoughts.
“Thursday, then? That would give her time to plan around it.”
Mother smiled and gave Rosalind a little nod.
“We would be delighted, Mr. Pearce,” Rosalind said.
On their way back to Fore Street, Mother showed her the two books. “The Last Chronicle of Barset for myself. And A Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, as requested by Mrs. Deamer. Then we can swap. She’s been rereading the same books for a year.”
“It’s sad that she’s forced to be such a hermit,” Rosalind said.
“She doesn’t have a daughter to pry her from her shell.” She hooked her arm into Rosalind’s. “If you wish, I will find some excuse to stay home on Thursday.”
“Please don’t. It wouldn’t be proper. And he invited us.”
“Very well. I would certainly like to know more about the man who’s set his cap for you.”
“He’s simply being hospitable. It’s good for business.”
“And I have a twenty-inch waist,” Mother said.
They were two shops down from the bank when Mr. Fletcher stepped out and held the door. An infant carriage appeared, pushed by a scowling woman.
From where did she know her? Rosalind walked every day, weather allowing, and faces were becoming familiar. It was the sour expression that made her difficult to place, for most in Port Stilwell were open and friendly.
A Haven on Orchard Lane Page 10