A Haven on Orchard Lane

by Lawana Blackwell

  “. . . and if you won’t, I’ll go up there this very minute and give him a piece of my mind!”

  Rosalind frowned. But of course! That voice!

  “You can’t be coming here and making another scene, Sabrina,” Mr. Fletcher said. “I’ll get sacked!”

  “Then behave like a man and speak with him!”

  “You gave him to understand he’s not to call again. What more is there to say?”

  “That I don’t appreciate no vicar nosing into—”

  “Please, people can hear—”

  Mr. Fletcher glanced over his shoulder, and Rosalind was too slow in looking away.

  “Coward!” the woman called.

  He gave Rosalind and her mother an apologetic look before returning to the bank.

  Rosalind felt a wave of queasiness.

  “That poor Mr. Fletcher,” Mother said.

  “Those poor boys.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The fence boys. She’s their mother. He must be their father.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “No wonder they were so fearful, living with such a harpy. Let’s walk more slowly. I shouldn’t wish to catch up.”

  “That would be uncomfortable,” Mother said.

  “I’m not worried about discomfort. I’m worried that I might say something to her that a Christian woman should not say.”

  16

  “How kind you are,” Mrs. Deamer said in the parlor when Charlotte handed her the book. “Did Miss Kent find one as well?”

  “She purchased one from Mr. Pearce. She and I are to have lunch with him Thursday, by the by.”

  “I’ll inform Coral.”

  Charlotte looked toward the door and unburdened her mind to her. “Do you know anything of him? He seems a decent man, but I’ve learned not to judge a book by its cover.”

  Mrs. Deamer shook her head. “Coral may. Shall I ask her?”

  “I’m not sure. What if she puts two and two together?”

  “Casually? For my own sake?”

  “Well, if you could be discreet.”

  “I’ll be most discreet.”

  “Thank you,” Charlotte said. “I wouldn’t want Rosalind to know . . . unless it so happens that he has a shady past. In which case I will do all in my power to discourage her. As I wish someone had when I was young and in love.”

  “Does she love him?”

  “No, of course not. But the best time to help one see clearly is before infatuation has clouded the vision. Don’t you think?”

  “I wholeheartedly agree,” said Mrs. Deamer.

  “What are you two plotting?” came from the doorway.

  Charlotte smiled at Rosalind. “Ladies don’t plot. We conspire.”

  “Well, lunch is ready, and it smells heavenly.”

  Coral served a fine meal of stewed mutton kidneys, mashed turnips, carrot pudding, and warm, yeasty bread with butter. Charlotte was relieved that they had not given in to the temptation to accept Mr. Pearce’s invitation, and happy to inform Coral that she could have an easy day on Thursday.

  That afternoon, after Rosalind had set out to post a letter to Miss Beale, Mrs. Deamer brought Charlotte tea in the parlor. “I’ve spoken with Coral.”

  “Do sit down,” Charlotte said.

  Mrs. Deamer took the paisley chair. “Mr. Pearce was once engaged to a young woman who left him for a wealthy man.”

  Sad though it was, Charlotte was relieved. Decades in theatre had taught her that not all men preferred women.

  Mrs. Deamer hesitated. “There is more.”

  In dressing gown and slippers that evening, Charlotte tapped on the door to her daughter’s room.

  “Come in.”

  She entered to find Rosalind seated against her pillows, reading by lamplight.

  “I saw the light beneath the door, or I would not have disturbed you.”

  “You’re not disturbing me.” Rosalind set aside the book and drew up her knees. “Come, Mother, sit. You can’t sleep?”

  Charlotte sat and swiveled to face her. “My conscience troubles me.”

  “Your conscience?” Rosalind smiled. “What dastardly deed have you done?”

  She took a deep breath and admitted the mission she had entrusted to Mrs. Deamer.

  “She didn’t . . .”

  “You mustn’t fault her,” Charlotte hastened to say.

  Rosalind sighed and rubbed her forehead. “It’s Aunt Vesta yet again. When I was in grammar school, she inquired into the background of my dearest friend and discovered her grandparents had divorced. I wasn’t allowed to play with her. She even had the schoolmaster move our desks to opposite sides of the room. Naturally, the other girls took her side, and I had no friends.”

  “I’m so sorry, Rosalind,” Charlotte said. “If I had only known.”

  “You would have known if . . .” Rosalind closed her mouth, shook her head. “No, I won’t throw that at you again. But, Mother, how could you do this!”

  Charlotte’s eyes and nose stung as Rosalind’s image blurred before her. “I didn’t want you to be hurt.”

  “I shall be hurt if word reaches him that my mother is sizing him up for husband material.”

  “But that won’t happen. Mrs. Deamer made it as if she were asking for her own sake.”

  “And what reason did she give for asking?”

  “None. She simply worked it into our lunch plans. She’s bright enough to pull it off.”

  Rosalind blew out a breath. “I’m fatigued, Mother. Go back to your bed.”

  “Rosalind, please forgive—”

  “Just leave. Please.”

  Charlotte nodded and returned to her room. She lay in bed and wept into a handkerchief. Her first attempt at actual mothering had failed miserably.

  Why must I ruin every blessing you send me? she prayed.

  More so, why had she allowed Rosalind to shoulder the burden of her existence? She was a leech, a ball and chain.

  She heard her door open and Rosalind’s whispered, “Mother? Are you awake?”

  “Yes,” Charlotte rasped.

  She could see her daughter approach in the feeble light from the open windows.

  “How do you sleep?” Rosalind said. “It’s freezing in here!”

  “I have overwhelming episodes of heat at times. As if walking into an oven.”

  “Seriously? Are you ill?”

  “No, not at all. It comes with age for women, I’m afraid.” Charlotte moved over and folded back the sheet and quilts. “Here, it’s warm.”

  Rosalind dashed into bed and covered herself to her neck. “I shouldn’t have lashed out at you.”

  “You had every right.”

  “It’s just that I don’t want to frighten Mr. Pearce away before I get to know him.”

  Charlotte waited to collect her thoughts.

  “Mother?”

  “You do like him?” Charlotte asked.

  “Well, yes.”

  “Because he’s pleasant? Skilled at conversation? Good manners?”

  “Are those not good reasons?”

  “You would have described my three husbands,” Charlotte said. “And two were rotten to the core beneath those surface charms.”

  She heard her daughter’s sigh.

  “What did Mrs. Deamer learn?” Rosalind asked. “Tell me everything. What has Mr. Pearce done? Left wife and children? Been to prison?”

  Charlotte smiled to herself. “His reputation is sterling. He’s a decent Christian man who took tender care of his grandparents and practices fair business dealings with everyone in town.”

  Rosalind let out another breath. “I would have suspected as much.”

  “He’s suffered some sadness too.” She told her daughter of the broken courtship . . . and the reason for it.

  “Indian? I thought he was simply well sunned.”

  “Does that matter to you?” Charlotte asked.

  “It doesn’t,” Rosalind said. “He mentioned grandparents b
ut not his parents. . . .”

  “His grandfather was a soldier in the East India Company and fell in love with one of his captain’s servants. She had no family and was considered an untouchable. When his service was concluded, they married and he brought her here. Their daughter married a missionary, returned to Cawnpore with him, and bore three children.”

  “Did you just say Cawnpore?”

  “You know what happened there? You were but four in 1857.”

  “History class. Everyone knows of the uprising. Men, women, even children were chopped into pieces.”

  “British soldiers found him in the back of a cupboard, where his mother had hidden him. But his parents were killed, and the older sisters in their hiding places.”

  “What horror! The poor man.”

  “It’s a terrible thing.” They lay in the darkness, the weight of such tragedy heavy in the room. At length, Charlotte said what she felt she must. “Rosalind?”

  “Yes, Mother?”

  “I don’t wish to sound cold. But just as charm and wit and even good reputation should not be the foundation for your affection, neither should pity. Ofttimes women feel a need to rescue and confuse it with love.”

  Rosalind sighed again. “I don’t understand your meaning, Mother. What, then, should be the foundation for affection?”

  “For now, time,” Charlotte said. “Time for your fine mind to learn more of him, before you involve your heart.”

  Silence ticked between them.

  Charlotte went on. “There would be far less pain in the world if everyone did so.”

  Her daughter shifted beside her, and Charlotte’s own heart felt a pang. She had overstepped herself yet again.

  And then Rosalind twined her fingers through hers.

  “I promise to try to keep my heart far removed from my brain. At least for the time being. Thank you for the counsel, Mother.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Why do you thank me?”

  Charlotte squeezed her hand. “For allowing me the privilege.”

  17

  “Finished, are you, girl?” Jude said when Jinny trotted from behind the counter, licking her chops.

  “I beg your pardon?” His elderly patron sent him a severe look over the book in her hands.

  Jude winced. “Forgive me, Mrs. Lassen. I asked Jinny if she finished her lunch.”

  “Ah . . . good dog!” she said with softened tone. She handed Jude the copy of The Ingoldsby Legends and counted out seventeen pennies from her purse.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Lassen. I hope you enjoy the book.”

  She patted his shoulder. “Such a nice young man you are.”

  When she was on her way, he looked northward and smiled. Mrs. and Miss Kent were but one block away. Miss Kent lifted a hand. She looked fetching in a gray wrap over a mauve gown, a straw bonnet perched upon her head.

  He returned the wave and stepped back into the shop.

  “Jinny! We have an engagement.”

  With his hand, he smoothed his hair, wishing he had thought to bring his comb downstairs. “I should buy some oil. I’ve not courted in so long. How do I look?”

  Jinny’s yip seemed complimentary.

  “But then, you wouldn’t insult the hand that feeds,” he said, turning his sign. He locked the door, and he and Jinny met the two at the whitewashed cob exterior of Flores.

  The women patted and cooed over Jinny. When greetings had run their course, Jinny flopped down beside the door, and they entered.

  Port Stilwell boasted three dining establishments. Jude’s choices were limited to two. At Hooper’s Restaurant, there was the risk of the owner’s mother inviting herself to the table and talking a blue streak. Of the remaining two, he had chosen Flores over Sea Gull Inn because the proprietors were longtime friends.

  “How lovely,” Miss Kent said as they entered. The restaurant’s interior was in contrast to its plain exterior. Red cloths covered eight round tables, a fresco of fishermen bringing in their catches covered most of one wall, and tall ferns fanned out from floor vases.

  Patrons sent smiles or halloos from three tables. Mr. Lockhart, the solicitor, waved. Savory smells drifted from the kitchen, from where a dark-haired woman in white apron called, “Good day, Jude!”

  “And to you, Mrs. Galvez.” He pulled chairs from a table near the fresco, one on either side of him.

  “Is Flores a Spanish name?” Mrs. Kent asked when they were seated.

  “It is, indeed,” Jude said. “Over two hundred years ago, a Spanish ship wrecked off the coast, and the sailors made it ashore.”

  “They stayed on?” Miss Kent asked, then shook her head. “Foolish question. There were obviously no ferries.”

  “Not at all, Miss Kent. I should think the only foolish question is the one we won’t ask for fear of seeming foolish.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Pearce.”

  He loved how her smile made her bottle-green eyes into half-moons. For a moment, he forgot his subject of conversation.

  Don’t stare like a schoolboy!

  “A plague had killed over half the men here months earlier,” he said when his mind returned to him. “The sailors were welcomed as much-needed laborers. Quite a few here have a Spanish branch in our family trees. My great-grandfather’s name was Leiva.”

  Mrs. Galvez, with many Spanish branches in her tree, brought over a pot of tea and a hand-printed menu.

  “So! You have some new friends. It is high time!”

  Jude laughed and made introductions.

  “Who painted the fresco?” Miss Kent asked.

  “My husband, Paul, a genius with paints as well as with pots and pans.” She rested a hand upon Jude’s shoulder. “Jude’s mother—Hansa—was my schoolmate, may God rest her soul.”

  She crossed herself and walked away, and Mr. Lockhart gave him a grim nod on his way out. Mrs. and Miss Kent exchanged stricken looks.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Pearce,” Mrs. Kent murmured.

  “Please, don’t be.” He picked up the menu. However Continental the interior, the hand-printed card listed typical English fare. He hoped they would not be disappointed.

  “The fish was pulled in from the sea this morning.”

  The women followed his lead and ordered baked turbot and lobster sauce when Mrs. Galvez returned.

  “Good choice,” she said and walked to the kitchen, still clucking in sympathy.

  “She was obviously very close to your mother,” Miss Kent said.

  “I appreciate the sentiment.” Jude leaned to whisper, “You’re both so kind. But I really just want to show you a pleasant outing.”

  Both nodded, and after a moment, Miss Kent said a little too brightly, “I’ve read that fish is good for the intellect. The dining hall at Cheltenham serves trout from the River Chelt at least once weekly.”

  “Trout,” Mrs. Kent said equally brightly. “Did you know that their colors and patterns can change with their environments? They act as camouflage.”

  “I wasn’t aware of this,” Jude said.

  She smiled at him. “We are not the only creatures who are fearfully and wonderfully made.”

  Returning her smile, he said, “What led you to choose Port Stilwell?”

  “My mother required a more sedate locale,” Miss Kent said. “For her health.”

  “It seems a very nice town,” her mother said. “I intend to learn more about it.”

  “From where did you move?”

  “Spilsby. In Lincolnshire.”

  Her thumbnail made little half-moons in the lemon rind upon her saucer. From her posture, it seemed she held her breath, hoping he would ask no more questions.

  Mrs. Galvez brought platters of fish with boiled potatoes, carrots, and dressed cucumber. After her first bite of the turbot, Miss Kent said to her, “Delicious! Please convey our compliments to your husband.”

  She pushed back a strand of graying dark hair. “I had many suitors in my day. Paul was the only one who could cook. I’d had
enough of cooking, helping feed nine brothers and sisters. I made him promise I would never have to light the stove before I would marry him.”

  “Mr. Galvez is a good man,” Jude said and felt her hand upon his shoulder again.

  “This man is a good man too,” Mrs. Galvez said to the women. “He took care of his grandparents. They cared for him too. I remember as if it were yesterday . . . everyone abuzz over the little boy who was rescued from those terrible goings-on.”

  She patted his shoulder yet again and left.

  Jude stifled a sigh and looked at his companions. “I suppose I should explain.”

  Yet how to do so, without seeming to ask for pity?

  Miss Kent said, “We know, Mr. Pearce.”

  But of course. How could they not when they rented rooms from Port Stilwell’s most notorious gossip?

  “Such savagery!” Mrs. Kent said.

  He gave her an appreciative smile. “I was consumed with hatred most of my life. Lately I have come to understand the frustrations of those who rebelled. Many of our fellow countrymen glean great riches while impoverishing them; even now, they are treated as inferiors.”

  “All the same, I doubt I could be as charitable,” Miss Kent said.

  He nodded. “It took much prayer. The hatred was a ball and chain, and I’m glad to be shed of it.”

  The two looked at him with such understanding, he found himself going on.

  “Yet though the hatred is gone, I confess to difficulty with Christ’s commandment to forgive. It was my parents and sisters who lost their lives. Forgive my bluntness, Miss Kent, but if someone strikes you, have I the right to forgive him?”

  After a space, Mrs. Kent said, “Perhaps your obligation is to forgive the part of the injury that was yours. The loss of your family?”

  “And it seems you’ve done so, by letting go of the hatred,” Miss Kent observed.

  “Perhaps.” Silence followed as Jude cast about in his mind for a lighter subject of conversation. At length, he asked Miss Kent, “What led you to teach mathematics?”

  “I’ve enjoyed numbers since the day I first realized two fingers plus two fingers equals four. Algebraic and geometric equations are marvelous puzzles. It’s very satisfying to open other minds to those puzzles.”