“Troubles . . .”
“He so desperately wants a musical career. But if he quits teaching, his father will have him work in his mercantile, with no summer breaks to attend auditions.”
“Ah.” Charlotte nodded. “His dreams are more important than yours?”
She shrugged. “Aren’t we supposed to put our loved ones’ needs above our own?”
The question stung.
“We are,” Charlotte said. “As much as humanly possible.”
“The Bible says that love is not self-seeking,” Coral went on a little righteously.
“Yes, it does. But there is a difference between needs and wants.”
“Noble needs to perform, Mrs. Kent. As much as he needs water and air.”
It took great self-control for Charlotte to resist rolling her eyes. “Those are Mr. Clark’s words, aren’t they?”
“Well, yes.”
“I must ask why he should be eligible for the role of ‘loved one,’ when his affection is as fickle as April weather? When he has never bothered to ask about your dreams?”
“It’ll be different once he gets a part.” Coral swallowed. “If he’ll only have me back . . .”
“Dear Coral,” Charlotte cut in, “I can only hope that one day you’ll understand your worth. You deserve better.”
Fresh tears filled the girl’s eyes. “Anyone in town will say I deserve nothing.”
“The people living in this house would not say so. And, I suspect, many more.”
Coral pressed her lips and shook her head.
“You are kind and intelligent,” Charlotte added. “And deserving of good things. I shall pray every day that God allows you to see yourself through His eyes.”
“Pride is sinful,” Coral said in a small, dry voice.
“You are His beloved child. If you ever truly comprehend that, you’ll be filled with awe. Not pride. Now, I must join Mr. Hurst. But please think on these things.”
Rising, she patted Coral’s shoulder and went out to a garden clothed in springtime glory. Drifts of lavender forget-me-nots and cornflowers were complemented by taller columbines. Tree peonies, poached-egg plants, and day lilies gilded the green throughout and picked up the gold edges of hosta leaves.
I could weave fancies around those colors, Charlotte thought.
She had decided upon a sunny patch for vegetables, ten feet before the clematis-covered stone wall that kept the woods at bay, and far to the left of the four slatted armchairs and two benches beneath the white-blossomed branches of the crabapple tree.
On the right side of the tree were a crumbling lavatory and gardening hut, where Mr. Alger Hurst was sorting tools. Short, thickset, and leathery, he possessed a limp he credited to a Cossack bullet in Kabul forty years ago, when he was an army corporal.
He was gardener and caretaker at Sea Gull Inn and had somehow allowed Mrs. Hooper to hire his free Tuesday afternoons. Either he had nothing better to do, Charlotte supposed, or he was paid far better than were the two women servants.
“Will you not wear gloves, Mrs. Kent?” he asked.
“Gloves are for milksops, Mr. Hurst,” Charlotte said, kneeling to scoop out a pocket of dark earth. “I want to feel the soil.”
“Aye, naught wrong with good honest soil,” he said, grinning around his pipe stem before growing serious again. “Unless you’re in a tent during monsoon, and the mud’s so thick it sucks at your boots. Mark my words, Mrs. Kent. Our soldiers will still be in Afghanistan a century from now.”
The only issue Charlotte had with Mr. Hurst was that any gardening lesson was sprinkled with diatribes against colonialism. She agreed with him on most points, but what could she do?
“I’m not even allowed to vote, Mr. Hurst. All I can do is try to grow some vegetables. Will you teach me to do that?”
With a grunt, he knocked out his pipe and put it into the pocket of his smock. He hefted a sack from the barrow and dropped it into the middle of the turned earth. “Too much acid. Fine for petunias but not for cabbages. I’ve got to spread this.”
“And that would be?”
“Lime. But I’ll do this myself.”
“Nay, my good man! And allow you to take full credit?”
“You’ll need the gloves, then. Soil is kinder than the hoe handle to the hands.”
Less than half an hour later, Charlotte eased her hoe to the ground and attempted to straighten her aching back.
“You don’t have to be a heroine, Mrs. Kent,” the gardener said, hoeing in fluid motions as if he had just begun.
“Thank you, Mr. Hurst.”
She sensed someone watching and looked to the right. The boy from Saint George’s Fair stood across the side picket fence. With forty feet between them, she could see fear in his eyes, as if he might bolt any second.
“Good morning, young man!” she called, hastening toward him.
“Er . . . good morning, Mrs. Kent!” Mr. Hurst called from behind.
24
Danny took a step back as Mrs. Kent drew closer.
“Danny . . . isn’t it?” she said.
“Danny Fletcher, ma’am,” he mumbled. “My brother fainted. Will you help him?”
He led her around the cottage to Albert, who was sitting on the middle of the three steps where he had left him, face resting against his propped knees, lunch buckets and Danny’s arithmetic book scattered at his feet.
“Albert?”
His brother raised his face, blinked at him. Mrs. Kent took off her gloves and leaned to feel his face.
“Fever, I think.” She straightened and turned to Danny. “Is your mother out?”
His plan on the way over was to say just that. But with Mrs. Kent studying his face as if she could spot a lie, he could not form the words.
“Stepmother,” Albert mumbled.
“I see,” she said.
Danny could tell that she did not see, not really. “She would make me go on to school, and I can’t leave him with her.”
Especially not today. She was so furious that she had rubbed Albert’s face into the sheet, her own face as red as a radish.
“What of your father?”
“He’s at the bank.” Not that it would matter.
“I’ll go for him.”
“Please don’t. He’ll only bring Albert home.” Danny’s heart raced. This was a bad idea. The fear in his breast should have been sufficient warning. Better to tend to Albert in the Bickle ruins than to face Stepmother’s wrath twice in one day.
He went over to take his brother’s arm. “Never mind, missus. I’m sure he’ll be better very soon.”
“Wait.” She glanced toward the lane as if she could see past the trees to their cottage, then came over to take his other arm. “Help me to bring him indoors.”
“I can walk,” Albert mumbled. Still, Danny kept hold of his arm, crossed the porch, and went through the door Mrs. Kent opened.
They walked through a small room with a staircase, into a parlor that looked like a place from a dream, colorful and restful. A woman with dark hair and an apron ceased dusting a lamp and hurried over.
“This is Albert, Mrs. Deamer,” said Mrs. Kent. “He’s taken ill.”
Mrs. Deamer moved two embroidered pillows from a red sofa. They were not allowed to sit upon the parlor furniture at home, so Danny held Albert back when Mrs. Kent said for him to lie down.
“He smells bad,” Danny explained as his brother leaned against him.
The women exchanged looks. Mrs. Deamer hurried across the room and through the door.
Mrs. Kent knelt before them. “Does your throat hurt, Albert?”
“Not hurt,” his brother mumbled.
“Even when you swallow? When you had your breakfast?”
“Didn’t.”
“You had no breakfast?”
“We weren’t hungry,” Danny said quickly.
Mrs. Deamer returned with a bundle in her arms. She spread a sheet upon the sofa, put down a pillow. When Albert lay down, she remove
d his shoes and covered him with a second sheet.
“Shouldn’t he have a blanket?” Mrs. Kent asked. “He’s shivering.”
Mrs. Deamer felt Albert’s cheeks as Mrs. Kent had done. Remembering the feel of his mother’s hands upon his own face, Danny envied his brother just a bit.
“A blanket would make his fever rise. A sheet will do.”
“Danny here said that he fainted,” Mrs. Kent said. “Should we send for the doctor?”
“No!”
Both women turned, and Danny felt heat in his own face. Mrs. Kent came closer and put a hand upon his shoulder. “I would pay, Danny.”
He had but to picture their stepmother’s face. “Please don’t, missus.”
His heart jumped when someone knocked at the door. Mrs. Deamer went to answer it and returned carrying book and buckets.
“That was Mr. Hurst.” She handed Danny the book and one bucket but hefted the other by the handle, testing its weight.
“No wonder he’s as thin as a rail.” She raised the lid, peered inside, and looked at Danny. “Your lunch?”
What could he say? He burned with more shame and looked down at his feet.
“And no breakfast either? That’s likely why he fainted.”
“What if we sent for Mr. Moore?” said Mrs. Kent.
“Who?” Danny asked.
“The minister from Saint Paul’s. Or would you rather send for the vicar? You attend Saint Michael’s, perchance?”
“We did. But my stepmother hates the vicar. We don’t want to see anyone . . . please. I’m going to have to take Albert away if you send for anyone.”
The women looked at each other again.
“Coral’s broth should be ready even if the vegetables aren’t,” Mrs. Deamer said.
“I’ll see to that,” Mrs. Kent said, smiling again at Danny. “Come, Danny.”
“My brother . . .”
“He’s in good hands.”
He followed her across the hall into a warm kitchen that smelled savory and yeasty, and his stomach groaned. A fair-haired lady wearing an apron turned from stirring a kettle at the stove and gave him an odd look. He recognized her from about town. She was pretty but looked sad today.
“Miss Shipsey, this is Danny. I shall need a cup of broth for his brother.”
“Only broth, Mrs. Kent?”
“He’s ill. I may return for more. And will you give Danny something to eat?”
She smiled, and the sadness vanished. Danny wondered if kind ladies were aware of how magical their smiles were.
“Leave him to me, Mrs. Kent.”
When they were alone, she said, “Do you like omelets?”
“Yes, miss.”
She leaned her head, narrowed her eyes. “Do you know what they are?”
“Um . . . no, miss.”
“Eggs.” She took a butter crock from atop a cupboard. “Not Mrs. Beeton’s way, God rest her soul, with the separating and beating. The French omelet is easier and better, in my opinion. I’ll fry bacon, too. You’ve heard of that, haven’t you?”
Her smile said she wasn’t mocking his ignorance. She pointed a wooden spoon toward a door. “Now, if you’re needing the water closet, it’s through the pantry. Be sure and wash up. Towel’s on the rack.”
The water closet was tiny, with a toilet and basin. A cake of soap sat in a dish, and an embroidered towel hung from a hook. Danny washed his hands, trying to push dirt from beneath his fingernails as best as possible. The towel was too nice to use, so he dried his hands upon his shirt.
Seconds later, he sat at the table, tucking into more food than he had ever seen on one dish. Miss Shipsey had even brought over a beaker of milk and some toasted bread spread with marmalade. Wolfing food could get him a slap from his stepmother, but he knew instinctively that Miss Shipsey did not mind.
She pulled out the chair beside him. “I so enjoy seeing someone with a hearty appetite. How old are you?”
“I’m ten,” he mumbled around a mouthful.
“You’re in Mr. Clark’s class?”
“Yes, miss.”
Her smile faded into a wistful expression. “I’m told he’s a wonderful schoolmaster.”
“My brother’s six,” he said, hoping to steer the conversation in another direction. “He has Mrs. Fairburn.”
“I had her too, when the infant school was in a wee building by the station. As poor as a beggar but sweet.”
Mrs. Deamer brought the cup back into the kitchen. “More broth, Coral? And a tray and bowl and spoon this time. We’ve coaxed him to sit.”
“May I see him?” Danny asked as Miss Shipsey pushed out her chair.
“But of course,” Mrs. Deamer said. “After you finish your plate.”
When he entered the parlor again, Albert was perched upon the sofa with the women on either side.
“Another bite?” said Mrs. Kent, hand upon his shoulder as Mrs. Deamer held bowl and spoon before him. His brother opened his mouth, obeyed. His face was flushed, but he seemed to have rallied a bit, for he gave Danny a weak smile.
“He could do with a lie-down whilst we’re close by,” Mrs. Deamer said.
Mrs. Kent eyed him. “Danny could do with one as well.”
“Oh, I’m fine, thank you. I shouldn’t leave my brother.”
Truthfully, his eyes felt like chalk. The nightly ordeal of trying to keep Albert dry, the terror of being discovered whenever he failed, was draining. Still, he was relieved to know that they wouldn’t be sent away just yet. Even though Albert seemed stronger, he would likely not fare well hiding in the Bickle ruins until school was dismissed.
The women exchanged glances above Albert’s red curls, and Mrs. Deamer said, “Shall I . . . ?”
“Just continue spooning soup into him.” Mrs. Kent smiled at Danny and left the room. She returned shortly with a pillow and folded sheet, which she spread upon the smaller sofa.
“I think you’ll fit here.”
He eyed the plump pillow. “What if I . . . what if I sleep too long?”
Thankfully, she understood. “School dismisses at five o’clock, yes?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Rest, then. If you sleep though lunch, we’ll feed you again when you rise.”
Minutes later, his cheek was pressed into a pillow that smelled of the outdoors as the women’s conversations melded into a pleasant hum. He drew in a sleepy, contented sigh. Kind people were taking up his burden of constant vigilance. For a little while, he could be just a boy.
25
When two hours had passed on Thursday morning with no literate foot over the threshold, Jude removed his coat, flipped the Open sign in the window to Closed, and took a rubber tennis ball from a counter drawer.
“I trust you won’t carry this one off and chew it to pieces.”
Jinny wagged her body and whimpered happily.
“Wait here,” he said on the pavement. Pungent and sweet aromas wafted through the propped door to Pericles Blyth, Tobacconist. Mr. Blyth sat reading a newspaper with his boots upon a crate.
“You’ve got no customers either?” Jude said.
“Ah, there is a mild ague going about. Dr. Harris says naught to panic over.”
“That explains it. Well, if anyone should ask, we’ll be on the beach for a bit.”
The water of the bay was dappled with shafts of light and color as it slapped and sighed among the shingles. With Jinny dancing about him, Jude rolled up his trousers, tucked stockings into shoes, and placed them upon an empty bench. Gingerly, he walked into the shallow surf, tossing the ball for Jinny to retrieve, over and over. Four women pulling kelp into buckets were their only witnesses, save the gulls screeching overhead.
“A little farther this time!” Jude said, drawing back his arm.
Jinny leapt to catch the ball. She brought it back, then shook her head and growled as Jude wrested it from her jaws. She was never so happy as when roughly mauled.
“Mister Pearce?”
Jude tu
rned toward the sound. From Lach Lane, a well-dressed man in a gray suit and a low black topper hat waved.
“Give, Jinny.” Jude took the ball from her jaws. She danced about, waiting, but when he shoved it into his pocket, she shook water from her fur and trotted ahead with tongue hanging. She reached the stranger first and licked the hand he held out to her.
“Good fellow,” the man said. He seemed Jude’s age, perhaps a bit older, with scant gray in his temples.
“She’s actually female,” Jude said as he closed the gap between them.
“Ah. My apologies.”
Jude wiped his hand upon his shirt sleeves and extended it. “That’s quite all right. Jinny doesn’t take offense easily.”
The man chuckled as they shook hands. “Well then, no wonder I mistook her for male.”
Assuming this stranger had not sought him to discuss whatever misgivings he was having over the fairer sex, Jude waited.
“I intended to ask proof of your identity. But while you have your mother’s coloring, there is no mistaking the Pearce cleft chin.”
Time seemed frozen. Jude held his breath.
“I received your letter,” the stranger went on. “Have you heard of me? Conrad?”
Letting out the breath, Jude said, “My uncle.”
Now that he knew the man’s identity, Jude recognized some of his father’s pattern of speech. Tears stung his eyes as he turned to collect shoes and stockings. “Shall we go walk over to my shop?”
“Your shop is impressive from what I saw through the window. But may we sit here? I seldom have opportunity to be seaside.”
They shared a bench. Jinny took that as permission to explore and loped off toward a clump of sea grass growing between stones.
“I’m overjoyed that you wrote,” Conrad Pearce said. “Last summer, I went though every drawer of my father’s desk, searching for any clue to your whereabouts. I even had my most trusted servants combing trunks in the attic.”
That was gratifying to hear. “I knew my father had younger brothers, but you don’t seem old enough to be my uncle.”
“My parents would never have discussed something so intimate, but according to my old nursemaid, I was a surprise to them. Your father, David, was seventeen and at Cambridge when I was born. Our brother Emory was sixteen.”
A Haven on Orchard Lane Page 15