A Haven on Orchard Lane

by Lawana Blackwell

  At ten o’clock on Tuesday morning, knocks came at the door. Charlotte lowered her copy of The Hand of Ethelberta and traded glances with Rosalind, sharing the sofa.

  Mrs. Deamer led Mr. Fletcher into the parlor. He was dressed in a black suit with a starched collar and conservative yellow cravat.

  “Good morning, Mr. Fletcher,” Charlotte said. The wait had been difficult, but yesterday had held the risk of Amy Hugo coming for the laundry at the wrong time.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Kent . . . Miss Kent,” he replied, hands twitching at his sides.

  “Please, do have a chair.”

  He sat in the paisley chair, and Mrs. Deamer took the other armchair. Coral brought in a tray and set it upon the round table.

  “Will you have tea, Mr. Fletcher?” Mrs. Deamer asked.

  “Yes, if you please. Two sugars.”

  Silver clicked against china. Coral brought him a cup and saucer and then, as prearranged, took a place upon the settee.

  “And how is the weather?” Charlotte asked.

  “I believe it means to rain, though not for hours yet.”

  “What a relief. We shouldn’t wish you to get soaked upon your return.”

  After a polite sip from his cup, he looked at Rosalind and cleared his throat. “Miss Kent, when Mr. Trussell discovered your note beneath the door yesterday, he wondered why you didn’t ask for him.”

  She gave him a wide-eyed smile. “Well, since I opened my account, I’ve conducted my business exclusively with you, Mr. Fletcher.”

  “Um, quite right . . .”

  “But it is my understanding that there is a bank in Seaton as well.”

  “Seaton?”

  “It’s but one railway station away.”

  “I know where . . .” He drew a breath. “Begging your pardon, Miss Kent. Are you displeased with our service?”

  “Quite the opposite, Mr. Fletcher.”

  “Then may I ask, whyever would you change banks?”

  “You suggest I do not?”

  “Most emphatically.”

  Charlotte cleared her throat, caught his eye. “Mr. Fletcher, my daughter has not threatened to change banks. She merely asked your opinion.”

  His expression revealed the thought he was constrained from voicing. You asked me out here for this?

  She gave him an understanding smile. “And so now you may relay to Mr. Trussell a truthful account of your call. Or at least the first part.”

  “The first part?”

  Taking a deep breath, Charlotte said, “We wish to assure you that you have friends. Every one of us supports you. Picture us as holding up your arms, as Aaron and Hur did for Moses during the great battle.”

  “Battle?”

  “You must fight for your sons.”

  She took advantage of his stunned immobilization to press on. “They’re being starved . . . or have you not noticed? Their clothes are filthy. Albert is beaten severely for wetting his bed.”

  “He’s but six, Mr. Fletcher,” Rosalind said.

  He got to his feet. Setting cup and saucer onto the table, he said, “I must return.”

  Mrs. Deamer rose as well, went over to the door, and stood with her back to it.

  “No, Mr. Fletcher. You will hear us out.”

  He stared at her, his lips moving as if to call forth words.

  “Please,” Rosalind said.

  He sat once more, this time perched upon the edge of the chair, seemingly ready to take flight at any minute.

  Charlotte began again. “There is a secret, Mr. Fletcher, that is hidden from parents of young children. Time is deceptive. It seems to crawl. You will look back one day and wonder how you did not notice its wings. Once they are adults, they have a choice whether or not to have anything to do with us. They have leave to spit in our faces if they so desire.”

  “M-Mrs. Kent,” Mr. Fletcher stammered. “I love my sons.”

  “But Mrs. Fletcher does not.”

  He gave a weak shrug. “She’s mother to my daughter. I cannot leave her.”

  Charlotte swallowed her disgust. Who was she to judge? With gentled voice, she asked, “Why do you fear her so?”

  “I don’t fear—” He lowered his head. “She was so kind before we married. Now she has such fits of temper! I cannot bear to be in the same room with her.”

  “Does she beat you, Mr. Fletcher?” Rosalind said with a chill voice.

  His face jerked toward her. “Of course not.”

  “You fear her raised voice. Your small boys fear her fists. Does this seem fair to you? Would you hide behind them if a wolf attacked?”

  “Rosalind . . .” Charlotte cautioned.

  Mr. Fletcher closed his eyes.

  Coral moved to the edge of the settee, expression urgent. Charlotte nodded.

  “I’ve heard that your late wife was a gentle soul, Mr. Fletcher,” Coral said. “What would she wish of you?”

  He buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with quiet sobs.

  Very good, Coral, Charlotte thought. On the faces of the others she saw reflected her own thought, that tears were a hopeful sign.

  At length, he pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket and mopped his reddened eyes.

  “How can I stop her? I cannot stay at home all day.”

  “You must find a way, Mr. Fletcher,” Mrs. Deamer said.

  “And bear in mind that you’re not alone,” Charlotte said. “We are committed to praying that God gives you strength. Any time you need encouragement, we’re here.”

  He nodded, blew his nose, and pushed to his feet.

  Mrs. Deamer stood aside.

  Charlotte watched him leave, heard the front door close.

  Coral, gathering his cup and saucer, murmured, “I cannot abide cowardice in a man.”

  “Because he didn’t take up arms at once?” Charlotte said. “That is not how men think on matters fraught with emotion. He’ll need some time to digest all of this. Would you agree, Mrs. Deamer?”

  “Most definitely,” she replied.

  “What if you’re wrong?” Rosalind asked. “What if you were mistaken about God wishing us to do this?”

  Coral sniffed. “And the boys pay for it with their flesh?”

  Charlotte shook her head. “That would be most horrible. We would be forced to seek more drastic measures. But let’s not fall before we’re pushed.”

  35

  The fourth time Jude stepped out and looked northward, he was rewarded with the sight of Rosalind advancing down Kleef Lane. In a green dress and straw bonnet, she looked stunning.

  “You see?” he said to Jinny. “I didn’t frighten her away. You worried for nothing.”

  He lifted a hand, and she returned his wave.

  Jinny was on alert, wagging her tail.

  “Off with you, then!”

  The dog bounded away to catch up with Rosalind.

  A throat cleared. Jude turned, met Dr. Harris’s bearded grin.

  “So, the talk is true, then. And she’s a comely lass indeed.”

  Jude grinned back. “Indeed, she is, sir. And I’m afraid I’m closing for lunch.”

  Hand to heart, the doctor said, “You would choose your sweetheart over your best patron?”

  He had not yet dared think of her as sweetheart. The thought gave him enormous pleasure. “You’re not offended, are you?”

  “Now, I would not be much of a man if I were not.” He held up a parcel. “But the fact of the matter is I’ve just been to Grundke’s for wurst and sauerkraut. And I’m still wading through the last stack of books you pushed upon me.”

  Before Jude could protest the friendly barb, Dr. Harris wished him good-day. He doffed his hat to Rosalind as they passed.

  Jude went back into the shop to grab his hat and turn the sign, catching up with her outside Flores.

  “I’m so terribly late,” she said.

  “Not at all. I’m happy you’re here. When I didn’t see you at church, I worried that you were unwell.
Is Mrs. Kent all right?”

  “Yes, quite, thank you.” The smile she turned to him did not mesh with the dent between her brows.

  He wanted to ask if something were troubling her, but others were passing, shop patrons and employees returning to the fishery after their lunches.

  Most of Flores’s round tables were filled. He escorted her over to one near the window. Mrs. Galvez came over, patted his cheek, and said to Rosalind and everyone in the dining room, “Ah, what a good boy you are, Jude, and with the pretty Miss Kent again! And my Paul is preparing for you chicken makhani and asparagus with ginger.”

  Jude made a great show of thanking her. “We can hardly wait.”

  “I have never had Indian food,” Rosalind said, smiling, but the dent remained.

  When they were alone again, or as alone as a couple could be in a restaurant, Jude said below the chatter going on about them, “I sense something the matter.”

  She stared across at him for a moment, then let out a low breath. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, please don’t be. But I would like to help you if I can.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, she said, “I trust your discretion, Jude. But I must ask you to keep this to yourself.”

  “Of course.”

  He listened to her account of the morning and shook his head. “I’m sorry to hear it. I assumed your mother hired the boys because their family was poor.”

  She hesitated again. “Not poor. Their father is a teller at the bank: Mr. Fletcher.”

  The news did not surprise him. He had conducted business with Mr. Fletcher for years, and he could easily imagine the man’s being cowed by someone with overbearing ways.

  “You fear he’ll do nothing?” he asked.

  “I do. But Mother says we should pray God gives him courage and wait.”

  “Well . . .”

  She gave him a dry smile. “You agree, of course.”

  He smiled back. “No doubt there are subjects in which Mrs. Kent and I would be at odds. But being that her counsel dramatically affected my life, I tend to agree.”

  “For how long? Bearing in mind how much is at stake.”

  “I understand that. But just a few days longer may make the difference between the solution you desire and some action that could make matters worse.”

  “Umm. I see.”

  “If you’re going to pray, then don’t try to force God’s hand. I’ll pray as well.”

  “Thank you, Jude. How very kind.”

  His cheeks warmed. One compliment from her, and he felt as if he could fly!

  “You should meet them,” she said. “Can you get away for Saturday lunch?”

  “I should be delighted.”

  “That is, if Mr. Fletcher allows.” She pulled a frown. “Forgive me, raising doubts again. It’s just that I’ve always held this image of fathers as lions, ever ready to pounce if their cubs are threatened. But I never knew mine, so perhaps I live in a fantasy.”

  Jude put down the fork halfway to his mouth. He had assumed Mrs. Kent was recently widowed. “What happened to your father, Rosalind?”

  “He drowned the day before I was born.”

  “How tragic!”

  “To compound tragedy, he was celebrating my imminent birth.”

  “Have you any mementos? Photographs?”

  “Yes, photographs. And Mother saved some playbills.”

  “He was an actor?”

  The dent reappeared. “Um . . . I don’t believe he was well-known.”

  “But that’s fascinating. Was your mother an actress? Is that why she’s so well versed in Shakespeare?”

  She gave him a pained look.

  “What is it, Rosalind? I know so little about you. Why such mystery? You said you trust my discretion.”

  “I do.”

  “Well then . . .”

  “I would explain anything you ask,” she said. “But it’s not my secret to share.”

  “Meaning, it’s your mother’s.”

  “Yes. Trust me, she’s done nothing wrong.”

  “That thought never entered my mind.”

  They fell silent, Rosalind staring at her fingers folded upon the cloth.

  None of your affair, he reminded himself.

  But that Rosalind and her mother had shown up in Port Stilwell for seemingly no reason, that she left her classes so abruptly and now was not at liberty to discuss her basic family background, was troublesome.

  An old, familiar aroma hit his nostrils. Spices unlike any he had ever tasted in England. Mrs. Galvez, beaming again, set two plates before them. “I hope you enjoy!”

  Jude and Rosalind picked up their forks. A bite of chicken and Jude’s eyes watered at the overabundance of seasoning.

  Fortunately, three managers from the quarry chose that time to enter. With obvious reluctance, Mrs. Galvez moved over to greet them.

  He gulped water from his beaker. Rosalind did the same from hers.

  “This is awful,” he leaned to whisper.

  “Yes!” she whispered back. “But they took such pains. We must eat it.”

  “Is everything all right?” Mrs. Galvez said from his right with worried expression.

  He hefted a forkful, smiled. “It’s lovely.”

  “Lovely,” Rosalind said. “Thank you so much.”

  Her smile returned, and she left them again.

  “Are you terribly disappointed?” Rosalind whispered.

  “Not with you here, sharing the adventure.”

  She gave him a droll smile. They ate doggedly, swiping eyes with their handkerchiefs when Mrs. Galvez’s back was turned.

  I love her, he thought, watching her struggle to swallow.

  He dared to suppose she might feel the same for him in time. But Phoebe had taught him that secrets were an unstable foundation for a courtship. A man could step from happiness one day, to devastation the next.

  Rosalind sniffed, and he looked up. She was staring at him, eyes shining.

  “Forgive me,” she murmured.

  “Forgive me,” he said, “for pressuring you.”

  “One day I’ll be able to tell you everything.”

  “I look forward to that. But for now, will you make one promise to me?”

  She was watching his face, and it seemed, holding her breath.

  “That if you ever find yourself . . . not desiring my company . . . you’ll give me fair warning? Not discard me out of the blue?”

  “I promise, Jude.”

  That made him feel better. If he was not yet secure in the longevity of her feelings, he was in her integrity.

  He watched her fork a mouthful of asparagus, wince, and swallow.

  And in her kindness.

  36

  Danny and Albert tarried at the schoolyard as long as they dared, taking turns pushing each other upon the wooden swing that hung from a stout oak.

  They took slow steps walking home. This could work out for or against them. One day their stepmother would growl that they were always underfoot, another, rage because they weren’t there for chores.

  “Mrs. Fairburn showed us a picture of a camel,” Albert said, giving a swift kick to a knot of wood that clattered down the paving stones. “They carry water in their backs.”

  “Their humps,” Danny corrected. “How many humps did he have?”

  “Two.” Albert kicked the wood again. “They all have two.”

  “Some have only one big hump. I’ve seen pictures too.”

  Albert pursed his lips. “It would be easier to ride one with two humps. You sit in the middle.”

  “People don’t ride camels.”

  “They do ride them. Mrs. Fairburn said.”

  “I’ll wager Mrs. Kent has seen a camel,” Albert said. “She’s been to lots of places.”

  Mrs. Kent. Thinking of her, of all the ladies on Orchard Lane, made Danny smile and long for the week to move faster.

  As usual, Albert allowed him to enter the cottage first. The kitchen smelled o
f cabbage and boiled ham, making Danny’s mouth water. Their stepmother was rolling out pastry dough and handing little bits to Teresa, who babbled something through floury lips. “We’re home, Mother.”

  “I have eyes.” She glanced at him, then back to her rolling pin. “You took long enough.”

  “Mrs. Fairburn had us clean the blackboard.” He hoped Mrs. Kent would never know what a liar he was.

  “Well, go and sweep the back walk.”

  Danny went out to the garden with a sense of relief. He took the yard broom from the potting shed and began sweeping the path from back door to privy while Albert placed hands on the ground beneath the elm and crept his bare feet backward up the trunk.

  “Look, Danny!” he called, propped upon his head.

  “Um-hm.” When Danny finished sweeping, he went indoors to report to their stepmother. She was carrying dishes to the table, with Teresa pulling on her skirt and whining.

  “Finish this so I can change her nappy.” She put the stack on the cloth and narrowed her eyes. “And leave the pot alone, mind you.”

  She scooped up Teresa and left. Danny went to the sink.

  “Can I come in?” Albert asked from the garden door.

  Danny shook his wet hands. “I think so.”

  His brother came close, whispered, “Give me a taste?”

  “Watch the door.” Danny went to the stove, raised the lid, lifted a bit of ham on the tip of the stirring spoon, and blew on it. Albert came over and gulped it like a baby bird.

  “Mmm.”

  “Wipe your mouth.”

  Albert’s tongue darted out and around, collecting the bit on his lip.

  Danny was taking out a bit for himself but put it back at the click of the parlor door opening and closing. Father’s muffled steps did not stop at the chair where he usually sat until supper. Footfalls carried on until he appeared in the doorway.

  “Hallo, sons.”

  His sagging face was grimmer than usual, which filled Danny with a fear he could not identify.

  “Hallo, Father!” Albert said.

  Danny said the same while gathering dishes to set the table.

  “Where is your stepmother?”

  Stepmother? Father always referred to her as their mother, as if by saying it enough, he could make it so.

  “She’s upstairs with Teresa,” Danny replied.