A Haven on Orchard Lane

by Lawana Blackwell

  Father left the doorway. The raps of shoes upon staircase were sharp and quick.

  “Something’s happened,” Danny said.

  Albert caught his fear. “He won’t leave us, will he?”

  “No,” Danny said, though his stomach was tight. Voices drifted from upstairs. “Will you put the forks around?”

  “But where are you . . .”

  He shook his head, went to the doorway, and took two quiet steps into the parlor. His heart jumped when Father appeared at the head of the stairs.

  “Danny! Come and mind Teresa!”

  He was halfway up the staircase when he heard Albert behind him.

  “Me too, Father?”

  “Very well,” Father said, face crimson.

  When Danny reached the landing, Father nodded toward the nursery.

  “We’re not allowed,” Danny said, holding back.

  “Come!” Father said.

  Danny followed him into the nursery, Albert on his heels. Their stepmother stood by Teresa’s crib, clutching her as if she had just pulled her from a river.

  “You’ll not take her from me!”

  “No, no, no!” Teresa cried, clinging to her neck.

  “Put her down, Sabrina.” Father’s voice was as low as their stepmother’s was loud.

  Her eyes were slits through which her rage seemed to intensify. To Danny and Albert, she screamed, “Get out!”

  Teresa shrieked. Danny wanted to close his ears, his eyes, and curl up in a corner. Albert’s thumb went into his mouth.

  Father went over and pulled Teresa from her mother’s arms. Above her wails, he said, “You’ve gone and frightened her. They’re her brothers!”

  Their stepmother burst into tears, sobbing into her hands. Father held the girl on his shoulder and patted her heaving back. “There, there now. There, there.”

  “She wants me!” Stepmother sobbed when Teresa strained to reach for her.

  Danny’s heart thumped in his throat.

  Albert took thumb from mouth, went to the window seat, and picked up Teresa’s doll. As he brought it over and held it up, his sister’s wails grew less intense.

  “Want to play with her?” Albert cooed.

  “There you are,” Father said, patting her back.

  She quieted, seemed to think over the situation, held out her hand. “Mine!”

  Albert handed her the doll, and she wrapped an arm around its neck.

  “You see?” Father kissed the top of her head and set her down.

  She grinned at Danny and Albert. “Baby. Mine.”

  “Keep her from the window,” Father said. “Come, Sabrina. We must talk.”

  Their stepmother looked at Teresa, lip trembling. “Leave the door open.”

  “Very well.”

  On his way out, Father put a hand upon Danny’s shoulder. The light pressure made him want to weep with happiness even as he feared what was to come.

  Their stepmother followed Father through the doorway, turning midway to mouth Door open! Danny flinched at the look she shot him. He assumed they would go into their bedroom. But from the sound, he could tell it was his and Albert’s.

  “Why are we . . .” his stepmother began, but the door closed. And then came murmurings, too low to discern, especially over Albert and Teresa.

  “Nose!” Teresa said, pressing a finger to the tip of Albert’s, then her own.

  Albert touched his ear. “Ear?”

  “Keep her here,” Danny said to his brother.

  He feared going to the door of his and Albert’s room but realized the voices had escalated. He could make out words simply by moving into the hall.

  “. . . not fit for animals, Sabrina. How could you allow them to live in such filth!”

  “You live here too!”

  “Aye, and twice the shame on me.”

  “Animal is what he is! Lies there and wets himself!”

  “He’s but a boy! Would to God I never brought you here!”

  “That wasn’t your tune when your precious Marjorie lay dying!”

  “Don’t you dare say her name! You took advantage of us in our grief, pretending to have a decent heart!”

  She said something through sobs, something Danny could not understand.

  Father’s voice again. “I shall buy a new mattress. We will clean this room.”

  “He’ll only stink it—”

  “I’ll get a sheepskin mat . . . something! I will take them to Exeter on Saturday and buy new clothes, and you will see they’re kept clean!”

  Saturday? But what of Mrs. Kent?

  Still, the thought of returning to Exeter, of spending time with Father! Even if they didn’t get chocolate cake, what a wonder that would be!

  “. . . will treat Danny and Albert decently. They’ll serve their own plates, however much they want, and you’ll not say a word, whether I’m here or away. If it’s not in you to be kind, then you’re to stop being hateful!”

  “You care only about those boys. Teresa’s yours too!”

  The familiar weariness crept into his father’s voice. “I confess I’ve not had the strength to be a proper father. Especially to Albert.”

  “See? You cannot even speak of Teresa without turning it about to your boys!”

  “She’s not suffering from your hand as they are. But yes, I will do right by her.”

  “Well, very good for you. And I need to see to her!”

  “Not until we’re finished here!”

  “What more is there to say?”

  “There is this to say! That I would hope you haven’t gone low enough to beat any of the children. If you ever do, I shall pack you up and deliver you back to Branscombe.”

  “You’ll do no such thing! Teresa will go there over my dead body!”

  Her sobs came again, loud now. Danny stepped back into Teresa’s room. Albert and Teresa were taking turns running into the wall, crashing to the carpet and laughing.

  He smiled at his brother’s endless capacity for fun in the bleakest of situations. And this one was bleak, for Father would return to work tomorrow, and Stepmother would take out her anger on them.

  The sobs abated. He moved back into the hall.

  “Whatever your father did to twist you so, Sabrina, is a pity. And no, that rakeshame will never see our daughter. But I mean every word about taking you there. I can hire someone to keep house and mind the children, just as I hired you.”

  “Will you hire someone to share your bed?”

  His father snorted. “You jest? That part of our lives died long ago. I mean to live for my children. And trust me, I shall ask them every day how they’re being treated!”

  He returned to the nursery. Albert lay upon the rug, pretending to sleep, while Teresa tugged at his shirt and laughed between hiccups.

  A glimmer of hope came to Danny. Mother had surely asked God to put Mrs. Kent into their lives. Now she had asked Him to make home a better place. A safer place.

  Tears stung his eyes. He did not deserve all this.

  But Albert did.

  “I will be a good brother,” he said to Mother under his breath. “I’ll stop stealing and lying. Please tell God.”

  37

  The highlight of Charlotte’s afternoons were when Rosalind returned from the pillar-box with the Exeter and Plymouth Gazette.

  “Here is also a letter from Mr. Fletcher,” Rosalind said, entering the parlor on Thursday.

  “What does it say?” Charlotte asked as the envelope was placed in her hand.

  “It’s addressed to you.” Her daughter frowned. “I shouldn’t have insulted him. I’m quite sure I made matters worse.”

  “Well, let us see.” With Rosalind and Mrs. Deamer looking on, Charlotte removed the seal and drew out the page.

  “Dear Mrs. Kent,

  Albert and Danny will not be there on Saturday, as we intend to visit Exeter for sightseeing and the purchase of new clothing.”

  “Oh my!” Charlotte said, then continued to read al
oud.

  “They do, however, wish to remain in your employ and will return the following week. I am grateful beyond words for your kind attention to them, and wish you all the best. The same to Miss Kent, Mrs. Deamer, and Miss Shipsey.

  Very truly yours,

  Irving Fletcher”

  “Marvelous!” said Mrs. Deamer.

  “Indeed!” Rosalind said. “But Jude was to meet them over lunch. I hope he won’t be disappointed.”

  “I doubt so.” Charlotte smiled at her. “And it gives us reason to invite him the following Saturday.”

  “May I read the letter to Coral?” Mrs. Deamer asked.

  “But of course,” Charlotte replied and handed it over.

  Later, with mutual rustlings, she and Rosalind shared newspaper pages.

  “Here it says that the Foundling Hospital in Exeter needs blankets,” Charlotte said. “Will you buy some yarn and needles on your return walk tomorrow?”

  Rosalind lowered the front page. “You can knit?”

  “My grandmother . . . your great-grandmother Davis taught me. It helped pass the time in greenrooms whilst awaiting my scenes. It was that or gossip. Some actresses managed both, but I’ve always had to keep count of my stitches.”

  “Will you teach me? I should like to help the babies too.”

  Charlotte set the newspaper into her lap. “One hermit is enough.”

  “I go places.”

  “A morning walk and an occasional lunch with Mr. Pearce hardly fill your days. Why don’t you apply to the school board? Perhaps there will be a position in the fall.”

  “Only if Mr. Clark’s voice improves,” Rosalind snickered.

  “The infant school . . . Albert says his schoolmistress is very old. Perhaps she intends this to be her final year teaching.”

  “In Albert’s eyes, I’m very old.”

  Charlotte frowned. “Will you be serious? I’m attempting to discuss your well-being. I don’t see the humor in it.”

  “Forgive me,” Rosalind said. “It’s just that I love being mothered by you.”

  “Thank you for saying that. I love mothering you.” She wagged a finger. “But don’t distract me.”

  They traded smiles, and Rosalind said, “Two reasons I would rather not apply . . . at least not now. Firstly, our situation here is too tenuous. We could be forced to leave at any time. It would be unfair to the students, having to adjust to a new teacher.”

  “We’re not leaving. If he finds me, he finds me.”

  “But have you thought of what a trial would do for your privacy? Would you want reporters lurking about here?”

  “I can’t bear to think of it,” Charlotte admitted. “Still, we wouldn’t leave.”

  “Not even if the boys no longer needed you?”

  Charlotte shook her head. “You and Mr. Pearce . . . I see a bright future in it.”

  “We shall see,” Rosalind said with a little smile. “But all that aside, I’m not ready to apply to the school board. There is that second reason.”

  “And it is . . .”

  “If a vacancy lies ahead, the logical one would indeed be at Albert’s school. And as fond as I am of him, I have neither the patience nor the experience for children so young. I need for them to be old enough so that we can converse like adults.”

  “What will you do with your time, then?”

  “Well, take walks. Read. Knit, once you’ve consented to teach me. I’m not suffering, Mother. It’s good to have a little time to contemplate life.”

  “Miss Kent is a truthful young woman,” Mrs. Deamer said while polishing silver at the dining room table the following morning.

  Charlotte, darning a stocking, nodded. “But also a kind one. She loved teaching at Cheltenham. Can I believe her when she says she’s content?”

  Mrs. Deamer held up a spoon to the sunlight slanting through the curtains. “Would it please her for you to believe her?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Then there is your answer.”

  Charlotte studied her. “As simple as that.”

  Mrs. Deamer smiled. “Simple is an undervalued concept, I believe.”

  “You’re right, you know.”

  “Who is right?” Rosalind asked, entering with a large paper parcel.

  “Mrs. Deamer,” Charlotte replied. “My! Did you get enough yarn?”

  “Three dozen.” Rosalind set the parcel on the table and took out a skein of pale blue. “Mrs. Hooper said the dye lots never quite match, so it’s best to buy it all at once.”

  “I’m sure the babies will appreciate the consistency. The needles?”

  Rosalind pulled out a chair and sat. “She must unpack them from a shipment and will deliver them herself after lunch. I said that wasn’t necessary, that I could get them tomorrow, but she insisted.”

  Coral entered carrying a tarnished fork and handed it to Mrs. Deamer. “Look what was hiding under the cupboard.”

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Deamer said. “By the by, Mrs. Hooper is coming over.”

  “Oh dear!” Coral said. “I should mop.”

  “You mopped last night.”

  “She’s only coming to deliver knitting needles,” Rosalind said.

  Coral twisted the hem of her apron. “She found out about the margarine.”

  “The margarine?” Charlotte asked.

  Her face reddened. “It’s not fit for animals. May as well spread paraffin on our toast. She orders it and says to use it. But I buy the butter from my own pocket, so it’s not as if I’m stealing.”

  “What do you do with the margarine?” Mrs. Deamer asked.

  She stared down at her apron. “Pitch it over the wall into the trees.”

  Rosalind laughed, rose, and embraced her from the side, pinning her arms. “I, for one, thank you! And I shall buy the butter henceforth.”

  Charlotte raised her water beaker. “Hear, hear!”

  Coral gave them a worried smile.

  “I wish you would have come to me with this,” Mrs. Deamer said.

  “I didn’t want to put you in the midst.”

  “Well, you don’t know that’s the purpose of this visit. Go back into the kitchen and compose yourself. And stay there when she arrives, unless I come for you. You look as guilty as a cat in the larder.”

  As it so happened, Mrs. Hooper’s visit had nothing to do with margarine, had little to do with the knitting needles she delivered, and had mostly to do with the tall young gentleman accompanying her.

  His face was clean-shaven, with thick lashes fringing brown eyes, full lips, and an aristocratic nose. The brown suit coat did not disguise a muscular frame, therefore Charlotte reckoned him to be some sort of laborer, carrying tools in the satchel at his side. If so, she should mention the squeak on the fourth stair.

  “Mrs. Kent, Miss Kent. It is my privilege to introduce Mr. Tobias Smith,” Mrs. Hooper said in the parlor, beaming as if presenting the crown prince. “He’s an artist.”

  “I’m very pleased to meet you,” he said with an anxious little bow.

  Trading glances with her daughter, Charlotte thought, Artist? Perhaps Mrs. Hooper intended a fresco on a wall? “Would you care to sit?”

  As Mrs. Hooper and Mr. Smith took chairs, Mrs. Deamer said, “I’ll get tea.”

  “We have just had some,” Mrs. Hooper said. “And you should hear this too. Mr. Smith will be moving here tomorrow.”

  “Here?” Charlotte said. “To Port Stilwell, you mean.”

  “Yes, to Port Stilwell.” Mrs. Hooper waved a hand. “And into the room upstairs.”

  Silence fell. Rosalind’s expression mirrored Charlotte’s gnawing sense of dread.

  “This wasn’t a good idea,” Mr. Smith said to Mrs. Hooper. “I should return to—”

  “They’re merely surprised, Mr. Smith,” she cut in.

  “This does come from out of the blue,” Rosalind said.

  “You yourselves came ‘from out of the blue,’ if you will recollect,” Mrs. Hooper said. �
��The room sits empty. There was always the probability of its being let.”

  Charlotte studied his face. He seemed decent enough. But if she had learned but one lesson in life, it was that appearances could be deceiving. An argument entered her mind. A valid one. She had lived in close quarters with men for most of her life, but Rosalind was the product of all girls’ schooling.

  “I mean no offense to Mr. Smith,” she said to Mrs. Hooper, “but we assumed that if you ever let the room, it would be to another woman.”

  Mr. Smith gave her an understanding nod. “I didn’t give the inn enough time.”

  Raising a silencing hand, Mrs. Hooper said, “We’ve never discussed this subject, Mrs. Kent. Thus I never led you to believe so. Mr. Knight was here nine months.”

  “With his wife.” Charlotte lowered her voice, though Mr. Smith could hardly escape hearing. “And there is the matter of the bathroom.”

  “Stuff and nonsense! You share them in most railway stations and hotels. There is a clever invention called a door you may have heard of. And you can bear this for a month.”

  “One month?” Rosalind said.

  Mr. Smith cleared his throat. “Six weeks at the very most. I’m commissioned by Macmillan Publishers for a series of sketches of the area for a collection. I had hoped the inn would suit me, but after three nights, I realized the noise is not conducive to work.”

  Charlotte recognized the self-satisfaction in Mrs. Hooper’s eyes. This is about my advising your niece that day. About Rosalind and Mr. Pearce. You’re certain enough that we won’t move to risk digging back at us.

  “Mrs. Hooper?” said Coral Shipsey from the dining room doorway.

  This is not the time to confess to the margarine, Charlotte willed with her eyes.

  “If Mr. Smith stays in my room, he may have the bath off the pantry to himself.”

  Mrs. Hooper glared across at her as if she might explode any second.

  Coral spoke faster. “It’s tidy, with a good mattress, and the cross breeze through the windows smells of the garden.”

  “That will be quite enough.” To Mr. Smith, Mrs. Hooper said, “Coral Shipsey is my cook. I apologize for—”

  “How very kind of you, Miss Shipsey,” he said with a smile.

  Mrs. Hooper gave a nervous chuckle and said, “Servants quarters, Mr. Smith? Simply out of the question.”