A Haven on Orchard Lane

by Lawana Blackwell

  “My mother cooks for the Marquess of Bath. Father is head gardener. I spent my childhood in servants quarters, and happily so.”

  Charlotte smiled to herself at Mrs. Hooper’s discomfort.

  “But then, where would you stay, Miss Shipsey?” Mr. Smith asked.

  “There’s a second maid’s room in the attic.”

  All eyes went to Mrs. Hooper. She dragged out a pained sigh. “Very well.”

  That settled, Charlotte asked to speak with her privately. Mrs. Hooper pushed to her feet and followed her into the kitchen, where Charlotte closed the door and said, “May I ask how you happened to make Mr. Smith’s acquaintance?”

  “Why, when the inn didn’t suit him, he inquired at the desk for other options. Mrs. Fallon gave him my name.”

  “You know nothing more about him?”

  “I know more than I knew about you, Mrs. Kent. But one can see that he’s a gentleman.” She chuckled. “You won’t have to lock your bedroom doors.”

  How I love your sense of humor, Charlotte thought.

  They returned to the parlor. The three women were gathered around Mr. Smith as he held up a page in his sketchbook of seaside Port Stilwell.

  “You can see the whitecaps on the water in this one,” Mrs. Deamer was saying.

  “I drew it just this morning,” he said. “But it isn’t finished. I add the fine details at night, or during inclement weather. Gulls’ nests, leaves, shingles, and so forth. That way, no time is wasted. I expect I’ll be far more productive in this tranquil setting.”

  “But how do you remember how those looked?” Coral asked.

  He tapped his temple. “I am blessed with a keen memory. And details do not have to be one hundred percent accurate. I allow myself some artistic license, if you will.”

  If he were working for Roger, Charlotte thought, he would have served his claim form upon introductions. Why tarry? If he were a reporter, would he have invented an occupation that kept him away most days?

  In any case, London has forgotten you, she said to herself. But to ease nagging doubts, she asked, “Do you ever use a camera, Mr. Smith?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think I ever would care to, Mrs. Kent. There is much more challenge and fulfillment in creating a scene with pencil.”

  Coral and Amy will be at fisticuffs over this one, Charlotte thought.

  “Pencil . . . and talent,” Rosalind said.

  “Thank you, Miss Kent,” he said, smiling at her.

  Charlotte watched her daughter return his smile. Oh dear.

  38

  “Please stop fretting,” Rosalind said to Coral Shipsey as they carried the mop bucket up the stairs, one hand each clasping its wire handle. “This is the least I can do after you solved the bathroom problem.”

  It was not that she was a prude. Though her aunt had striven to hide it from her, she had learned boys were different the first time she witnessed a nanny changing her little charge in a park. Years later, she had seen canvas and marble nudes in museums.

  But a bath was the most intimate room in a house. Sharing with strangers at hotels was different than with a member of the household, whose bedroom would be just across the landing. No doubt Mr. Smith was just as relieved at this new arrangement.

  She had never ventured up to the attic. How nice to have an excuse.

  On the landing, they eased the pail to the floor. Rosalind stepped back and allowed herself a peek through Mrs. Deamer’s doorway, taking in the dormer windows, colorful blanket, and row of books upon the chest of drawers. She did not fear being caught. Mrs. Deamer was obviously put out with Coral for asserting herself without her input and was allowing her to handle the consequences. This pettiness was unlike her, but then, with everything else taken away, her job was all that she had.

  Coral’s new room across the landing mirrored the layout of Mrs. Deamer’s. Together, they cleaned and opened the two bay windows, removed and folded dust sheets. Rosalind stood, then, in the doorway while Coral mopped.

  “What do you think of Mr. Smith?” Coral asked.

  “He seems quite pleasant,” Rosalind replied, wondering if Mr. Clark was being nudged aside in Coral’s affections.

  “He didn’t have to let on that his mum and dad were in service. I like that he doesn’t put on airs.”

  Rosalind had to say it. “Quite different from someone else, don’t you think?”

  “Ah . . . Noble.” Coral swished the mop, shook her head. “He’s seeing Amy.”

  “Oh dear. I spoke out of turn. I’m so sorry.”

  “You’ve no cause to be. Mrs. Kent made me see that I’ve wasted enough time waiting. It doesn’t hurt so much anymore. And now that I’ve stopped paying him any mind, he tries to chat me up. Poor Amy!”

  “Poor Amy,” Rosalind echoed.

  “But I’m not pinning my hopes on Mr. Smith.”

  “Well, no. You’ve only just met him.”

  Coral laughed. “Wouldn’t have mattered, weeks ago. I’d be dreaming up my wedding gown, thinking with my heart instead of my brain.”

  “And what is your brain saying to you?”

  “That he’ll be gone soon enough. If I allow myself to get all fluttery, I’ll only be hurt again. That I should keep my eyes on my goal of having a bakery.”

  “I’m impressed, Coral,” Rosalind said. “That’s very wise thinking.”

  Footsteps sounded. Coral ceased mopping.

  “Miss Kent? Coral?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Deamer?” Rosalind asked, stepping out onto the landing.

  The housekeeper reached the top step. “Mr. Smith is here.”

  “But he doesn’t move in until tomorrow. We aren’t prepared.”

  “He offers to assist in moving Coral’s belongings.”

  Coral said from her doorway, “Oh, we can’t allow that. He’s a guest.”

  “As is Miss Kent,” said Mrs. Deamer but with more warmth than censure.

  “I say we accept his offer,” Rosalind said. “He certainly looked strong enough. I’ll ask him to wait for the floor to dry. Is Mother with him?”

  “He asked to see her garden.”

  “How quickly did she spring from the sofa?”

  “Miss Kent . . .” Mrs. Deamer said with a look of mild reproof.

  “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  The housekeeper’s eyes shone a bit. “She was in a chair.”

  Rosalind laughed, relieved that the tension was gone. She accompanied Mrs. Deamer down the staircase. “I’ll bring tea out there. What do you think of him?”

  Mrs. Deamer was silent for a moment. “The timing causes me some suspicion.”

  “For Mother and me as well.”

  “Perhaps you should inform Mr. Lockhart?”

  “I shall. But Mr. Smith seems to have no motive other than to sketch.”

  In the kitchen, Mrs. Deamer brewed some tea and said, “It may be good for Mrs. Kent to have someone new with whom to chat.”

  Rosalind looked up from arranging macaroons in a dish. “I only hope Mrs. Hooper doesn’t try to fill the unused bedroom any time soon. One new face is enough for the time being.”

  “Indeed.” Mrs. Deamer placed three cups with saucers beside the pot.

  “Will you join us?”

  “I must change the bedding for Mr. Smith and get out some fresh for Coral.”

  “You’re no longer angry with her?”

  Mrs. Deamer gave her a little smile. “I had to remind myself that being young and impulsive is not a crime.”

  On the terrace, Rosalind set the tray on the table and watched Mother give Mr. Smith the grand tour of the garden. Mrs. Deamer was right, she thought. It would be refreshing for Mother to have someone new about.

  However did she keep her sanity on Lord Despicable’s estate?

  Mr. Smith looked over Mother’s shoulder and lifted a hand. He had a handsome smile, she thought. It softened the Spartan-warrior features of his face. It would be interesting to see if Coral could keep her
resolve not to have romantic notions about him.

  Mother beckoned, and when Rosalind neared, leaned down to push aside a cluster of velvety leaves to reveal a green ball the size of an acorn. “Our first tomato!”

  “It’s adorable,” Rosalind said. “Let’s celebrate with tea.”

  “Thank you,” Mr. Smith said. “But I’m here to help.”

  “We must wait for the floor to dry upstairs.”

  They sat in the wicker chairs about the table. As Rosalind poured, she asked, “Tell us more about your book, Mr. Smith.”

  “I’m very excited over it,” he said. “I made the rounds of publishers with some sketches from a visit to Cornwall, and Macmillan commissioned me to sketch towns in the shires which border water. Those off the tourist paths.”

  “When will you be finished with the whole project?” Mother asked.

  “Eighteen months, perhaps. And what of the two of you? I don’t detect the Devonshire accent.”

  “Oh, from all over,” Rosalind replied. “Will you have milk or lemon?”

  “Milk, please, with four sugars.” His large hand dwarfed the Spode cabbage rose teacup as he took a sip. “Earl Grey. My favorite, and my mother’s.”

  “Please, have some macaroons,” Mother said. “Miss Shipsey’s a gifted baker. She hopes to open her own shop one day.”

  He took a bite, chewed, swallowed. “Quite delicious. I enjoy hearing of people who reach for the stars.”

  “Is your book of sketches your star, Mr. Smith?” Mother asked.

  “It is indeed, Mrs. Kent.” He smiled at her. “If it’s a success, I shall be able to buy my parents a little farm where they’ll be accountable to themselves alone.”

  “How lovely. Have you siblings to help you?”

  “Three sisters. All married, so naturally unable to set aside as much as I can.”

  “Your parents are fortunate to have you,” Mother said.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Kent. I’m fortunate to have them.”

  “And Coral and I are fortunate to be spared lugging her belongings upstairs,” Rosalind said.

  Mr. Smith chuckled, raised his cup. “To everyone’s good fortune, then.”

  Rosalind returned from her walk the following morning to find Mr. Smith carrying a writing table down the staircase, with Mother and Mrs. Deamer watching.

  “Mr. Smith is here,” Mother said, as if Rosalind could not figure out whose face was hidden by rosewood.

  “Careful, Mr. Smith,” Mrs. Deamer said.

  When he reached the ground floor, he set it down, blew out a breath, and grinned at Rosalind. “Good morning, Miss Kent. I asked to borrow this from the spare bedroom, and Mrs. Deamer kindly obliged.”

  “You’ve moved in, then?” Rosalind asked.

  His eyes searched her face. “I assure you I shall be as quiet as a mouse.”

  “Well, not too quiet, we hope, Mr. Smith,” Mother said. “You’ll be expected to hold up your end of conversation during meals. There is nothing so tedious as a dining room with only the sounds of slurping soup.”

  His laugh came deep from his chest. “You and I shall get on just fine, Mrs. Kent.”

  During a lunch of cold boiled beef, young carrots and new potatoes, and salad, he followed Rosalind’s directive by telling of the farmhouse where he had lodged in Bigbury-on-Sea and how the wife had made pets of a half-dozen silkies.

  “They had names and would sit in her lap in the garden. Ofttimes, one would roost in her hair.”

  Rosalind was first to ask. “Silkies, Mr. Smith?”

  “Beg your pardon . . . a breed of chicken. They’re small and colorful and docile, with lustrous, silklike plumage. And they have five toes instead of four.”

  “Chickens have toes?” Mother asked.

  He gave her an indulgent smile. “I came here just in time. You have much to learn about poultry.”

  Mother smiled back, and Rosalind asked, “Did the family ever . . . cook them?”

  “Alas, that fate befell the ordinary chickens without names.”

  “And with but four toes, I presume,” Mother said. “Tell me, Mr. Smith, did you sketch the woman and her pets? It would make an interesting addition to your book.”

  “She declined my request to do so, and that was that.” He eyed the slice of beef upon the serving dish. “May I pass this to either of you?”

  This, after having had three servings to their one each.

  “Please, go ahead,” Rosalind said. As he forked it onto his plate, she said to herself that it wouldn’t be so bad, having a man living under the same roof. Already his presence brought an air of energy to the place.

  Hours later, when he was out with his sketching pad, she found herself stepping onto the porch to look down the lane more than once. You have a beau, she reminded herself on her fourth and final look. And she was eager to see him tomorrow.

  She decided to wait at the pillar-box the following morning, but then entertained second thoughts. Would Jude think her overeager?

  You’ve kissed, she reminded herself. Meeting at the corner was far more benign on the list of courtship rituals. In any event, he was approaching from the distance. She returned his wave.

  Jinny reached her first, as usual. Rosalind knelt to allow her chin to be licked while averting her mouth. When Jude was close enough for her ears and not the whole countryside’s, he said, “I couldn’t wait to see you again!”

  She smiled, lowered Jinny’s paws, and stood, for it was obvious from his face that he intended another kiss. She did not run to meet him, proving she was not an overeager woman, though she did take two steps.

  The kiss was warm and sweet. Even better than the one in the shop, for no misunderstanding had preceded it. But on a Saturday morning, one was enough for a man to whom she was not betrothed.

  Jinny’s arf! implied the same.

  On their way up Orchard Lane, Rosalind said, “Danny and Albert aren’t coming.”

  “Oh no.”

  “But that’s good news. Mr. Fletcher is taking them to Exeter for school clothing.”

  “Why, that’s splendid, Rosalind.”

  “Apart from my wanting you to meet them. Can you come again next week?”

  He gave her a look of mock worry. “Should I go home now?”

  She laughed. “I think we can feed you two Saturdays in a row. Oh, and I have more news. We have a new lodger.”

  “A friend of your mother’s?”

  “Would that it were so. But actually, he’s an artist.”

  “He?”

  “Mr. Tobias Smith. Mrs. Hooper bullied us into this. But it won’t be for long, and he’s taken the apartment behind the kitchen so we have a degree of privacy. You may meet him. He went sketching this morning, but I think he intends to return for lunch.”

  She did not add that happenstance found the two of them leaving the cottage at the same time this morning and walking a good way down Fore Street together before parting ways at the beach. There was nothing to it, but she did not want Jude to think she was the sort of silly girl who would attempt to make her beau jealous.

  “Hallo!”

  They turned. Mr. Smith hastened toward them. Returning his wave, Rosalind whispered, “There he is.”

  “I thought to stay nearby to be in time for lunch,” Mr. Smith said when close enough for conversation. “I found a nice copse of apple trees to sketch. May I walk with you?”

  “Of course,” Rosalind said, “May I introduce—”

  “Mr. Pearce, of the bookshop?”

  “How do you do?” Jude said, proffering a hand.

  “Very well, thank you.” Mr. Smith switched his satchel strap to his left arm and shook his hand.

  Jinny took this as a reason to jump up and rest her forepaws on his thigh.

  “Down, Jinny,” Jude said. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Smith.”

  “Not at all.” Mr. Smith set the bag upon the ground and knelt to rub her shoulders while his face was tongue bathed. “Aren’t you a sweet pu
p? I wish I had a treat for you.”

  Rosalind traded smiles with Jude and said, “Miss Shipsey will see that she has plenty. Speaking of . . . we should go so she doesn’t have to hold lunch.”

  “Oh, of course.” Mr. Smith took up his satchel, brushed his knees, and got to his feet.

  “How did you know this was Mr. Pearce?” Rosalind asked as they walked.

  “I spent a fair amount of time with Mrs. Hooper on Thursday. She mentioned several names, but I remembered Mr. Pearce’s especially, for mercenary reasons.” He leaned his head forward to grin at Jude. “I hope you’ll carry my book of sketches one day.”

  “I’m sure that would be my pleasure,” Jude said. “I’d like to see some, if I may.”

  “It would be my pleasure.”

  “But still, how did you know he was the Mr. Pearce?” Rosalind pressed.

  “Umm, she said also that you were . . . seeing each other. When I noticed . . .”

  His voice trailed.

  Rosalind’s face heated, and she exchanged looks with Jude.

  “Forgive me,” Mr. Smith said. “I spend so much time alone that I forget one shouldn’t blurt out one’s every thought.”

  “It’s a common affliction about here,” Jude said.

  “She said you had a rough beginning. Sorry about what happened to your family. I can’t imagine getting over something such as that.”

  “Thank you. It was a long time ago.”

  “Mrs. Hooper is the one who blurts every thought,” Rosalind muttered.

  Mr. Smith grimaced. “I resolve here and now to mind my words more carefully so that I don’t become as Mrs. Hooper.”

  “I’m fairly certain there is no danger in that,” Jude said with a forgiving smile.

  “Oh, but she said some good things as well,” Mr. Smith went on. “That you’ve apparently come into sudden wealth. That cannot change the past, of course, but that’s not a bad thing to happen, is it?”

  “It’s better than a sharp stick in the eye.”

  Mr. Smith laughed and touched the tip of a finger, as if to count. “But there is bad again. You were left standing at the altar.”

  “I was hardly standing at the—”

  “You’re doing it again, Mr. Smith,” Rosalind warned.