A Haven on Orchard Lane

by Lawana Blackwell

  “Is that where you found the recipe?” Jude asked. “May I see it?”

  Mr. Galvez rose and fetched an open magazine from the counter near the stove. With Mrs. Galvez leaning close to look, Jude scanned the ingredients. There seemed nothing harmful.

  Tomatoes, green beans, chicken stock, saffron . . .

  He looked at the measurements. “You realize these are metric, don’t you?”

  “They are?” said Mr. Galvez.

  “Spain uses the metric system. Whoever translated this did not convert the measurements.” Jude pushed the magazine across the table. Mr. Galvez held it about seven inches from his nose and squinted.

  That explains the Indian meal, Jude thought.

  “Mr. Galvez, you need spectacles.”

  He set the magazine back onto the table. “No.”

  “I never realized,” said his wife. “He’s cooked the same dishes for years, never needed recipes.”

  “Don’t want spectacles hanging on my face, steaming up in the kitchen,” Mr. Galvez said. “I can see fine except to read. Which I almost never do.”

  He pushed the magazine back to Jude. “Can you convert those numbers?”

  Jude nodded. “I’ll copy the whole recipe in large letters.”

  “The problem is solved, then.”

  “I’ll fetch some paper,” Mrs. Galvez said, pushing out her chair. “But it is time to prepare for lunch.”

  Mr. Galvez got to his feet as well. “It hasn’t been on the menu for twenty years. A day or two more will not matter.”

  He went into the larder while Mrs. Galvez went to the tiny office. Both returned at the same time; he with a joint of beef, and she with a writing tablet, blotter, and fountain pen.

  Jude set to writing, and Mrs. Galvez returned to the table shortly with a large pan of red potatoes. She sat and began peeling, her knife leaving long strips.

  “Are you still seeing Miss Kent?” she asked.

  “Thirty grams equal two tablespoons,” Jude said under his breath. “I’m having lunch with her today.”

  “Why did you not say?”

  He shook his head. “Not here. At the yellow cottage.”

  “Do you love her?”

  While this woman’s abrupt frankness could make him squirm, he appreciated her concern for his welfare. “I can’t wait to see her.”

  “Does that mean yes?”

  He gave her a long-suffering smile.

  “Why is that difficult to say?” she asked.

  “Um . . . because I’m an Englishman?”

  She sighed. “I shall never understand why Englishmen are so cold.”

  “Cold?” Jude said. “I beg to differ. Our hearts are big and near our skins, so we feel the need to armor them.”

  “Isn’t it time you put away the armor and say it to her?”

  “We’ve been acquainted but three months. I don’t want to frighten her away.”

  “Ah.” She nodded. “Yes, once you’ve said the words, the thought of marriage will always be there. You’ll seem a cad if you don’t propose in due time, but you cannot possibly know a person well enough in three months.”

  She was echoing his own attempts to temper his impulsive heart.

  “Same as kissing,” she said. “Too soon.”

  “Um-hm.” One cup chopped onions, he wrote, staring down at the page. She was probably right. Kissing Rosalind was tantamount to a declaration of love. But that ship had sailed, and he was loath to call it back to shore.

  Such a lovely ship.

  “Why do you smile?” Mrs. Galvez asked.

  “Didn’t realize I was,” he said, sobering his expression.

  “Um-hm,” she said with a droll smile of her own.

  He blotted the pen and sat it in its holder. “Well, here you are. I must open shop.”

  “You’ll return when we have another go at it?” Mr. Galvez asked from the stove.

  “Yes, of course.”

  He almost ran into Mrs. Hooper outside, crouched and kneading Jinny’s shoulders.

  “Yes, yes, we love Aunt Aurora, do we not?”

  Aunt Aurora?

  She smiled up at Jude. “Dogs love this. Their muscles grow stiff, just like ours. I massaged Cedric every day, and he lived fifteen years.”

  “Why don’t you get another, Mrs. Hooper? Perhaps another schnauzer?”

  Straightening, she shook her head. “I wept for months after he passed. I cannot go through that again. I’ll content myself with chats with my wee friend here.”

  Jinny thumped her tail, asking for more, but Jude said, “I’m afraid your wee friend and I must open shop.”

  “And I wish to discuss an important matter.” She fell into step with him. “The school board is talking of founding another grammar school, on the east side of town.”

  “Indeed?” Perhaps Rosalind would be interested, he thought. “When?”

  “Not for another two or three years. Such things take time. But it goes to show you that Port Stilwell is growing. You should expand, prepare for more patrons.”

  Their steps halted at the shop door. As he took his key from his pocket, he took perverse pleasure in saying, “Thank you for your advice, Mrs. Hooper. Good day to you.”

  But she followed him indoors with Jinny close behind. “Please close the door. This is a private matter.”

  He frowned but obliged.

  She walked about the shop, marble-like eyes scanning about. They stopped at the counter, where sat the travel brochures he had received in the post yesterday.

  “India, Mr. Pearce?”

  He chided himself for not taking them upstairs last night. The less she knew of his affairs, the better. “Mrs. Hooper, if a patron appears I must open the door.”

  She motioned toward the south wall. “You could break down that wall.”

  He raised his brows. “I’m afraid Mr. Blyth might object.”

  “Not if you owned the space. I’m his landlady, remember.”

  “He’s been there since I was a boy. Why would you kick him out?”

  “Don’t look at me that way, Mr. Pearce,” she said, wagging a finger. “It was Vincent’s idea to buy up half the properties in town. I’m seventy years old. Better to have money in the bank than have to collect rents. Not everyone pays promptly, as you did.”

  “Hire Mr. Lockhart to do it for you.”

  “And give up a percentage to that pettifogger? I think not.”

  “Bartholomew . . .”

  “The restaurant is more than enough for him to maintain.”

  Why are you even trying? he asked himself. “I do hope you’ll not take away Mr. Blyth’s livelihood, Mrs. Hooper. In any case, I wouldn’t be interested in buying.”

  She opened her mouth as if to argue.

  He shook his head.

  With a sigh, she stepped toward the door. “By the by, have you met Mr. Smith?”

  “I have.”

  “Charming fellow, isn’t he?”

  “Charming.” He opened the door and stood aside.

  “His height doesn’t hurt, mind you. Women are naturally drawn to the tall ones.”

  “I have books to shelve.”

  “And a delightful sense of fun! It’s not all work, work, work for Mr. Smith. Small wonder that Miss Kent seemed quite keen on him.”

  “Um-hm.”

  “Have I mentioned that Bernadette is making excellent marks at Girton College? There’s a girl who appreciates a diligent worker. She would not find you dull at all.”

  “Good day, Mrs. Hooper.”

  She gave him a sage grin. “And to you, Mr. Pearce. We’ll speak again.”

  I can scarcely wait.

  Customers began drifting in. Jude sold mostly copies of the Gazette, a few magazines, a dozen envelopes, and one copy of The Duke’s Children. He had opportunity to think over what Mrs. Hooper had said to him later, on his way up Orchard Lane.

  “Do you think I’m dull?” he asked Jinny, trotting a couple feet before him.

/>   Jinny paused to give him a worried look and then went over to the side of the lane to sniff a clump of grass.

  Rosalind doesn’t think so, he assured himself. Hadn’t he made her laugh on their first meeting, when she entered the shop needing a handkerchief?

  That was before Mr. Smith.

  Tall, affable, witty Mr. Smith. Fun Mr. Smith. Under the same roof.

  Doesn’t matter. Jealousy is childish. He’s a gentleman.

  And Rosalind had promised to inform him if she no longer wished to keep company. He trusted her integrity.

  “Do come in,” said Mrs. Deamer at the cottage door, seeming a bit ill at ease. “Miss Kent should be here very shortly.”

  “Did I misunderstand the invitation?”

  “Not at all, Mr. Pearce. We’re expecting you. She’s on the green. Mr. Smith offered to teach the Fletcher boys to play rounders after breakfast.” She looked past him. “And I hear voices . . .”

  Jude turned. From down the lane, two boys advanced, chattering like magpies, with Rosalind and Mr. Smith following.

  Rosalind and Mr. Smith lifted hands. He waved back. Jinny took that as an invitation to dash through the garden and whine at the gate.

  “We’ll go and meet them,” Jude said to Mrs. Deamer.

  Jinny bounded ahead and went to Rosalind, but then diverted her attention to the boys and their enthusiastic pats of her head and back.

  “I’m sorry you had to wait,” Rosalind said when they caught up to each other. She looked as fresh as sea air in a simple blue frock and a straw bonnet that did not conceal her flushed cheeks. “The boys begged for more innings.”

  “We had only just arrived,” he assured her.

  She nodded toward Albert and Danny, their faces being bathed by Jinny, and lowered her voice. “Mr. Smith drew other boys to the game like a magnet, and they were part of a group for possibly the first time in their lives.”

  Jude looked over at the two. If sheer joy could be personified, it would be their faces. He smiled. “I’m happy for them.”

  Mr. Smith came forward carrying ball and glove, a wooden bat tucked under one elbow. His face was sun reddened under dark hair standing in sweaty peaks. “Hallo, old chap. Wish you could have been there! Do say you’ll join us next week.”

  “Thank you, but I would have to close shop for too long.”

  “Can you not wait and open after lunch on Saturdays?”

  “It’s my biggest day. Some of my patrons are from outlying farms and come to town only then.”

  He waited for Mr. Smith to echo Mrs. Hooper’s sentiments regarding work and dullness. Instead, the man clapped him upon the arm and said, “Well then, it’s no wonder your shop is successful. People appreciate a merchant who appreciates them.”

  “It’s kind of you to say,” Jude said, warming to the man. “By the by, I have my catching glove put away somewhere. It’s quite worn, but if you can use it . . .”

  “We can!” Mr. Smith said, proffering the one tucked into his elbow. “I daresay it’s not as worn as this one.”

  Jude took the glove. The leather was indeed stiff and creased and mottled.

  “It’s suffered some abuse, all right. I carry it with me wherever I travel.”

  “It was a gift from his parents when he was fifteen,” Rosalind said.

  “At no small financial sacrifice to them. When Mrs. Kent mentioned the bat and ball in the cellar, it seemed meant to be.” Mr. Smith shook his head and smiled sheepishly. “Enough sentiment for one day. Miss Shipsey is holding lunch.”

  “But first . . .” Rosalind turned to the boys, “Danny? Albert? Come and meet Mr. Pearce.”

  They got to their feet and closed the gap between them, Jinny trotting between.

  “You must be Danny,” Jude said to the older.

  The boy gave him a shy nod but took the hand he extended. “And this is Albert. My brother.”

  “We like your dog,” Albert said as they shook hands.

  “Why, thank you. You must come to the shop and play with her.”

  “The shop?”

  “His bookshop,” his brother said. “Mr. Pearce sent those books to us, remember?”

  “Will you send more?” Albert asked. “I don’t much like the Wonderland book.”

  “Albert!” Danny and Rosalind said in unison.

  Jude laughed. “Stop by, and we’ll choose a better one together.”

  Miss Shipsey and Mrs. Deamer served roast leg of mutton at the dining table, where Albert and Danny took turns giving accounts of the game.

  “I hitted the ball my first time!” Albert said.

  “Because Mr. Smith pitched from up close,” Danny said, though seemingly without malice. Indeed, the boy seemed protective of his younger brother, pulling out his chair and tucking a serviette under his chin. He validated Jude’s observation by adding, “He stepped close for me too.”

  “You’ll grow better with practice, lads,” Mr. Smith said. “Just remember the first rule of rounders . . .”

  “Is to have a jolly good time!” Albert said.

  “That’s the stuff!” Mr. Smith exclaimed.

  “And did you do that?” Mrs. Kent asked. “Have a good time?”

  Danny nodded. “I never wanted to stop.”

  Rosalind and Mrs. Kent listened to their accounts like doting mothers, and Jude was filled with boundless admiration. What could be more fulfilling than to change the course of a child’s life?

  “And we’re to play again Saturday next!” Albert went on.

  “Can you take time away from your work again, Mr. Smith?” Mrs. Kent asked.

  Mr. Smith waved a hand. “I can make up for it weekdays. Besides, having taken time for play will enhance my work, so there is some selfishness here.”

  “Selfishness?” Rosalind said with a little smile.

  The boys shook their heads, and Rosalind and Mr. Smith exchanged glances of such camaraderie that Jude felt a little pang.

  You trust her integrity, he reminded himself.

  Integrity was one thing, though.

  Feelings were another.

  He could not control hers. Nor would he wish to do so. He could only hope that his heart would not be broken yet again. He would be forced to leave Port Stilwell. A man can endure only so much.

  42

  First day of summer break! Noble thought, setting out on foot early Monday, the twenty-eighth of June. He minded not one whit, having his father wake him before sunrise. Better than having to help at the mercantile!

  Thankfully, Father had jumped at his suggestion of a music box for Mother’s almost-forgotten birthday. Where else but in Exeter? Why, he might just take his time. A good steward compared prices and quality, after all.

  He was delighted to find only two other passengers at the railway station. Mr. and Mrs. George, farmers with some grown children in Ottery St. Mary. Perhaps he would have a carriage to himself.

  They seemed equally delighted to see him, for Mrs. George waved him over to say, “Another grandson, Mr. Clark!”

  “Outstanding! May he bring you much joy.” Noble was happy to brighten their morning, for Mr. George was thoughtful enough to compliment his singing every time they crossed paths.

  “Why, thank you, Mr. Clark,” Mrs. George said, and to her husband, “Did you hear that, Alpheus?”

  “DID WE BRING A TOY?” Mr. George shouted.

  Mrs. George leaned closer to him. “HE HOPES HE BRINGS US MUCH JOY!”

  “AH!” The man beamed, nodded. “THANK YOU, MR. CLARK. FINE SINGING, SUNDAY PAST!”

  Noble thanked him, and when the locomotive steamed to a stop, escorted them to a carriage.

  “Will you join us, Mr. Clark?” asked Mrs. George.

  “I’m afraid I would be bad company.” He touched his forehead. “Headache.”

  She clucked sympathy. Her husband gave him a blank smile. Noble bade them farewell, then passed three carriages before netting an unoccupied one.

  As the final boarding whistl
e shrilled, he spotted a tall man dashing across the platform with a satchel and stack of small boxes tied together with ribbon. The fellow who had been escorting Coral to church, Noble realized. Mrs. Hooper’s new lodger, Mr. Smith!

  Coral . . .

  Her sweet face came to his mind often of late. What a fool he was, courting Amy and attempting to court Miss Kent, when all along Coral was meant to be his true love!

  He sighed, folded his arms, and propped his feet upon the facing seat. Would she forgive him? She had so many times, but that was before this giant lumbered into the picture. Noble burned with dislike. What was his business in Exeter? To buy a gift for Coral? Why had he himself never thought of doing so?

  He spent the rest of the journey in a dark cloud. Insult to injury was when a man entered his carriage at Feniton and attempted to chat him up about the inquiry into the Tay Bridge tragedy of December past. What did Noble know of collapsed bridges? Pity that people lost their lives, but he could do nothing for them, and he was dying inside!

  When they pulled into St. David’s Station, he watched Mr. Smith cross the platform. Only then did Noble exit his carriage. He threaded his way around departing and waiting passengers before drawing to a halt.

  Some eight feet away, Mr. Smith stood with a lone box in his hands, his satchel resting beside a wastebin.

  Noble sidestepped to behind a wide post and angled his head to watch.

  Mr. Smith sent a glance to the right and left, then dropped the lid of the box into the bin. He scooped something bread-like with his fingers and shoved it into his mouth. Chewing, he tossed the box, wiped his hands with a handkerchief, and took up his satchel.

  Noble watched him enter the station house before moving to the wastebin. The boxes were easy to spot on top of the other contents. Most of the lids were dislodged, revealing crumbs and bits of custard in some, full pastries in others.

  He’s insane! What other reason was there for such bizarre behavior? He would have to warn Coral. He imagined her smiling, beaming with gratitude while wiping a tear.

  “You’ve saved me from a horrible mistake!”

  As he entered the station house, Noble made a plan. He would begin his foray at Brown’s Haberdashery. They did not carry music boxes, but he needed a new silk cravat for when he spoke to Coral.