A Haven on Orchard Lane

by Lawana Blackwell

  “Always the same. That I’m not at liberty to discuss.”

  “Why didn’t you speak with us?” Rosalind said.

  “Well, they seemed natural questions from someone under the same roof. And he would say he understood and change the subject, but it was harder and harder to keep things from him.” Her lips tightened. “Especially after he offered to help me.”

  “I’m grateful to you, Coral,” Charlotte said. And she felt the overwhelming urge to be alone. Mr. Hurst would not arrive to tend the garden until well after lunch. “I need to be out of doors for a while.”

  She went through the kitchen to a bench near the crabapple tree. Garden warblers sang a throaty contralto from the nearby wood, where salt breezes rattled the leaves. Gulls called to one another over the bay. The sounds of home.

  Father, have I trusted the wrong man yet again? What should we do now? Your Word promises wisdom to those who ask for it. Please, please grant me that wisdom now.

  44

  “I won’t allow this to involve you,” Charlotte said when Rosalind joined her on the bench half an hour later.

  “Don’t say that, Mother.” Her daughter took her hand. “We’re a team.”

  Charlotte had to look away as she squeezed her hand.

  “I wonder if our trust in Mr. Lockhart was misplaced,” Rosalind said.

  “Surely you don’t suspect him.”

  “Who else can it be? Coral seems truthful. Mrs. Deamer’s above reproach.”

  Coral brought out tea. Rosalind moved to the side so that she could put the tray between them. As she poured, Coral said, “Would you mind if I went up to the attic before Mr. Smith arrives? I can’t bear the thought of facing him.”

  “Of course not,” Charlotte replied.

  “I’ll leave sandwiches out for him.”

  “Why would you?” Rosalind asked.

  “Because it’s what Mrs. Hooper pays me to do,” she said flatly.

  “Oh dear. Well, don’t poison him.”

  “I shan’t, Miss Kent.” She turned to leave, saying over her shoulder, “Though I can’t promise not to overcrank the pepper mill.”

  That made Charlotte chuckle.

  Stirring sugar into her tea, Rosalind said, “It’s good to hear you laugh.”

  “Churchyard humor.”

  “We should rethink moving. If he’s a reporter, then it’s but a matter of time before Lord Fosberry finds you.”

  “It’ll be a matter of time for the remainder of my years,” Charlotte said with a sigh. “People depend upon us. People whom God put into our lives. I don’t believe He means for us to abandon them. We’ve put down roots that I’m not prepared to rip from the ground.”

  Rosalind’s eyes narrowed. “You aren’t referring to cabbages, are you?”

  Charlotte laughed again and took a sip from her cup.

  Mr. Smith came through the kitchen door, scanned the garden, and brightened. “Ah, my favorite ladies!”

  “And so it begins,” Charlotte murmured.

  “For shame, Mr. Smith!” Rosalind said when he was but eight feet away.

  He stopped short, smiling still, though cautiously. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Or shall I say, Mr. Smithson?”

  His brow furrowed. “You . . . went through my belongings?”

  “You have no right to be outraged!”

  Charlotte’s racing heart made her lightheaded. She was glad for Rosalind’s control of the situation.

  He took a step closer, palms outstretched. “I can explain. I adopted a pen name. It’s not so uncommon . . . George Eliot, Mark Twain.”

  “And the woman and child you were seen with in Exeter?”

  He blew out a sigh, dropped his arms. “They’re my sister and her daughter, from Lynton. I breakfasted with them before meeting my editor.”

  “You never mentioned that they would be there,” Rosalind said.

  His expression tightened. “Miss Kent, do you suggest I’m obligated to give you every detail of my life?”

  “Why did you discard Miss Shipsey’s pastries?”

  Cheeks flushed, he replied, “I meant to protect her. The creams had soured. She wouldn’t have wanted me to give them out. I could have discarded them at Port Stilwell Station, could I have not?”

  “Someone may have seen you here,” Rosalind said. “And if they were spoiled, why did you eat some?”

  “How else would I have known they were spoiled? She gave me one for the journey. Ask her.”

  The umbrage in his face weakened Charlotte’s certainty of his guilt. But the fear in Mr. Clark’s had seemed equally genuine. She said, “The person who saw you said he was threatened.”

  “The singer!” He folded his arms. “Odd fellow. He frightened my little niece, Betsy, with his standing there and staring. He wouldn’t leave when I asked politely; thus, I helped him to see the wisdom in it. I’m not sorry to say I would do it again.”

  “Um . . .” Rosalind said while Charlotte also floundered for words.

  “Miss Kent . . . Mrs. Kent.” He took a step forward, his expression earnest. “It’s me. Tobias. I like to think that we’re friends.”

  There was still something troubling to sort out, Charlotte reminded herself. “Why did you sketch a picture of me when I asked you not to do so?”

  He halted. “Actually, you said you would rather not pose for one. I sketch all the important people in my life, to have something to give to them when I leave.”

  “Whom else have you sketched?”

  “Why, Miss Kent. Danny and Albert. Mrs. Deamer and Miss Shipsey.” He gave a dry chuckle. “Mrs. Hooper . . . naturally.”

  “Are there any more of me?”

  “None, Mrs. Kent.” His expression seemed without guile. He was either innocent or a very good liar. “Why should there be?”

  Danny and Albert were fond of him, Charlotte thought. As was Jinny. Weren’t children and dogs supposed to be keen judges of character?

  “May we see the contents of your satchel?” Rosalind asked.

  “Now?”

  “If you please. If we’re wrong, you’ll have our deepest apologies.”

  Charlotte waited. What a relief it would be, and not only for the peace of mind she could enjoy for a while longer. Mr. Smith had brought lightheartedness and energy into the cottage. Even laughter. She did not want that to end.

  His shoulders sagged, and he covered a yawn. “Very well. But I’ve had just three hours’ sleep. May this wait until after I’ve rested?”

  It was tempting to agree. Yet if he had extra sketches of her or a story, or both, where would he hide them this time?

  “What do you think, Mother?” Rosalind whispered.

  If he’s indeed devious, he’ll find a way, Charlotte thought. And wouldn’t an innocent person insist upon showing the evidence at once?

  She got to her feet. “This will take but a moment, Mr. Smith.”

  Rosalind stood as well.

  Mr. Smith stared at them, seeming to cast about for words. At length, he walked to the second bench, lifted it, and placed it three feet away, facing them.

  “A gentleman doesn’t sit when ladies are standing,” he said with a dry smile.

  Charlotte and Rosalind sat.

  Folding himself into the bench, he clasped hands upon a crossed knee. “Thomas Smithson is my name. I’m a reporter for The Cornhill Magazine.”

  Charlotte closed her eyes and groaned.

  “Why?” Rosalind asked.

  “My family’s livelihood,” he replied. “To make a name. Why does one do anything of worth?”

  “You count invading my privacy as a thing of worth?” Charlotte asked.

  “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Kent, but when one decides upon a stage career, is it not disingenuous to speak of privacy?”

  “One should have a choice as to how much one wishes to expose. Do you not have curtains in your windows?”

  He shrugged.

  Glaring, Rosalind said, “You fooled us
completely, didn’t you?”

  “A tool of the trade, Miss Kent. I took no pleasure in it.”

  He turned to Charlotte, softening his voice. “It may be that this could benefit both of us. Of late, actual photographs are beginning to crop up in magazines and newspapers. If you would but allow me to hire a photographer—”

  “No.”

  “Please bear with me,” he rushed on. “The magazine would pay twice as much. I would gladly share that with you.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  He gave her a sly look, alarming in what she had once considered a pleasant face.

  “As the story will come out in any event, would you not rather have some control over it?”

  His message was clear: He could write anything he wished. Her life here was too mundane for an interesting story. Make her a drunkard, give her a lover. Or three. Not only would Roger find her, but with more ammunition for the divorce.

  “And you offer this because . . .” Charlotte said.

  “I truly admire you. My parents saw you in several productions in your day.”

  “Your servant parents?” Rosalind said.

  “Please forgive me that bit of fiction,” he said sheepishly. “They’re far from peerage, in any event. My father owns a tailor shop and is solidly middle-class.”

  “You played upon our sympathies to earn our trust,” Charlotte said. “The same reason you befriended Danny and Albert and pretended to help Coral.”

  He actually looked embarrassed.

  “Please . . . Mr. Smith . . . Smithson,” Rosalind said, as if encouraged by this small evidence of humanity. “You have no idea of the harm you’ll cause my mother.”

  “Harm? Having a reporter knock now and again? You’re not obligated to invite us indoors, you know.”

  “There is more to it than that.”

  “Is there?”

  The corners of his mouth twitched and then froze, as though he was working hard to restrain them. Meeting Charlotte’s eyes again, he said, “I’m ambitious, Mrs. Kent, but not without heart. You have been kind to me. I would cut off an arm before doing you actual harm. What is it that you fear?”

  She had a ready answer. “I fear men such as you, Mr. Smith. You offer me money, not from any kindness but because it would advance your reputation. You offer sympathy to prod for more information to print.”

  Frowning, he got to his feet. “Very well, ladies. It appears I have a train to catch.”

  Rosalind rose as well. “Wait, Mr. Smith.”

  He continued across the garden.

  “Who informed you that Mother was here? You owe us that much!”

  But he left without turning.

  Charlotte sent up a prayer. Thank you for prompting me to ask about the etchings.

  “So, we’re back to where we began,” Rosalind said, sinking back onto the bench.

  “I’m afraid so.” Charlotte was still in a prayerful mode, and the thought that followed was, Is there any way to stop this from happening, Father? I’m not after vengeance, and I understand that we’re to turn the other cheek. But if I can prevent or even lessen the blow beforehand, will you show me how?

  “Mother?”

  Charlotte blinked at Rosalind. “I was praying for direction.”

  “And did you get an answer?”

  “Not as yet.”

  “Well, I shall set out in the direction of Mr. Lockhart’s office and demand explanation.”

  “We’re not certain it was him,” Charlotte said.

  Coral hurried from the cottage. “Mr. Smith just left!”

  “He confessed,” Charlotte said. “He’s a reporter.”

  Closing her eyes, Coral groaned. “I’m so sorry . . .”

  “What is it?” Charlotte rose and went over to her with Rosalind following.

  Coral wiped her eyes upon the end of her apron and said with a thick voice, “I may have said too much. A fortnight after he arrived, he asked how Danny and Albert came to be here. He promised not to say anything.”

  “You mentioned the stepmother?” Charlotte asked.

  “I was so proud of what we . . . what you’ve done for them.” With a pitiably hopeful expression, she said, “But he won’t write anything about them, will he? They’re not even famous.”

  “They’re a major part of Mother’s life,” Rosalind said. “There isn’t much else taking place here.”

  “I’m so sorry!” Coral cried again. “What have I done?”

  What have you done? Charlotte asked herself even as she patted Coral’s back.

  45

  Rosalind waited until Mr. Smith was a speck in the distance. Never did she want to see his face again. Years of daily walks had made her fast on her feet. Within twenty minutes, she was peering through Mr. Lockhart’s dusty window.

  He sat at his desk, writing on a tablet. She had to rap upon the door twice before he raised his head and squinted in her direction.

  “Miss Kent?” he said, holding open the door. “Is something the matter?”

  “There is something very much the matter, Mr. Lockhart.”

  “Please.” He took her elbow and led her to a chair, then sat in the one beside her. “How may I assist you? Is your mother all right?”

  The concern in his expression almost disarmed her of the righteous anger that had fueled her walk. Almost.

  “Did you betray us?”

  His brows lifted. “Someone found her. It was only a matter of time. She was served a claim form?”

  That his initial concern was for her mother and not to defend himself tempered Rosalind’s hostility a bit. In any event, she had no choice but to relate today’s events.

  “Will she consider moving?” he asked.

  “She’s set firmly against it.”

  “Pity. Why did you not inform me that another lodger had arrived?”

  Why, indeed? she asked herself.

  “We meant to. But then he seemed so benign and pleasant, and we assumed if we were careful about what we said . . .”

  He gave an aggrieved sigh.

  “Mrs. Hooper pushed him onto us,” Rosalind said by way of defense. A thought struck her. “Do you think she’s behind this?”

  “Who can say? Probably not. But it wasn’t I. At this point, whether you believe that is not important. Just that you trust me enough to take action.”

  She pulled in a breath. “What sort of action?”

  “Immediate action. You must go to London.”

  “Mr. Smith’s train has not left. Can you not go to the station and confront him?”

  “To what avail, Miss Kent? He knows that my effectiveness is limited.”

  You could punch him, Rosalind thought.

  “Now, it would be best if your mother accompanied you. But would she be able to bear London again?”

  “You’re serious.”

  “Indeed.”

  “I shall have to ask. It’ll be a shock.”

  “Remind her that no one expects her, thus I do not think she would be harassed.”

  “She has a half veil,” Rosalind said.

  “Perfect!”

  He went around to his desk and took a sheet of paper from a drawer.

  “The last train leaves at half past four, which would have you arrive at nine.”

  “Leave today?”

  “Yes. Visit Mr. Benjamin Miller at this address before eight o’clock in the morning. He’s a highly respected solicitor, the top of our class at University College. Bright enough to be a barrister, would that his nerves allowed him to argue in court.”

  “But he doesn’t know us.”

  “He knows me.” He scribbled onto the paper, folded it, and brought it to her. “Have you currency enough for the journey?”

  “I have.” Rosalind had stormed off without reticule, so she slipped the paper into her sleeve.

  “Good. Your withdrawing money could arouse suspicion. We cannot risk someone telegraphing to warn him. The fewer people aware that you’re leaving, the
better.”

  This could be an act, she thought. He could be the one to telegraph Mr. Smithson. But she so wanted to trust.

  “Miss Kent?” His voice broke into her thoughts.

  “It wasn’t you?” she asked.

  He chuckled. “You would be dense not to suspect me. But we haven’t time to gather character references. Now, go straight home. I’ll come for you in an hour and a half to drive you to the station. Pack light. I expect you’ll be there but a day or two.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Lockhart.”

  “My pleasure.”

  She set out up Fore Street with thoughts occupied over how Mother would react to her news. At the first corner, she automatically looked to the left.

  Few people were out and about. Where was the harm in veering over to the bookshop? It did not seem right to up and leave town without informing Jude.

  Just a day or two, she reminded herself and continued on. They had seen each other just yesterday. She would be back before he realized she was away.

  In the parlor, Mother sat with eyes closed and head against the back of the sofa.

  “Mother? Are you asleep?”

  She raised her head, looking very weary. “Just resting my eyes.”

  “Can you bear to go to London with me? You could wear your veil.”

  “But why?”

  “To see a solicitor whom Mr. Lockhart highly recommends. We would need to leave in an hour.”

  “Today?”

  “I’m afraid so. I’ll do this alone if you—”

  “No. We’ll both go.” She rose to her feet.

  Rosalind packed her bag and went into the kitchen. Coral stood at the table, chopping a cabbage.

  “Mother and I need to go to London.”

  Coral’s knife went still. “Now?”

  “When Mr. Lockhart comes for us. We should return in a day or two. Will you pack some sandwiches?”

  “Of course. This has been a day for trains. Will Mr. Lockhart go as well?”

  “No, but he directed us to another solicitor.”

  “You trust him, then.”

  “I do.” Rosalind shrugged. “I think.”

  She thought of asking her to speak to Jude. But he would want to know the reason, and she wanted it to come from her. He had surely had enough of “Trust me, I’ll explain later.”