A Haven on Orchard Lane

Cover

1

If one would drown one’s sorrows with music, the music must be loud.

On the seventeenth of February, 1880, if Charlotte’s fingers had not pounded out Haydn’s Andante with Variations in F Minor so forcefully, the score would not have slipped from its stand. She would not have heard hoofbeats.

They halted in the snow-frosted carriage drive instead of carrying on to the stables. Visitors were rare, thus curiosity led her from grand piano to window. She pushed aside a curtain and watched a coach sway to a stop behind a pair of horses. The driver hopped down from the seat and opened the door. His passenger stepped to the ground, looked up at the house.

She could almost read his expression. Her first sight of sixteenth-century Fosberry Hall had taken her breath away, with its four storeys of honeyed limestone, gables and projecting windows, and verandah with wide steps.

Charlotte crossed the Belgian carpet and eased open the parlor door.

Alerted by a bell in the kitchen, Mrs. Trinder moved soundlessly up the hall.

Good morning. The man’s voice resonated from the porch. My name is Milton Perry, calling for Lady Fosberry. Here is my card.

I’m afraid Lord Fosberry is away.

This was news to Charlotte, but Roger was not one to inform her of his comings and goings. Nor was she one to ask.

"That’s quite all right. As I said, my business is with Lady Fosberry."

Lady Fosberry is not available, Mrs. Trinder said and began closing the door.

The male voice quickened from andante to allegro. I have an urgent message, if you would but—

Here I am, Mrs. Trinder, Charlotte sang, stepping into the hall.

Mrs. Trinder turned, cheeks as ashen as her hair, veined hand still grasping the knob. Lord Fosberry insists upon receiving guests in person, Your Ladyship.

"The gentleman appears to be my guest."

But—

Charlotte stepped closer, touched her shoulder. I’m still the lady of the house. Now, if you please?

The housekeeper stared at her for a moment before moving aside.

The visitor at the threshold was well dressed in a black Chesterfield coat. From a high forehead flowed oiled salt-and-pepper hair, dented from the crown hat tucked inside his arm. Above a trim beard, his cheeks were ruddy from the cold. One gloved hand held a narrow leather satchel.

What an honor, Lady Fosberry, he said with a little bow.

Thank you. She took the proffered card from his gloved hand. Milton Perry, it stated. The urgency in his hazel eyes intrigued her, and after all, she had not had a caller in two or three years. Come in, Mr. Perry.

Thank you.

She stood to the side. Will your driver care to wait in the kitchen?

Stepping into the hall, he replied, You’re very kind, but I shan’t be long, and he has rugs.

Mrs. Trinder watched with an aggrieved expression, not offering to take his hat and coat. Charlotte did not have the heart to force the issue.

Wait and remove your coat in the parlor, where it’s warmer. She led him down the hall and opened the door.

Mrs. Trinder, lagging behind, cleared her throat and said when Charlotte turned, His lordship will be displeased.

"I’ll explain to him that I insisted . . . that I bullied you, Mrs. Trinder. Will that suffice? Now please, return to your duties."

In the parlor, Mr. Perry stood before the fire in pinstripe suit, his coat, hat, and gloves draped across a sofa arm.

I had forgotten how cold the north can get.

She seated herself in one of the plush green Venetian chairs.

Mr. Perry came over to fold his limbs into the adjacent chair, resting his satchel upon his knees. You managed that situation well, if I may say.

Tempting, it was, to explain, Mrs. Trinder is pleasant on the whole, but as she has been in my husband’s employ for thirty years, she naturally defers to him. But this visitor was a stranger. Enough of Charlotte’s private life had been bandied about over the years.

What brings you here, Mr. Perry?

He nodded. Mrs. Perry and I had the pleasure of seeing you in several productions. You had such presence onstage.

That raised in her no small suspicion. Was he a reporter? If so, she would show him the door, then apologize to Mrs. Trinder. You’re very kind. And once again, may I ask the purpose of your visit?

But of course. He took an envelope from the satchel and left his chair to hand it over. I own a courier service in London.

Charlotte’s breath caught at the sight of the return address. The Lyceum.

Mr. Irving sent two telegrams himself before contacting me, Mr. Perry said, seated again. I dispatched a messenger here on Tuesday, but he was turned away.

Henry Irving took over management of the Lyceum two years ago, according to The Times. She had shared the stage with him on several occasions, most recently eight years ago as his mother, Gertrude, in Hamlet.

Charlotte worried the edge of the envelope with her thumb. Her hopes had been dashed so many times. Stalling, she said, I received neither telegram nor message.

So he assumed. Mr. Perry hesitated. Is it possible your husband . . . ?

She felt a sick chill. It is not only possible but probable.

I’m sorry to hear it. In any event, I’m not as easily intimidated as my staff, and as dependability accounts for the success of my business, I caught the very next train to Lincolnshire.

Impressive. But what if my husband had been here?

Mr. Perry smiled. Over an hour ago, I hired a local courier to deliver a message from one Maxwell Simpson, Esquire, requesting an audience with Lord Fosberry over a matter of supreme importance at Three Horseshoes in Halton Holegate.

I was playing the piano and did not hear. But pray, who is Maxwell Simpson?

My sister’s husband in Yorkshire. I daresay he’ll miss the meeting.

Charlotte smiled. How good it felt to do so!

Mr. Perry’s brows drew together. Which leads me to ask if our high jinks will cause you any harm. Is Lord Fosberry a violent man?

He is not. Roger’s wit was his weapon of choice.

She gave that a second thought. Roger would connect Mr. Perry with the fool’s errand. He owned guns for hunting. Surely he would not use them against a person, but then, his behavior had surprised her before.

Still, she went on, you mustn’t tarry. I’ll read this after . . .

Will you read it now? Mr. Irving awaits your reply.

Pulling in a deep breath, she opened the envelope.

Dear Charlotte,

I pray this finds you in excellent health. And I dare to hope . . . would you care to take a break from country life to play Gertrude again? An unfortunate attack of palsy has forced Mrs. Rathbone to quit midstream, and while Mrs. Overton is a competent understudy, she has not the audience loyalty you commanded. A prompt and favorable reply would put me forever in your debt and bring joy again to London audiences!

Her nausea gave way to light-headedness. She had read in The Times weeks ago of the revival of Hamlet at the Lyceum, never daring even to dream she would be associated with it. He offers me a part.

Mr. Perry smiled and withdrew more papers from the leather case. He sends the script so that you may refresh your memory.

She took it from him and pressed it between her hands. She could almost smell the gaslights.

I’m authorized to purchase a railway ticket and would consider it a privilege to escort you to London.

London!

How wonderful would it be, Charlotte thought, to have a reason to wake in the morning! To go through the day free of self-recrimination for having blundered yet again into the biggest of mistakes!

To be with people!

And yes, to see Charlotte Ward upon the marquee!

The dream faded like stage fog. While her face was free of wrinkles but for the corners of her eyes, and her ash-brown hair only enhanced by the few strands of gray, there was another issue. She pressed her elbows into her sides and felt the flesh yield. I’ve gained two stone, at least. They’re unaware.

You’re still beautiful, Lady Fosberry.

Not enough. Audiences would not fault her for her fifty years. Fifty-one in August! After all, the part was for a grown man’s mother. Yet they would expect someone attractive and regal.

Mr. Perry was a stranger. But there was no one else in whom to confide her angst. I’ve let myself go. Terribly. I’m . . . fat.

I must disagree.

"Yes, you must, she said with frown. Because a gentleman is constrained to say otherwise."

On the contrary, I’m unfailingly honest. He winced. My brother-in-law’s fictitious message notwithstanding. If I may be so bold, you’re, well, Rubenesque.

Rubenesque. What every woman wanted to hear. With knees creaking, she heaved her Rubenesque body to its feet. Please convey my deepest regrets to Mr. Irving. If you will see yourself out . . .

She, who could produce copious onstage tears, wanted no witness to those now prickling the backs of her eyes.

He rose slowly. "Should you not speak with him, at least?"

Attempting to say a word would unleash the flood. She pressed her lips and nodded toward the door.

I’m sorry to have distressed you. Mr. Perry collected coat, gloves, and hat, and backed across the room. Just before the doorway, he paused. Lady Fosberry, my dear wife is a stout woman. I daresay she weighs much more than do you.

Charlotte could pull in only shallow breaths.

She purchases certain undergarments at ladies’ shops. To make herself appear smaller.

That was the icing on the cake. Of course she knew of corsets, but she had never needed one. A hundred years ago, that life seemed.

Why will you not leave!

Mr. Perry was the epitome of male discomfort: eyes not quite meeting hers, fingers plucking at coat buttons. Forgive my indelicacy. But it would be a tragedy if you gave up without a try.

The tears eased, though the back of her throat ached.

A fireplace log collapsed with a hiss into the bed of ashes.

How can it hurt? he asked.

How could it hurt? In so many ways! She had only to picture Henry Irving rejecting her. The return train ride. Roger’s smug look.

I’m afraid that I’ll fail.

He nodded. "I understand. I do. For years, I kept books for Harrods, chained by fear to a job that I despised. One day, I realized it was far better to fail than to spend the rest of my life wondering what would have happened if."

If.

She imagined herself in the years ahead, browbeaten into a shadow of the woman she once was, sick with longing for paths she had not chosen.

Drawing in a deep breath, she said, When does the first train leave tomorrow?

His brows rose. Why, at eight. Shall I come for you?

I will meet you. My husband will not welcome you back onto his property.

That’s sooner than I could have hoped. Will you not need more time?

The thought of more time was not appealing, considering that it would be spent beneath the cloud of Roger’s anger. Besides, more time would give footholds to fresh doubts.

She shook her head.

Very well, Lady Fosberry. I’m staying at Red Lion Inn, should you need to contact me.

She glanced toward the window. You must go now.

He thanked her and left.

As hoofbeats sounded again, Charlotte sank to her knees, rested her head against a sofa cushion, and wept. The spiritual numbness that had gripped her for so long loosened its hold. God had not forgotten her after all.

Dearest Father . . .

How good it felt to pray!

She had been a believer since age fourteen. A common assumption was that actors and actresses led immoral lives. Many did, which was the reason her circle of friends in the profession had always been small. But her parents were faithful churchgoers, no matter how late a Saturday show ended, and no matter where the tour had them temporarily planted. Over her mother’s constant but pragmatic Anglican objections, her father chose whichever congregation was near enough to the theatre to allow them to be in costume for the Sunday matinee.

Thank you for your kindness, in spite of my wallowing in my own misery. Now please give me the strength to do this.

2

Charlotte spent the remainder of the morning laying out clothes. She could have assigned the task to upstairs maid Alma Willis, but word might have gotten out. She wished to speak with Roger before sending for her trunk.

A rap at the door gave her a start. Alma’s voice came through. Shall I bring up a tray, Your Ladyship?

Yes. Charlotte eyed the clothes upon the bed. On second thought, I’ll go myself.

A single impulse propelled her down the stairs, past gilt-framed and somber Fosberrys from generations past. Food. Tight nerves made her ravenous.

Savory aromas greeted her in the paneled dining room. The table stretched out to accommodate sixteen, but the cloth was laid with one place setting. Footman Jack Boswell hastened in, slump shouldered and seeming older than his thirty-odd years. He had been doing the work of two ever since a financial snag had forced Roger to sack the second footman, along with the butler, under gardener, and two housemaids.

I beg your pardon, Your Ladyship, he panted. Lord Fosberry ordered a tray in the library.

That’s quite all right. She slipped into the chair he held out for her. As he moved over to the sideboard, she said, Has God ever surprised you, Jack?

Surprised me? He lifted the soup tureen and shook his head. I can’t say that He has.

Well, you’re young.

"Begging your pardon again, but I feel anything but young."

Charlotte clucked her tongue sympathetically. Don’t give up your faith, Jack. I learned today that we cannot imagine what’s around the corner.

Yes, Your Ladyship, he said with little conviction.

How could she fault his lack of optimism, when Roger insisted upon carrying on as if Fosberry Manor were fully staffed? With just the two of them, they could make life easier for the servants, but her suggestions were brushed aside.

Meals, for example. There was no reason they could not serve themselves from the sideboard for every meal, not just breakfast.

But what a relief, that Roger intended to sulk! Food and terse discussion did not mix well. And she could have seconds without having to endure his comments.

Seconds.

She had not even had soup, and she was anticipating seconds. In spite of a huge breakfast just hours ago. Was food more important than this opportunity handed to her?

But there was not time to shed but two or three pounds, she reminded herself, for she could be onstage within the week.

Better than gaining two or three. There seemed no in-between.

Jack?

He paused halfway from the sideboard with a steaming soup dish upon a tray.

I believe I would care for tea only.

Tea, Your Ladyship?

Yes. Black, and on a tray that I can carry upstairs.

With a sandwich? His surprise was almost comical. Biscuits?

No, thank you.

She had to flee these aromas from whichever delights waited under covered platters.

With tray in hands and head held higher, she again passed the stares of Fosberry ancestors. No food had ever tasted sweeter than this victory!

Two hours later, Charlotte found her husband in the conservatory, fussing over his beloved pink, red, and white camellias.

Roger?

I’m occupied, he said.

Something important requires your attention.

"Are there no hams in the larder that require your attention? He chuckled at his own witticism and waved a hand with a flourish. No cakes in the breadbox, no tarts in the window?"

He can’t hurt you anymore, she said to herself yet felt the sting.

Roger Fosberry, Viscount of Spilsby, was a mildly handsome man for his sixty years, a trim six feet tall, with fading auburn hair as thick as a young man’s. He had been widowed two years when Charlotte met him at the wedding of his niece once removed, actress Lillie Langtry.

You’ll adore Uncle Roger, Lillie had enthused those five years ago. He was so tender with Aunt Helen when she was struck with a cancer.

After years of resisting matchmaking attempts from friends, and direct flirtations from men, Charlotte found herself charmed by Roger’s devotion to his late wife and his talk of his life on an estate in Lincolnshire.

She could imagine reading in the garden. Picnicking on the riverbank. Gathering berries in the woods. Breakfasting in the conservatory. Strolling through golden fields. Going to village fairs. Wholesome activities she had read of in novels but never had time to pursue.

After decades of pretending, what would it be like to be simply herself? After two marriages to actors whose moods were tied to the volume of the applause they received, how would it be to have a companion with nothing to prove?

The newspapers made much of the wedding, quiet affair though it was. The caption in the Times read Charlotte Ward Becomes Lady Fosberry of Spilsby. Third Time Lucky? During those first halcyon months, Roger taught her to play chess, to ride, to tell the difference between a larkspur and a delphinium. He brushed her hair evenings and asked to hear her theatre experiences. They shared a hymnal during services at St. James.

He encouraged trust so much that she allowed herself to cry on his shoulder over the losses she had experienced. He knew of loss as well, and the comfort they gave each other strengthened their bond.

She had not minded his disinterest in entertaining. They were lovers cocooned by polished walls and pampered by servants. The times he was away seeing to tenants and farms, she simply read, took walks, played piano.

It was the beginning of their second year, when she was as besotted as a young maiden, that he came to her in tears. I so wanted to spare you this, Charlotte, but I’m on the verge of bankruptcy. I’ve become a cliché—land rich, capital poor.

None of his doing, he assured her. The price of wheat had fallen. If he did not lower rents, he would lose farmers to rising factory wages in Norfolk. He could not sell off some of his land because the estate was entailed.

She was glad he had come to her. Having paid her own way most of her life, she was beginning to feel like a kept woman. The estate was her life too.

Ignoring a little warning voice in her head, she cleaned out her account, over six hundred pounds. She commissioned the sale of her London townhome, bringing in another hundred pounds. To do otherwise would have been to admit she had sold her birthright for bad pottage.

Yet again.

Perhaps Roger had not married her for money, she thought, watching him inspect a leaf for who knows what. Perhaps self-loathing lay at the root of his increasing coldness, humiliation for having had to ask for help.

Or it could be that he had grown resentful that she was not Helen, the love of his youth. Whatever his reason, he had chosen not to share it. Silence was cruelest for the monsters it bred.

As intimacy waned, food became more than sustenance; it became her solace. He mocked her lack of restraint and the bloating of her body, complained at having to pay a dressmaker to alter gowns and, eventually, sew new ones. He undermined her confidence piecemeal, so by the time she realized she would never see her money again, she could not think of returning to London.

Until today.

"I’ve been offered a part in Hamlet," she said. As if he had not read the telegrams.

He straightened, and his brown eyes mocked her. As what, dearest? The castle?

You will not take this away, Roger, she said over the bile in her throat.

He plucked a white camellia, twirling it in his fingers. Out of the question, Charlotte. I’ll not have my family name subjected to ridicule.

"I would use Ward, as I have from the beginning. My family name."

Everyone knows I’m your husband. You’ll not make a fool of me.

She swallowed and forced breath into her lungs. That would be the utmost irony, wouldn’t it?

Snorting a bitter laugh, he dropped the bloom to his feet. "It was The Era that made fools of the both of us."

The theatre paper? She blinked. What does—

I never read such rubbish, but Helen subscribed to follow Lillie’s career. She read an article to me about how the Shah of Persia was so moved by a performance that he gifted you a ruby . . .

A ruby . . .

. . . stored in a vault in the Bank of London and insured by Lloyd’s of London for fifteen thousand pounds.

A sharp laugh left Charlotte’s throat. You believed this?

He shrugged. I never read where you denied it.

I would have had no time for my career if I had tracked down and denied every falsehood. It would have been futile in any case. Most people want to believe the sensational. Why did you not ask about it before we married?

His silence spoke volumes. Any questions about her finances would have aroused suspicions. She had prided herself on her ability to spot fortune hunters.

Pride truly did go before a fall, as Scripture warned.

Were no wealthy widows pursuing you? Charlotte asked. You’re a handsome man but for the coldness in your eyes when your true nature reveals itself.

There were some. He shrugged. Lady Blake.

Lady Blake? Who wore a different stuffed bird on her hat every Sunday?

He had the grace to look embarrassed. So she’s fond of birds.

I expect the birds would dispute that. Charlotte sighed. Then why me?

Another silence, but the fictitious ruby had taken on a life of its own and stood between them.

I’m grateful your little gift helped me keep the estate, mind you, Roger said at length. I have but to wait out the price of wheat, and this place will be restored to its former glory.

She felt no remnant of love, but that he could be so blasé about taking her savings stung more than any insult he had ever thrown her way.

What I cannot understand, he went on, head leaned thoughtfully, is why you had so little, in light of your successful career. The ruby notwithstanding.

"I have a successful career, she corrected. I’m going to London."

You neither drink nor gamble, he went on, and your house was modest, all things considered. You own few baubles . . .

What had she done with the bulk of her money? Had he but asked, she would have explained. If he had really known her, he would have figured it out long ago. For such a self-congratulatory man, he could be quite obtuse.

I’m going to London, Roger, Charlotte repeated. In the morning.

Hmm . . . well, there’s the rub. How will you get to the station?

The landau, of course.

He shook his head. Allow me to disabuse you of that notion.

What do you mean?

"My landau. My driver. My horses."

You’re not serious.

Utterly serious. You’re free to walk. Twelve miles would do you some good.

You can’t keep me prisoner, Roger.

His brown eyes narrowed. By the by, I sent my own message to your prankster, Mr. Perry, that you’ve changed your mind . . .

Charlotte felt as if the breath had been knocked out of her. Mrs. Trinder must have listened at the door.

". . . and that I shall have him arrested if he trespasses again. Chief Constable Bickerton and I were boyhood schoolmates. Have I never mentioned that?"

I will not allow him to see me cry, she thought even as tears stung her eyes, blurring his face.

Why? she said thickly. "You don’t even like me."

Nonsense. You’re my wife. He could have commented on the weather for all the affection in his tone. But in due time, if you choose to leave, I’ll not prevent it.

Due time . . . meaning when Hamlet’s run was over.

He nodded as if reading her mind. I forbid you to make a laughingstock of me. London papers are sold in Lincolnshire too, as you’re well aware.

Roger . . . She swallowed past the lump in her throat. I’m begging you.

Enough, Charlotte. He returned to inspecting his camellias. You’ll thank me one day when you’ve returned to your senses.

The sound of soft rapping penetrated Charlotte’s mind. She opened her eyes; they burned as if rubbed with sand. It was incredible that she had managed to fall asleep across the cluttered bed.

Your Ladyship? came from the door.

Charlotte lifted her head. Her neck ached from using her arm for a pillow. Beyond the open curtains, the frigid winter had sunk into early dusk. Go away please, Alma.

Yet the knob turned, and the door eased open. Alma entered, carrying tray and candle. Closing the door with her foot, she said, I brought supper.

I’m not hungry, Charlotte said, raising herself to sit.

Yes, Your Ladyship.

Alma set the tray upon the dressing table bench, lit the bedside table lamp, turned, and smiled. She was twenty-six, tall and thin, with a light brown topknot and unfailingly equable disposition.

Alma, I have no appetite. Charlotte’s throat, however, was parched. Just some water.

The maid filled a beaker from the carafe. As Charlotte drank, Alma said, louder than necessary, Now then, see what lovely trout with Dutch sauce Mrs. Fenn made? And some nice artichokes with poached eggs.

Charlotte saw no such thing, only Alma’s face looming close.

Oswald will take you to the railway station, she whispered. If you wish to go.

But how? Charlotte whispered when she could speak.

He’ll be waiting at the verandah at four in the morning.

Why would he?

Stableboy Oswald Green was an affable young man, but her interactions with him were limited, especially since Roger had stopped taking her riding.

Lord Fosberry sent him to town with a message, and the man he brought it to offered him a job. He’s to send a coach. What shall I say to Oswald, yes or no? You can’t bring a trunk.

A trunk meant nothing, compared to freedom. But there was another factor to consider. She would be burning bridges. Roger would never allow her to return.

What, then, if Henry Irving deemed her too large? She had but six pounds sterling and some loose coins.

The knot in her stomach grew. As unpleasant as the now was, the future’s pitfalls were shrouded in fog. Show me what to do, Father!

No voice spoke from a burning bush, no heavenly vision appeared, but in her mind’s eye, she envisioned herself on her knees in the sitting room that morning, gushing a prayer of thanks. If she believed this opportunity to be a gift from God, she must not balk because it was not wrapped in layers of certainty.

She took Alma’s rough hands. Yes.

Alma smiled. Shall I help you pack?

No. The less time you spend with me, the better. And if this causes you any trouble, write to me in care of the Lyceum Theatre.

I shall be fine. Withdrawing her hands, Alma stood straight again and said in a louder-than-necessary tone, Will you not eat, Lady Fosberry?

I have no appetite. She adored trout, but her insides were so wracked that there could have been an anthill on the dish for all the appetite it induced. Which was fortunate, for the quest to shed some weight was renewed.

Alma took the tray and sent her another smile from the doorway.

Charlotte stared at the closed door and fought temptation to call her back. Fear rattled its bones at her like a gruesome skeleton.

She was limited to what she could carry. She rose, lit another lamp, and opened the door to her wardrobe. Standing upon tiptoe, she latched onto the handle of her French Morocco-leather traveling bag and tugged, catching it in her arms. It would be her only luggage, with space for hair and tooth brushes, underclothing, a nightgown.

But first . . .

Moving over to the belongings spread upon the bed, she opened the lid to a flat rosewood box and moved aside papers stiff with age. The oval frame was tarnished, but she had been warned long ago that to take it apart for polishing would damage the sepia photograph. She held it to her cheek for a moment and then packed it into her bag through a haze of fresh tears.

3

Charlotte did not return to bed, lest she not wake. Her mind was beset with doubts and fears in any case. Bag packed, she sat at her writing table and read the playscript.

The lines came back to her.

Your mercy overwhelms me, Father.

From two until three o’clock, she glanced often at the mantelpiece clock, wishing the hands would hurry. At three, she padded to the bathroom. She cleaned her teeth, bathed with facecloth, and fastened her hair into a fresh chignon.

Back in her bedchamber, she pulled on a sea-green poplin gown that would travel well, a gray wool coat with hood, and calfskin gloves. She wondered, then, which shoes to wear. The clock struck a quarter of four. You should have thought