Where Love Begins (Where There is Love Book 1) Read online

  Where Love Begins

  Book 1,

  Where There is Love Series

  By

  Donna Fletcher Crow

  Copyright © 2015 by Donna Fletcher Crow

  All rights reserved as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Publishing history

  Published as A Gentle Calling

  1987

  By SP Publications Inc

  Victor Books

  Wheaton, Illinois 60187

  Published as A Gentle Calling

  1997

  By Crossway Books

  A Division of Good News Publishers

  Wheaton, Illinois 60187

  Where Love Begins

  By Verity Press

  an imprint of Publications Marketing, Inc.

  Box 972

  Boise, Idaho

  83704

  Cover design by Ken Raney

  Layout design by eBooks By Barb for booknook.biz

  This is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or used fictitiously.

  Published in the United States of America

  Contents

  Dedication

  Where There is Love

  Epigraph

  The Perronet Family

  Maps

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Historical Footnote

  Word List

  Time Line for the Where There Is Love Series

  Bibliography

  About The Author

  The Complete Where There is Love Series

  To Betty Waller

  Librarian, Teacher, Friend

  who inspired all who crossed her path

  with a love of books.

  I’m thankful our paths crossed

  In Memorium

  Where There is Love

  Where Love Begins

  (1749-1750)

  John and Charles Wesley

  George Whitefield

  William Law

  Countess of Huntingdon

  Where Love Restores

  (1823-1825)

  Charles Simeon

  William Wilberforce

  Earl of Harrowby

  Where Love Illumines

  (1772-1773)

  Charles Wesley

  John Berridge

  Rowland Hill

  Countess of Huntingdon

  Where Love Shines

  (1854-1856)

  Florence Nightingale

  Lord Shaftesbury

  Charles Spurgeon

  Where Love Triumphs

  (1824)

  Charles Simeon

  Robert Hall

  Where Love Calls

  (1883-1885)

  Dwight L. Moody

  Ira Sankey

  The Cambridge Seven

  Hudson Taylor

  “There are so few people now who want to have any intimate spiritual association with the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries…

  “Who bothers at all now about the work and achievement of our grandfathers, and how much of what they knew have we already forgotten?”

  —DIETRICH BONHOEFFER

  The Perronet Family

  Vincent Perronet, youngest son of David and Philothea Perronet, born in London, in 1693. David Perronet was a native of Chateau d’Oex in the canton of Berne, a protestant who came to England about 1680. Philothea Perronet (nee Arthur) was from Wiltshire.

  Charity Perronet, daughter of Thomas and Margaret Goodnew of London, married Vincent Perronet on 4 December 1718. They had twelve children.

  Damaris, called Dudy

  Edward, called Ned, married Durial

  Catherine

  Charles, called Charl

  Vincent Jr.

  Elizabeth, married William Briggs

  John

  David

  Henry

  William

  Philothea

  Thomas

  One

  “NED, YOU’RE BLEEDING!” Catherine Perronet rushed across the room to her brother. “What happened?” She took his arm to lead him to a chair, but he drew back sharply.

  “Don’t touch it, Cath. It may be broken.”

  “Broken!” This was too much even for Catherine’s usually unruffled calm. “Were you attacked by a mob again?”

  Edward Perronet smiled weakly. “I attempted to sow the seeds of truth to a sunrise crowd making their way to work near Brixton. Shall we just say they were stony soil?”

  “Apparently. They found plenty of stones to hurl at you.” Catherine turned to fetch a bowl of water and some rags. “We must call a doctor for your arm, but I shall wash your wounds first. If Durial should see you in your present state, I wouldn’t vouch for the safety of your future child.”

  “Pray, do clean me up, sister. I would rather face another mob than Durial if she were to see so much grime in the vicinity of her chair covers and carpet.” He looked at his boots caked with fresh mud from the April rains.

  Catherine directed a servant girl to bring a fresh roll of bandages and sent the stable boy into Greenwich for the doctor. At just past seven o’clock in the morning she could hope he would still be at home. If he could be persuaded to leave his breakfast.

  When she had staunched the blood from the worst of her brother’s head injuries, and had cleansed all the caked blood and mud from his hair and face, she paused in her labors. “I must say, Ned, this is a fine way to make your homecoming after three weeks absence. I suppose the family of an itinerant preacher should become accustomed to such behavior; but still, you could have sent us some word of your progress in Wales. Were you beaten there too?”

  Ned raised his tall, lanky body straighter in the chair, moving carefully to protect his damaged arm. His expression became suddenly serious, far graver than it had been over his physical injuries. “Sit down, Catherine. I have news I didn’t want to put in a message. I fear it may distress you.”

  Catherine sat with quiet dignity. “In that case, let us have it quickly.”

  “My stay in Wales was extended because I attended the marriage of Charles Wesley to Miss Sally Gwynne.”

  Catherine stared at her brother. She heard the words, but her mind refused to make sense out of them. “Charles is married? Charles Wesley?” My Charles? “But I thought… I hoped… I was nearly certain…” She forced a little hiccup to cover what wanted to come out as a sob.

  “Forgive me, Ned. I fear I have been indulging in foolish fantasies. But
after you told me of the list of women John Wesley thought would make eligible wives for his brother…”

  “That was most unwise of me. I should never have told you.”

  “On the contrary, the information provided me many happy fancies with which to while away dull hours. You made it quite clear that there were three names on the list and that Sally Gwynne’s was among them. I fear that I simply relied too much on the fact that Catherine Perronet was first on the list.”

  “And lest you hear from another and think me a traitor, I must also tell you that the letter I carried to Mrs. Gwynne from our father was instrumental in winning that reluctant lady’s approval to the match.”

  “You and Father both? And what of our own Charl? Surely you knew he had spoken of a fondness for Miss Gwynne too.”

  Ned nodded. “Yes, I am fully aware that many hopes will be disappointed.”

  “If you carried a letter to Mrs. Gwynne, you must have known what was to take place. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I had an idea it was likely. I knew Charles hoped most fervently. But I also knew her parents had not consented and might not, so I wished to spare you pain in case nothing came of the matter.”

  Ned rose and crossed the room to take his sister’s hand. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of news that wounds you so deeply, Catherine. But I thought it best to come from one who loves you. I wish I could say something to ease your pain.”

  She shook her lace-capped head of rich, dark curls and forced a tremulous smile. “Thank you, Ned. It’s nice to know someone loves me.” She withdrew her hand and resumed her composed posture. “Now, I think you had best finish what you’ve begun and tell me about the lady… at least assure me that she is worthy of so great a prize.”

  “That comfort I can vouchsafe you. Sally Gwynne is a fine musician and a beautiful young woman. And she is from one of the first families in that part of Wales.”

  “Fah, that is not what I wish to hear. Will she make Cha… the Reverend Mr. Wesley a good wife? Will she keep him comfortable? Support his work? Make him happy?”

  “Yes. As far as it’s possible to predict such things, I believe she will do all that. She is much younger than he, by twenty years I should think, but she has the heart of one much more mature. When Mrs. Gwynne tried to make Charles promise never to return to Ireland where he was so nearly stoned last month, Sally jumped to her feet and said, ‘Indeed, I shall go with him!’” Ned paused before driving in the final nail. “And Charles is much in love with her.”

  Catherine nodded, then turned slightly away so that her brother should not see the tears that persisted in brimming her eyes no matter how staunchly she ordered them not to. “Thank you, Ned. I am content. At least, I shall be soon.”

  She stood, shook out the panniers under her wide blue skirt, and checked that the fine lawn fichu at her neck was in place. “I believe I hear the wheels of the doctor’s carriage on the gravel. I shall prepare my sister-in-law for the shock of receiving her battered husband. But do not forget to put on a clean jacket before you present yourself to her.”

  Durial Perronet was resting in her room upstairs, her curtains drawn against the midmorning sun, and a cloth of lavender water folded on her brow. It was indeed fortunate that the Perronet fortunes were well-endowed from their family estates in France, for no mere itinerant Methodist preacher could afford to keep such a wife as Durial. “Am I disturbing you, sister?” Catherine asked.

  Durial sat up, carefully placed the lavender-water cloth on the marble stand by her bed, and arranged the neckline of her sprigged cotton dressing gown. “I am happy for a visitor. What is all the coming and going I hear below?”

  “Ned is returned from Wales.”

  Durial pulled back her sheets without care for wrinkling them. “My husband home, and I not told? Oh, where are my slippers?”

  Catherine produced the slippers from under the four-poster bed.

  “He will join you in a few minutes. But I must tell you first, there was an altercation…”

  “Oh, no.” Durial sank back on her pillows. “Was he stoned again?”

  “I fear so. But he is quite unharmed—except for his arm. The doctor is with him now.”

  “Doctor! Oh, why will he not give up this dangerous enthusiasm and take a settled parish? I don’t ask him to stop preaching, although I could wish he gave more time to his hymn-writing; but why can he not be content to be a respectable vicar like his father? Your father has been settled at Shoreham for these thirty years and your mother did not have to bear any of her twelve children while in fear for her husband’s life.”

  Catherine was still doing her best to reassure her brother’s wife several minutes later when Ned entered, his arm in a sling. “Edward.” Durial surveyed her husband with narrowed eyes. “If I weren’t so glad to see you, I should give you the thorough scolding you deserve. If you refuse to take any thought for your wife’s nerves, at least you might think of your son.” She put her hand to her waist where evidence of new life was just beginning to show.

  “If you will excuse me, I shall leave you two to sort this out. I must get to work. The children should find their teacher in her place when they enter.” Catherine crossed to the door.

  “Cath, you are not going to the Foundry today? Not after—everything?” Ned turned away from Durial. “I will send a message that I am unable to drive you. The arm is not broken, merely severely bruised. Still…”

  “Fah! What does that say to anything? Our father taught me to drive when I was twelve years old. One of the stable boys can accompany me.” Ned started to protest, but she stopped him. “Please. I would much rather be alone.”

  Two

  CATHERINE TIED A BROAD-BRIMMED HAT of leghorn straw firmly under her chin, drew a bottle-green wool cape around her shoulders, and proceeded to the stables.

  Catherine had never been more thankful for her work with the Methodist Society than she was at that moment, or of the long drive from Greenwich to Moorfields which would provide her the solitude she desired. Whether the emotion was joy or sorrow, Catherine had always felt deeply. But in spite of the depth of her feeling, or perhaps because of it, she wanted to be alone today, to experience the fullness of her sorrow and examine the true state of her mind. She did not want sympathy or company; she wanted uninterrupted time. Whatever was to come to her, she would find the strength to face it—somehow. But she must understand her feelings first.

  “You will sit up in back, Joseph, and be very quiet.”

  “Yes, Miss.” The lad scrambled up on the box, and those were the only two words Catherine heard from him.

  Old Biggin knew the way to the Foundry as well as Catherine, so she could give her full mind to Ned’s report. The fact that her dear Charles would be happy was a consoling thought; but all her dreams of being the one to make him happy, of sharing his work in close companionship, of singing his hymns with him…. Well, she would simply have to amend her dreams. After all, it wasn’t as if Charles had ever offered any concrete encouragement for such fancies. But the dreams had been so real to her….

  No, they had been more than dreams—or, at least, she had believed them to be. Certain this was God’s will for her life, she had often claimed Psalm 32:8: “I will instruct thee and teach thee in the way which thou shalt go; I will guide thee with Mine eye.” But how could she believe the Lord was guiding her when a beautiful young girl from Wales could shatter everything?

  Catherine picked up one of the books she had brought with her. Pilgrim’s Progress was her favorite book next to the Bible, and she always found it helpful in times of struggle. She held the reins in one hand and left Biggin to plod down the country lane toward the Thames. With less than half an eye on the road, Catherine let the book fall open to its most-read passage and again took in the account of Christian’s conversion:

  …just as Christian came up with the Cross, his burden loosed from off his shoulders, and fell from off his back, and began to tumble, and so continued to do,
till it came to the mouth of the Sepulchre, where it fell in…

  Then was Christian glad and lightsome, and said, with a merry heart, “He hath given me rest by His sorrows, and life by His death.” Then he stood still awhile to look and wonder, for it was very surprising to him that the sight of the Cross should thus ease him of his burden. He looked, therefore, and looked again, even till the springs that were in his head sent the waters down his cheeks…

  She laid the book down. Today that joyful scene brought cold comfort, for it enlivened in her mind her own conversion; and although the joy and exultation of the moment was still alive in her soul, her heart couldn’t disconnect the spiritual experience from the earthly; her mind mocked her heart with the fact that it had been Charles Wesley’s preaching which had brought her to that sublime experience.

  Doubly sublime because she had met her Saviour and Charles at the same time. Of course, no child of the godly Vincent Perronet could be far from a knowledge of God or a desire to do right; and Catherine, always grave and thoughtful, always wanting to do right, had from her earliest days, striven to keep the commandments, and to please God and man. But the trouble was, she was never sure, never completely satisfied that she had done enough to please God. Her parents and numerous brothers and sisters were quick to tell her in no uncertain terms if she failed to please them: “Cath, you forgot to lock the gate and the cow could have gotten out.” “Catherine, you tore your skirt again.” “Your sums are all wrong, Catherine.” Not that such occasions happened often or that her family was overly hard on her; but her sensitive nature remembered each misdemeanor with a gravity far beyond the seriousness of the childish crime.

  But God, however, was not so direct. How could she be sure she would someday hear, “Well done, my child, enter into my rest”? And so for twenty-one years Catherine had prayed and read her Bible and toiled to do good to those around her, hoping to find salvation.

  Until the glorious summer day when Ned took her to hear Charles Wesley preach in the fields near Oxford. Charles had prayed with Edward when he had received the faith a few days earlier, and Ned was anxious for his sister to find the same assurance.