Where Love Illumines (Where There is Love Book 2) Read online

  Where Love Illumines

  Book 2,

  Where There is Love Series

  By

  Donna Fletcher Crow

  Where Love Illumines

  Copyright © 2016 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 Something of Value

  1988

  By SP Publications Inc

  Victor Books

  Wheaton, Illinois 60187

  Published as Treasures of the Heart

  1994

  By Crossway Books

  A Division of Good News Publishers

  Wheaton, Illinois 60187

  Where Love Illumines

  2016

  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

  Series Books and Characters

  Epigraph

  The Tudway and Hill Families

  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

  Epilogue

  Historical Note

  Word List

  Time Line for the Where There Is Love Series

  Major References

  The Complete Where There is Love Series

  About The Author

  To Jennie Crow Speicher

  In memorium

  A gracious mother-in-law is

  one of God’s most precious gifts.

  Where There is Love

  Where Love Begins

  (1749-1750)

  John and Charles Wesley

  George Whitefield

  William Law

  Countess of Huntingdon

  Where Love Illumines

  (1772-1773)

  Charles Wesley

  John Berridge

  Rowland Hill

  Countess of Huntingdon

  Where Love Triumphs

  (1824)

  Charles Simeon

  Robert Hall

  Where Love Restores

  (1823-1825)

  Charles Simeon

  William Wilberforce

  Earl of Harrowby

  Where Love Shines

  (1854-1856)

  Florence Nightingale

  Lord Shaftesbury

  Charles Spurgeon

  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,

  Letters and Papers from Prison

  One

  “Rowland, you simply must give up this insane enthusiasm! You are accomplishing nothing but trouble for yourself and embarrassment for your family.” Mary Tudway snapped shut her painted silk fan for emphasis. “Including the more distant members of your family.” She stamped her foot to show how firmly she held her ground.

  “In other words, you find me an embarrassment.” Rowland spoke slowly, almost in a drawl, his tall form relaxed and his brown eyes sparkling.

  Mary’s chin rose in fury and frustration. “You are an embarrassment and—and an irritant, sir!” She whirled and swept from the drawing room before she could soften under the gaze of his kind, laughing eyes.

  But her triumphal exit was spoiled. She forgot that she was wearing her extra wide panniers, and she stuck in the doorway. Had Rowland laughed at her predicament, her temper would have forced her through the door even if it meant bending her hoops and tearing the chenille embroidery from her gown. But his soft entreaty, “Mary, please, let me speak,” extinguished her anger as quickly as it had ignited.

  After his long fingers disengaged her hoop from the carved door jamb, he held out his hand to lead her back into the room. She placed the tips of her fingers in the palm of his hand and allowed him to lead her to the damask-covered sofa.

  Yet it was Mary who spoke first. “Rowland, you know I regret my hasty temper. But I do not apologize for my sentiments.

  “No one suggests you should give up your desire to take holy orders. That is most admirable and praiseworthy. With your distinguished family background, you will rise quickly and be able to hold a high office in the church. It is just this ridiculous Methodist notion you have taken into your head—”

  “Mary—”

  “Your sister Elizabeth has spoken to me of it often. What if it were to be generally known in Wells, and the electorate refused to return my brother Clement to Parliament? Have you given no thought to the effect your actions will have on those near to you?”

  “Mary—”

  “Look at you! When we met at Clement and Elizabeth’s wedding, I thought you the most handsome man I’d ever seen.” She closed her eyes and a small smile played around the corners of her lips. “I can still see you now in your red velvet coat embroidered in silver. And you danced the cotillion quite to perfection. Now you tell me you have given all that up for some nonsensical religious ideas.”

  “Mary—”

  “Elizabeth says you are quite alone in your views at Cambridge and that the authorities are seriously alarmed by your activities. And she also says your mother is prostrate with worry. If you care nothing for my opinion, you must care for hers.”

  “Mary—”

  This time he was interrupted not by Mary, but by a bewigged and liveried footman announcing that dinner was served. Rowland bowed as Mary preceded him from the room, remembering to turn slightly sideways at the door. “Indeed, Mary, I thank you for granting me this interview. I do feel relieved at having been allowed to speak my mind.” Again his eyes sparkled.

  For all her outward poise, Mary felt strangely shaken inside. It was nothing unusual for her to lose her temper, no matter how much she might wish it otherwise. Nor was it unusual for her to speak the bold truth to any situation as she saw it, no matter how often her mama reminded her that tactful dissimulation would be more ladylike. But this confrontation with Rowland was different.

  How could he possibly consider taking a course of action for his life that was certain to lead to nothing but disaster?

  She sighed. It seemed that even all her arguments could not make him change. Of course, she knew he had espoused a personal religious faith since he’d been a student at Eton. But this new enthusiasm was far worse. Visiting jails and
hospitals was simply not done by people of consequence. Certainly not by a son of Richard Hill, Baronet of Hawkstone, who could trace his family lineage back to Edward I and who was descended from Richard Hill, the first Protestant Lord Mayor of London, a man knighted by King Henry VIII.

  She entered the anteroom and crossed to her mother who was chatting with their guests newly arrived from London. “Ah, here you are, Mary, my dear. You have hidden yourself away from our guests, and Sarah is simply bursting to talk to you, I am certain.”

  Mary’s friend, Sarah Child, flew to her with a flutter of silk skirts, lace flounces, and giggles. “Mary, I haven’t seen you for such ages. I have the most handsome new beau to tell you about—”

  Mrs. Tudway interrupted Sarah by leading the guests into the dining room in strict order of rank, ladies first. A footman held the chair for her at the top of the table among all the women, with the most important female guests next to her. The master, Charles Tudway, sat among the men in order of rank at the bottom end of the table. The first course consisted mainly of meats—roasted, boiled, stewed, and fried—some with sauces. But the dish of which Charles Tudway was most proud was served by the butler from a large silver soup tureen on the sideboard.

  “Finest turtle soup you’ll ever taste. My estate manager sends the turtles over from Antigua—always marked CT on the tail so there won’t be any likelihood of my turtles being substituted for smaller ones bound for some house in London.”

  Robert Child took a rather noisy sip of his soup. “Ahhh. Tastier and richer than any we have at Osterley Park.”

  “I’ll have my manager send you a turtle,” Tudway offered. The men then fell to a discussion of the parliamentary session in London. Their conversation was kept lively with anecdotes from the two MPs seated at the table. Wells was represented in the House of Commons by Clement Tudway and his neighbor, Robert Chylde, a distant relative of the Robert Child of Osterley Park. Having two men with the same name at the table added confusion to the already animated conversation.

  At the other end of the table, Hannah Tudway turned to Mrs. Child. “My dear Sarah, your fine taste in decorating Osterley is quite famous. Perhaps you could just put a word in for me with Mr. Tudway. Don’t you find this room somewhat lacking in ornamentation?”

  Mrs. Child gazed around the elegant dining room with its rich paneling and ornate stuccoed ceiling. “The carved fireplace is one of the finest I’ve ever seen. It rivals anything we have at Osterley—” She hesitated, looking at the marble-encased flames chasing the chill from the January night.

  “Ah, you see my point precisely. The west wall is so plain, is it not? I have tried for months to persuade Mr. Tudway that we should have our portraits done by that Mr. Gainsborough who has set up his studio in Bath. Now wouldn’t that be just the thing to hang there?”

  Mrs. Child agreed enthusiastically, and Mary smiled at the new strategy in her mother’s campaign.

  “This is famous,” Mary said to Sarah seated next to her. “If Papa can be persuaded to go to Bath soon, we will be there while your mama is still taking the waters. I should like above all things to be in Bath with you.”

  Sarah returned her friend’s smile. “We shall have ever so many beaux. Westmoreland has promised he will follow me to Bath. I can’t fathom why Papa doesn’t approve of him. He is prodigiously handsome, even if he does have a squint in one eye. But as soon as Papa returns to London and his musty old bank, Mama won’t refuse to let me dance with anyone the Master of Ceremonies presents.”

  Mary was three years older than her friend; but Sarah, raised in the social whirl of London society, was far more experienced in the ways of the world. The pampered only child of one of London’s richest bankers, she had been denied nothing. Although Mary’s embroidered cream satin gown was made by Wells’s best dressmaker, she knew it lacked the French elegance of Sarah’s brocaded white silk with undulating trails of flowers in shades of cream, green, and pink. And although Mary’s brown hair was piled fashionably high on her head with a tiny lace frill perched on top and one long curl caressing the side of her neck, she knew that Sarah’s hair, formed several inches higher over a wire frame, far outdid hers in style.

  Mary shivered with excitement as she thought of the fashionable beaux she and Sarah might spend time dancing with in Bath. Then she looked down the table at Rowland. He threw his head back in laughter at a witticism of her father’s, and the pose showed off his luxuriant brown hair, with the front brushed straight back and the back portion long and tied with a black ribbon which he brought round and tied in a bow over his fine lace cravat. Although she had berated him earlier for his lack of fashion, she had to admit he did look well in his cutaway coat and matching waistcoat of green poplin decorated with silk braid. If only he had instructed his tailor to add some gold embroidery and metallic lace. Ah, well, there would be plenty of handsome young men in fashionable coats to show her a good time in Bath.

  Her father’s voice came again to Mary’s ears. “The last letter from my manager in Antigua brought distressing news. There has been a sudden fall in the price of sugar.” Mr. Tudway shook his head, his bob-wig swaying.

  “Confidence, that’s all we need, more confidence. The markets will rise again. Oversupply at the moment, I’m sure,” the banker reassured him. Child ladled a scoop of sugar over his macaroni mold.

  Squire Tudway, however, was not so easily comforted. “But then there’s the matter of my rum—a whole shipment aboard The McHeale. It seems to have slipped the captain’s memory.”

  Child laughed and raised his wine glass with a flourish. “More like it strengthened the memory of the sailors. If the captain knew nothing of it being there, he certainly could have no care of it.”

  Tudway frowned. “That is precisely my worry. I have known sailors to drink more than one-third of a vessel’s cargo in a voyage and fill the bottles up with water. But I hope this is not the case.”

  Now Mary was worried. Papa did not sound at all in a mood to remove to Bath for Mama’s portrait scheme—still the topic of conversation among the women. “Everyone of importance has been painted by Gainsborough,” Elizabeth was saying to Mary’s mother. “If Father Tudway refuses to go to Bath, perhaps you could accompany Clement and me, Mother Tudway. I’m sure when he sees how handsome your portrait is, he’ll agree to sitting for one of his own.”

  On Mary’s other side, Child had returned to his favorite topic. “…but Child’s Bank won’t back such risky schemes as those. Yes, sir, my family’s been doing business for over a hundred years in No. 1 Fleet Street at the sign of the Marygold, and I have no intention of weakening that position by backing a crackbrained scheme to settle New Zealand…”

  Mary had heard the story often of Francis, the Child ancestor who had abandoned his trade of goldsmith in 1642 to devote himself to looking after other people’s money—thereby becoming London’s first banker and earning himself the title of “Father of Banking.”

  “…and if I have anything to say about it, there will be a Child doing business at the sign of the Marygold for another hundred years,” continued Sarah’s father. Mary wondered how this was to be, since Sarah was an only child and would take her husband’s name even if she inherited the business. Well, perhaps there was a cousin to carry on the Child name.

  The circle of conversations had taken the diners through two courses, and now the servants entered bearing silver salvers with high pyramids of sweetmeats. The highest of the structures, a golden tower of candied apricots, was placed in the center of the table. Other three-sided pillars surrounded them in descending heights, offering confections of dried fruits and nuts, tiny tarts filled with fairy butter or jams, and marzipan formed into miniature flowers and birds.

  Mary loved to take a variety of them on her plate and admire their cunning shapes and delicate colors. But she could never hold out for long against devouring the sugared almond paste, and her plate was soon bare. In spite of Hannah Tudway’s repeated warnings that Mary should gro
w quite stout if she continued to indulge, Mary’s dressmaker assured her that her form was the most graceful she had the honor of dressing.

  The servants left, and Mary noted that the men had turned to discussing politics again. She wondered at Rowland’s unusual silence throughout the meal. He listened to the conversation with apparent interest and made appropriate comments, but without his usual liveliness. She hoped it wasn’t due to her anger with him earlier. She had no desire to wound him, although it was flattering to think he might care that much for her opinion.

  Had her sharp words gone deeper than he had shown? Or were his problems with his family and the Cambridge authorities weighing on him more than he would admit? Ostracism couldn’t be easy to bear, even for one as constantly cheerful as Rowland.

  Then a new thought struck her. How hard it must be for someone who enjoyed being surrounded with friends and who could have been one of the most popular men at Cambridge, to be forced into virtual isolation. Suddenly she had a quite different picture of her friend. Her sympathetic nature, as quickly aroused as her temper, reached out to him.

  She recalled their meeting at the wedding of her brother Clement to Rowland’s elegant sister Elizabeth. It had been one of the social events of the season. Mary was only a school girl at the time, but her mother had allowed her to dance three dances with family members. Rowland paid great attention to her and smiled at her ever so kindly, even when she tangled her feet in an intricate step and almost fell against him.

  Since then when the families were together for Christmas, Rowland would give her the most thoughtful gifts. She especially treasured the vellum-bound volume of Milton, though she was now determined to read more fashionable poets.

  “Indeed, we must make our plans soon.” Elizabeth’s voice interrupted Mary’s thoughts. “Before all the fashionable people are driven from Bath by the Countess of Huntingdon and her enthusiastic preachers.”

  Mary noted the long look this drew from Rowland seated just down the table from Elizabeth, but he made no comment. To Mary’s surprise, it was her mother who came to the countess’s defense. “It may be that she goes too far, but I believe she did well to bring some moral fiber to the city against that libertine Beau Nash. I am told that it’s not unusual for those who go to Bath to be cured of the gout to find themselves with a new case of the disease—a sure sign of overindulgence. I myself would not be adverse to visiting the countess’s chapel while we’re in Bath. I’m told Horace Walpole was most entertained there.”