Where Love Restores (Where There is Love Book 4) Read online

  Where Love Restores

  Book 4, Where There is Love series

  By

  Donna Fletcher Crow

  Where Love Restores

  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 To Be Worthy

  1986

  By SP Publications Inc

  Victor Books

  Wheaton, Illinois 60187

  Published as To Be Worthy

  1995

  By Crossway Books

  A Division of Good News Publishers

  Wheaton, Illinois 60187

  Published as To Be Worthy

  2000

  Large Print edition

  By Thorndike Press

  P.O. Box 159

  Thorndike, Maine 04986

  Where Love Restores

  By Verity Press

  an imprint of Publications Marketing, Inc.

  Box 972

  Boise, Idaho 83701

  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

  Map of England

  The Somerset and Ryder Families

  Map of Cambridge

  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

  Afterword

  Time Line for the Where There Is Love Series

  Word List

  Bibliography

  The Complete Where There is Love Series

  About The Author

  For My Friend and First Editor

  Carole Sanderson Streeter

  Who had faith in me and in this project

  And who shares my golden memories

  Of an August research trip in England

  …so many years ago…

  The Where There is Love Series

  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

  With Appreciation to:

  The Flavell family, my friends and hosts in Cambridge;

  Alan Kucia, Trinity College, who unearthed Granville Ryder’s signature in ancient tomes in the Wren Library;

  David Smith, Domus Bursar at King’s College, who showed me Charles Simeon’s rooms and took me out onto the roof of the Gibbs Building;

  Michael Halls, King’s College archivist, who brought me original sermons and letters by Charles Simeon;

  Jane Waley, Harrowby Mss. Trust archivist, who organized material from Sandon Hall’s five muniment rooms, which led to finding Granville’s love prayer in his own hand;

  The King’s College Archives and The Harrowby Mss. Trust for permission to use extensive materials;

  Stanley Bywater, secretary to His Grace, the Duke of Beaufort, who gave unstintingly of his time on our tour of Badminton House, of whom the Compass innkeeper said, “The finest of English country gentlemen, the kind they don’t make anymore”;

  Lady Frances Berendt, Lord Harrowby’s daughter, and Lord Harrowby, the sixth earl, who both took a personal hand in my research efforts;

  Their Graces, the eleventh Duke and Duchess of Beaufort, who received us in their home and took gracious interest in the book;

  The wonderful staffs at the British Library, the Guildhall Library, and the London Library;

  My many friends on that “sceptered isle set in a silver sea” to whom gracious hospitality is a way of life.

  One

  Lady Georgiana Somerset, younger daughter of the sixth Duke of Beaufort, frowned into her gilt-framed looking glass. “Agatha, you may remove these odious feathers from my hair.” She pointed at the three ostrich plumes adorning her shining gold Apollo’s Knots.

  “But, milady, you know Mr. Agar-Ellis is particularly fond—”

  “If George Agar-Ellis is so fond of feathers, he should undertake to escort an ostrich to the hunt ball. I have no intention of playing the role for him.” She plucked the feathers from the elegant topknot. The maid replaced them with a pearl ferronniére. The delicate gold band encircled Georgiana’s head, and a cluster of lustrous pearls ornamented the center part over her forehead.

  Then because she was not a young lady given to frowning, Georgiana smiled, picked up her sarcenet shawl and lace fan, and swept from the room in a pale blue cloud of French silk and a delicate mist of rose petal water. As she made her way to the ballroom, thoughts of George Agar-Ellis brightened her smile with humor, if not exactly with fondness. Really, although a good friend, George was such a clodpate to insinuate that fate had destined them for each other because of their similar names—as if half the babies born in England weren’t named George or Georgiana in honor of His Majesty, King George IV. And as if that weren’t enough, George insisted on effecting an excessive admiration for Horace Walpole, going to great lengths to memorize Walpole’s witticisms in order to regale his friends with them.

  Still smiling, Georgiana swept into the great drawing room where the family was gathering to greet their guests. The green damask walls were hung for the occasion with midnight blue and golden buff draperies, the colors of the Beaufort Hunt, to which many attending the ball had ridden that day. Her eyes sparkled at the feast laid before their guests. There was nothing her father, the duke, loved more than extending the amenities of
Badminton House to all his acquaintances. As she walked through the softly lit room, the candles in the three-tiered Bristol chandeliers threw back multiple reflections of light and color.

  “Oh, Mama, how charming you look.” Georgiana kissed the duchess and stepped back to admire the soft rose gown with its off-the-shoulder neckline and tight band just above her mother’s natural waistline. “The new styles do suit you.”

  “Yes, my dear, but it does feel so odd to have a gown banded at the waist; however, I daresay we shall all become accustomed to it.” Then she added in a lowered voice. “I must confess, though, I am not so certain about the tight lacing underneath.” She smiled at her daughter.

  “If it is to become fashionable, we shall all have to become accustomed, Mama. And it was clever of you to have your hair dressed with fans; it sets off your earrings most elegantly.” The duchess turned her head, causing her diamond and pearl earrings to sparkle with fire like the chandeliers.

  “You shall put all your daughters in the shade, Mama.” From long habit Georgiana raised her voice for her slightly deaf mother.

  Her father overheard and joined them. “No one puts my daughters in the shade—nor my wife, neither.” The duke kissed his wife’s hand.

  “And how was the hunt today, my dear?” the duchess inquired.

  “Satisfactory. Most satisfactory. We ran the cub to earth near the Cricklade covert. I daresay we should have had him sooner, but that fool of a lawyer from Chipping Sodbury halloed us onto a fresh fox, and it took Payne nearly half an hour to get the hounds onto the original scent again. But altogether it was excellent sport, excellent.”

  Smiling to herself, Georgiana moved quietly away. Her father’s fox-hunt stories could run on rather, even though she loved the sport well enough herself. The room was rapidly filling. The duchess’s guest list included a large segment of the Gloucestershire gentry, members of the Beaufort Hunt, and leading members of the various compassionate societies Her Grace patronized. The evening should not lack for variety.

  Although she never lacked for partners, Georgiana soon found the ball beginning to pall—sufficiently so that when George Agar-Ellis made his bow to her, she accepted his hand with a ready smile.

  George had a reputation for being one of the most conspicuous young men of the day—much of which could be laid to his tailor’s credit. The padding added to the chest and hips of his claret evening coat made his waist appear smaller and enhanced its close fit. His striped silk cossack trousers, tapering narrowly to the strap beneath his instep, stretched as he bowed over Georgiana’s hand.

  “Your absence in the field today distressed us all greatly.” He led her to the floor where a new set was forming.

  “Why, sir, you surprise me. I understood you had excellent sport.”

  “Ah, yes, excellent sport indeed, but it lacked that luster your presence alone can give to any activity.”

  Fortunately the set divided just then, or Georgiana would have laughed out loud at such extravagance. By the time they came together once more at the end of the room, she had quite regained her composure, although her bright blue eyes continued to sparkle mischievously. The lines formed, and the gentlemen bowed to their partners. The quadrille continued with the ladies’ stiffened skirts swinging gracefully like bells across the polished wood floor as they went through the intricate figures of the grande ronde.

  “May I bring you a glass of ratafia?” George asked leading Georgiana to a gilt and brocade chair as the music came to a close.

  “Lemonade, if you please. And pray let us find chairs closer to a window.”

  As George moved through the crowd, Georgiana glanced around the room. She smiled with pleasure when she spotted her brother, Lord Worcester, leading a lady to the floor. Henry is always the first crack of fashion, and yet he never looks overdressed, she thought as she surveyed his Beaufort Hunt evening coat of dark blue lined with buff, worn over a white embroidered silk waistcoat, light blue silk-web pantaloons, white silk stockings, and shoes brode à jour. Understated elegance when worn without any parade—and so good to see him out of black at last.

  A small sigh escaped her as George reappeared. “Do you have the headache?” he inquired solicitously, seating himself next to her on the green striped sofa.

  “Pray, do not be absurd, sir. I never have headache. I was just wishing Henry would take another wife now that his mourning is past.” Her eye strayed to Sir Thomas Lawrence’s elegant portrait of her deceased sister-in-law hanging on the east wall. “He is only at Badminton for a week, and then he goes back to London. It distresses me to think of him living alone in that great rambling residence.”

  “Indeed, yes,” her companion agreed. “A most melancholy affair for your family to have Lady Worcester snatched from this life so suddenly—dancing at a ball at court one day and only seven days later to be no more. But you must take great comfort that she died a heroine, full of cheerfulness and courage to the last.” Warming to his topic, George turned to Georgiana and seized her hands, almost causing her to spill her lemonade into her lap. Undaunted, he continued, “She was snatched from life at a time when she was becoming every day more fit to live, for her mind, her temper, and her understanding were steadily and rapidly improving.”

  Retrieving her hands, Georgiana agreed softly. “We all miss her.”

  “Oh, yes, yes! You speak for all her friends. Long, long will it be before I forget her, the lively impression of her virtues and of our mutual friendship.” Before Georgiana could reply, her companion went on. “But then in the words of the incomparable Gray: ‘Full many a flower is born to blush unseen and waste its sweetness on the desert air.’”

  Since her late sister-in-law, Georgianna Fitzroy, a favored niece of the Duke of Wellington, had lived most of her life in the social whirl of the London ton, had reveled in having her engagement announced at a ball at Carlton House, had been given away at her wedding by the Iron Duke himself, and then had honeymooned in Paris, the quotation struck Georgiana as hardly apropos. She chose not to mention it, however. It was simpler to agree to George’s offer to fetch another glass of lemonade.

  She sat back against the cushions of the sofa and fanned herself lightly, surveying the whirling dancers reflected in the floor-to-ceiling gilt pier glass between the windows. Until her attention was caught by the mirrored image of a tall young man with tanned skin and striking military bearing striding into the room at the far end of the hall. Georgiana turned from the glass for a direct view, but the dancers on the floor momentarily blocked her line of vision. The set parted, and she caught sight of him again. Even from that distance Georgiana could appreciate the trim cut of his dark blue coat, his high stiff collar tabs, and meticulously tied white neck cloth. The newcomer frowned slightly as he surveyed the room. His air of detachment seemed to speak of a sense of superiority.

  Caught between admiration for his appearance and dislike of his aloof bearing, Georgiana continued to watch, wondering who he might be. She thought she had at least a passing acquaintance with all their family connections. The man seemed vaguely familiar. She wondered whether he was a member of the hunting set or one of the compassionate society members. Neither seemed to fit him. Her curiosity increased.

  Georgiana followed the newcomer’s progress across the room and saw to her surprise that he approached the duchess. But just as the stranger bowed over her mother’s hand, George returned, followed closely by Frederick Calthorpe. Georgiana rose. “Poor George, you have gone to the trouble of securing me a lemonade, and now here is my partner for the next dance. Pray excuse me.”

  With a swirl of her silk skirt Georgiana moved onto the floor on the arm of Fred Calthorpe, brother of Lord Calthorpe, an old family friend. George was left to drink the lemonade himself.

  When the set came to an end, Georgiana glanced around, but she could not locate the mysterious newcomer. He did not appear to have danced and too many people were in the way for a view of those standing at the bottom of the room. “I
t is an unaccountably warm evening for September. Would you like to take the air on the terrace, Lady Georgiana?” her partner inquired.

  “Indeed, it is warm. But I should prefer you to take me to my mother, sir.” Georgiana smiled and flipped her fan with a touch of coquetry that she did not feel. Indeed, all she felt now was overwhelming curiosity. And the more elusive the stranger, the stronger her desire to have her curiosity satisfied.

  When they arrived at the side of the duchess, the young man with black locks had departed. Georgiana longed to enquire after his identity, but the Honorable Frederick hovered near making small talk. Georgiana was just on the brink of sending him off for yet another glass of lemonade when her partner for the next dance claimed her and she was obliged to take her place in the set for the pas de Zephyr with her curiosity still unsatisfied.

  When doing a turn around the floor, she caught a glimpse of the inscrutable visitor standing near the fireplace with his hands behind his back in his detached manner. It appeared that he did not mean to dance even though several most attractive young ladies were sitting out. In spite of his good looks, he must be proud and unpleasant. Georgiana decided. In that case she should give him no more thought. With a toss of her head she laughed at a mild witticism from her partner and was swept around the floor.

  For some time Georgiana saw no more of the stranger—which was just as well since she had decided to dislike him. Then just before time to go in for supper, she paused to chat with her elder sister, the elegant Lady Charlotte Sophia. As they talked, Georgiana saw George Agar-Ellis approaching, and turning slightly, she saw herself approached from the other side by the stranger. Unlike his earlier air of hauteur, he was now looking at her with unseemly familiarity. Lady Georgiana lifted her pert chin, took the arm of Lady Charlotte, and turned sharply.

  “Lady Georgiana, may I have the honor?” George bowed over her hand with a flip of his tails.

  In spite of the injury another dance with George was sure to do to her slippers, Georgiana accepted. They moved to the center of the floor just before the stranger reached the spot where she had been standing. A quick glance over her shoulder revealed a dark head bowing over her sister’s hand and Charlotte smiling radiantly in return. Georgiana caught only one further glimpse of the couple during the dance. She had a strong impression of Charlotte’s blonde, beflowered hair and white gauze dress next to her partner’s handsome darkness.