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

  “How can we escape if we refuse so great a salvation?” The theme ran over and over in Mary’s head. But the question she longed to have answered was, how did one know? Perhaps Rowland was right that there was more to salvation than obeying the rules of the church. But if so, how did she find the answer? Certainly, she must seek forgiveness of sin—the Bible and the catechism said so. Certainly, God offered salvation. But if baptism and confirmation and receiving Holy Communion weren’t enough, what else was there?

  She had thought she might speak to Rowland about it over dinner. But he invited Goliath to dine with them, and Rowland encouraged their guest to spend most of the meal talking about his pugilistic tactics and his many victories in the ring.

  “I had told Elizabeth she might expect us tonight. Do you object to traveling late?” Rowland asked as he handed Mary into the carriage once the meal was ended and they had taken leave of their new friend. It was already evening, and they had many miles to go.

  The roads were not crowded in this part of the country, so one had less to worry about when meeting another vehicle on a narrow, curving road. But the sparse traffic also put the lonely traveler more at the mercy of highwaymen.

  However, getting back to her comfortable room at Hawkstone offered an irresistible prospect to Mary. Besides, she felt perfectly secure with Rowland riding guard.

  “No objection at all.” She leaned back against the squabs, thinking she might sleep for a time.

  It was nearly dark when she awoke. “Minson! How long have I slept?” She reached out and took Spit from the maid’s lap.

  “Indeed, I couldn’t say, miss. I’ve been a-nodding too.”

  Mary could see from her window that they were traveling through a sparsely populated, hilly country. A glimmer of water in the distance suggested they might be near the mere, and a growl that came from her stomach told her it was past supper time.

  A light mist was rising, adding its grayness to the dusk, and large, dark boulders seemed to loom up suddenly on the mountainside. Mary shivered and hugged Spit tighter. She looked out the window but couldn’t see Rowland. He must be riding ahead of or behind the carriage because of the narrowness of the road at this point. Mary shivered again, wishing there were more rugs in the chaise. The cold and damp of the fog seemed to permeate the carriage.

  She looked again for Rowland, peering as far in every direction as she could, but saw only grayness with dark shapes in it. She wished she hadn’t looked. She was just considering knocking on the roof to signal the coachman to stop when the carriage lurched so sharply she would have been thrown to the floor had not Minson caught her.

  The coach rolled to a stop amid gruff commands from Coachman John, a creaking of wheels and springs, and the stamping and whinnying of horses. There was a harsh sound Mary could not identify. And then she knew.

  “Out of the carriage, me pretties!” a rude voice ordered.

  Spit set up a wild yapping, and Minson went into hysterics. Mary was more disconcerted by her maid than by the robbers. She turned from her half-opened door to calm Minson.

  Suddenly the air reverberated with the most bloodcurdling shrieks, shouts, and howls she had ever heard. The alarm rang from the hillside and seemed to echo from every rock. It was as if the elements themselves had taken up battle and the very stones were crying out.

  Out of the fog a fearsome apparition appeared. With flapping greatcoat billowing like giant wings the figure tore forward at full-gallop out of the swirling mist.

  “Fecks! We’ve stopped the devil by mistake!” The highwaymen took to their heels. But just before they disappeared into the murky night, Spit leapt from the coach with an angry growl and chased the bandits up the road.

  Mary collapsed on her seat in laughter. Minson, now limply quiet after her hysteria, sat in the far corner, and Rowland climbed aboard the bench facing Mary.

  “Rowland!” She gasped for air. “Whatever possessed you? It was the finest performance I’ve ever seen, but you could have been shot. We could have all been shot.”

  “It didn’t seem likely an attempted shot would be very accurate in this gloom—especially if I could make them quake a bit. As I wasn’t armed, all I could see to do was to fly at them with all the noise I could make.”

  “Quake a bit! They’ll never stop shaking. You’ve affected them permanently with the palsy, I’m sure.” She giggled. “They’ll have to give up highway robbery and look for honest work now.”

  “Then I have done a good night’s work. Perhaps I should take up reforming highwaymen as a calling.”

  “That would certainly be a unique form of field preaching—and, goodness knows, there are enough of them about.”

  The thickening fog and their unsettling adventure made the travelers decide to stop at an inn for the night, so it was midmorning the next day before they arrived back at Hawkstone.

  Elizabeth came to greet them before they had crossed the grey and white patterned mosaic of the entrance foyer. “I am so glad you are returned. A messenger came from The Cedars yesterday. Maria has been taken to bed with child.”

  “Has the babe come? Do I have a niece or a nephew?” Mary clapped her hands.

  “It’s likely she has been delivered by this time. I most heartily hope so for her sake. But the event had not occurred when the messenger was dispatched. As our mother is some improved, I should like to leave as soon as possible. I know you’ve just had a long journey, Mary, but could you be ready to set out again on the morrow?”

  Mary choked back brief thoughts of the rambles over the Shropshire hills she would like to have taken with Rowland, but she smiled at her sister-in-law. “Dear Elizabeth, you must needs take up nursing as a profession. Whatever should we do without your skills? And you too, Jane,” she added as the elder sister entered the room. “I am pleased to hear that Mrs. Hill is stronger. And you look much less fatigued than when we arrived.”

  “I am refreshed,” Jane said, “and shall be able to carry on very well now. I do thank you for your help, Elizabeth.”

  Mary left the sisters and went on up the grand, curving staircase to her room to repack her belongings for the return journey.

  Rowland, after calling on his mother, went on to seek his father in his study. He gave him a brief account of his itinerancy and a rather full account of the highwayman episode, knowing it would put his father in a good humor.

  But the baronet’s amusement was short-lived. “I have a matter of an extremely serious nature to discuss with you, Rowland.” The son nodded.

  “Somewhat against my inclinations, I have spoken to Bishop Exley of Lichfield. He said there were no favors he would willingly deny our family. But granting ordination to a Methodist was so far beyond his scruples that, should he do such a thing, he would then be obliged to resign his office for conscience’ sake.

  “He said he was sorry his young friend should so openly countenance dissent from the established church, and he was alarmed lest your eccentric spirit should lead you to a departure from its doctrines as well as its discipline.”

  Sir Richard paused for his words to make an impression. “I thanked him sincerely for his attention and assured him I bore him no ill will for acting on his conscience. On the contrary, I admire his principles.”

  Rowland nodded. He would ask no man to act against his own conscience—no matter how mistaken he thought the person.

  “And now, son, I must ask if you mean to continue the path you have chosen?”

  “I can do nothing else, Father. It is not my choice but God’s.”

  The baronet shook his head and gave a sigh of irritation, but he did not argue with what he obviously thought to be gross wrongheadedness. “Very well, I too must act according to my conscience. I have firmly resisted using any force upon you in this matter.”

  Rowland nodded. “Indeed, Father. You have been most kind and forbearing.”

  “I believe I have. But now to continue so would constitute negligence on my part. Were I to keep suppor
ting you financially in an activity I believe to be wrong, I should become a party to your malfeasance.”

  “I would not want you to act against your conscience, Father.”

  “Nor do I intend to do so. I will not disinherit you as, you will allow, most fathers in my position would do.”

  Rowland agreed. It was absolutely true. At the first sign of disobedience, most offending offspring would be stricken from the will.

  “Nor will I entirely discontinue your allowance.” Here was leniency, indeed. Rowland’s eyebrows raised. “You are still my son, and I will not have a Hill starving. But from today your allowance is reduced to that which will be sufficient only to buy your bread. Beyond that all pecuniary supplies are to be discontinued. My man of business shall be informed forthwith.”

  “You are very good, Father. I understand fully. As soon as possible, I shall begin a circuit ride, and I shall not be ungrateful for any pennies you give me. My friend Cornelius Winter has offered me the use of his little pony, so there will be no need to request a horse from your stable.”

  There seemed to be little left to say, so Rowland withdrew to make his plans. As well as drawing a route for his preaching, he planned a call at every cathedral to request the bishop of each dioceses to sign his orders. Gloucester, Hereford, and Worcester were all easily within reach. As to his preaching itinerary—delivering twenty sermons a week would not strain his powers. He would preach in fields, in streets, and on quays. And he must go to London. He had been invited frequently before to preach in Whitefield’s old chapel in Tottenham Court Road and in the Tabernacle. And, of course, the countess would open her drawing room in Park Lane to him as she did for all preachers she supported. No, there would be no shortage of opportunity to preach the Word.

  So early the next week, after Jane had received word that Mary and Elizabeth were safely arrived in Wells and Maria had been delivered of a fine son, Rowland prepared to set out on his friend’s little gray pony. His long legs barely cleared the ground.

  “Like Don Quixote on Rosinante,” Richard said as he slapped the animal’s dappled rump.

  “No, Richard. It is not windmills I mean to joust with but the devil himself.” Rowland smiled. “But I think I should prefer to be compared to the apostles who went forth without purse or scrip.”

  “Rowland—” Richard’s concern showed in his face and voice. “Do you need—”

  “No, no. I thank you heartily for the offer, brother, but I have enough for the bare necessities, and the Lord will supply the rest. Besides, when our father reduced my aid, I believe he meant for it to apply to all our connections. I would not want you to distress him further than I have already done. Oh, except for one small matter.”

  Richard looked at him quizzically.

  “When I concluded my sermon to the congregation in the village last night, I announced that next week the message would be preached at the same time by my brother, Richard Hill, Esquire.”

  And so it was that Rowland left Hawkstone on a warm late August day with his brother’s mingled groans and laughter ringing in his ears.

  Ten

  Look, he reached for the rattle!” Mary cried in delight as four-month-old John Paine held out a chubby hand to the noisy enticement his aunt offered him. “What a prodigy you have produced, Maria!”

  Maria gave the seraphic smile so often on her face since the arrival of her son. “I can think of no greater delight than to have so fine a baby. I should like to have ten of them.”

  Mary gasped.

  “Well, not all at once, of course.” Maria laughed.

  As they were talking, Elizabeth entered the nursery. She paused to chuck her nephew under the chin and receive one of his coveted toothless grins. Then she turned to Mary. “Your mother said I should find you here. The postman has brought a letter from Jane which I think might be of interest to you.” Elizabeth drew the missive from her pocket, but did not hand it to Mary.

  Maria was fully engaged with her son in his cradle, so Mary and Elizabeth moved to the window seat at the far end of the room, looking out over the bare branches of trees and bushes in the winter garden below. “Jane copied out portions from a letter she received from Rowly. Really, it is most vexing!” Elizabeth unfolded the letter and read in a voice directed only to Mary’s ears: “‘On return to Bristol, I paid passage across the Severn for myself and pony, but had not sufficient left in my purse to procure a night’s lodging, so was obliged to go on hungry and exhausted.’” She laid the letter in her lap. “I think you know, Mary, that our father reduced his annual allowance in hopes of diverting him from his erratic career and inducing obedience to order and regularity. But it seems the opposition of family, friend, and foe only serve to fire his heroism.” Elizabeth shook her head and then picked up the letter again. “‘I was refused orders by the Bishops of Hereford and Gloucester on grounds of my enthusiasm. The Scripture admonishes us to patience, and I find that virtue to be like a stout Welsh pony—it bears a great deal and trots a great way. But it will tire at the long run. I pray for strength not to tire before my task is completed. I shall next apply to the Bishop of Worcester.’”

  Elizabeth stood up, crumpling the letter in agitation. “This situation is intolerably wrongheaded on both sides. His condition in life, his youth, the sprightliness of his imagination, the earnestness of his address—all produce amazing attention and effect in his hearers. He could be one of the great preachers of our day. And yet he is refused ordination over a theological squabble. And he, who could easily mend matters by mending his manners, will not give in. I do not know what is to be done.”

  “Is there more in the letter, Elizabeth?”

  Elizabeth looked at the letter. “Oh, I had not meant to rumple it.” She sat down and smoothed the letter on her skirt. “Jane also quoted from a letter she received from Lady Huntingdon. ‘I, who have known your brother from his first setting out, can testify that no man ever engaged with more heartfelt earnestness in bringing captives from the strongholds of Satan into the glorious liberty of the gospel of our Emmanuel; and it will require all the energies of his zealous and enterprising spirit to erect the standard of the cross in parts of London where ignorance and depravity prevail to such an awful degree.’” Elizabeth set the letter aside.

  “I take that to mean that my brother means to preach in such places as Whitefield’s Tabernacles in Moorfield and in Tottenham Court Road when he completes his tour of the West Country.” She stood up again, shaking her head in exasperation.

  “If only he could be prevailed upon to use caution,” Mary said almost under her breath.

  Both women were silent for a few moments, dwelling on the difficult—seemingly impossible—impasse. Then Elizabeth spoke. “But I have not come merely to trouble you with worries over my errant brother. Clement says we shall remove to London immediately after Christmas. Do you mean to go with us?”

  Mary jumped to her feet and hugged Elizabeth. “Do I mean to go with you? To London? That is delightful news above all things! It is doubtful anything less than a direct command from Papa could prevent it—and even then I’m not sure.” She laughed. “Do you realize, Elizabeth, it has been seven years since last I was in London, and then never out of the sight of Miss Fossbenner?”

  “Well, that is one matter we must consider. Miss Fossbenner would hardly answer, but we will need to engage an abigail for you. Minson will be far too busy seeing to my needs in London to attend both of us. Should you prefer to engage one in Wells or wait until we get to London?”

  Mary considered for a moment. “I think it would be best to wait. It would be best to have an abigail acquainted with London ways.”

  Elizabeth agreed, and they fell to making plans regarding wardrobe needs and packing arrangements.

  If Mary had found the sights in Bath surprising, London was completely astounding to her after a seven-year absence. “Oh, but is not the Irish saying true, ‘London is now gone out of town!’ Clement, were not those open fields produ
cing hay and corn when last I was here?”

  Her brother agreed that this section of streets, squares, shops, and churches was all newly built. “And I am informed that eleven thousand new houses have been built in one-quarter of Westminster in less than ten years.”

  The innumerable streets, squares, rows, lanes, alleys, palaces, and public buildings, however, were nothing so striking as the crowds of people swarming about. It was enough to make the Bath population seem sparse and Wells entirely desolate. The streets were choked with an infinity of bright equipages, coaches, chariots, chaises, and other carriages, continually rolling and shifting before her eyes until Mary’s head felt quite giddy.

  When Clement’s carriage rolled down Marylebone Road, Mary caught sight of a spire rising ahead. “Oh, Elizabeth, there is St. Marylebone Church. How well I recall your wedding there. It is the most beautiful church!”

  Elizabeth smiled. “Yes, indeed. Ten years ago that was.” For a moment Mary thought her sister-in-law’s eyes misted. Was she regretting that in that time she had not borne a child—an heir for Clement? It was indeed unfortunate, but John Paine’s arrival had secured the Tudway line. And if Maria were to be granted the brood she desired, there would be plenty of Tudways to carry on at The Cedars and in Antigua.

  The carriage stopped in front of No. 1 Devonshire Place, and two footmen and the butler came forward to welcome them. “Miss Child has sent messages around for the past three days, miss,” the butler said to Mary. “You will find them on the hall table. Each requested a reply. I answered merely that you were not arrived yet.”

  “Thank you, Knebworth.” Mary hurried up the steps to see what her friend had written that required such an immediate reply.

  Mary tore open the seal on the first parchment square and after the briefest of perusals gave a cry of delight. “Elizabeth! Mrs. Child is giving a grand ball at Osterley Park to open the season. It is in only three days’ time, and Sarah is in a pelter that I reply. We will attend, will we not? The invitation is for you and Clement too.” She held the card out to Elizabeth. “Well, actually, the invitation is to you and Clement, and I am included. But Sarah’s note is to me.”