Where Love Shines Page 16

  Jennifer dropped her head. How could I not have seen this long ago, Father? The answer was there all along. You were there all along. Was it that I always lived so surrounded by the truth that I didn’t realize its uniqueness?

  Oh, Lord, forgive my failures. Forgive my rejection of Your grace as I tried to go ahead in my own effort. I’ve been so discouraged because I thought I had to do all this in my own strength. Now I see. All You ask is that I obey You. The battle is Yours, not mine.

  Only You can do Your work, God. Work through me with Your strength.

  Now she could see how God had been guiding her. This was a continuation of the insight she had received at the Elijah—that one must do one’s best to prepare the way for a vast renewal of society. But first one’s own heart must be in tune with the Creator of all. Creation could not be restored until the hearts of individual believers were right.

  That was the key. Always Jenny had believed with her head. Now she believed with her heart, too. The coldness and distance that she had so often felt melted away, leaving only warmth.

  Sixteen

  Greyston Pitchers was a large, white Georgian house standing at the top of a rising green lawn on Brampton Hill above The Walks. When he had left home for London three months ago, Richard had seen the round, full-leafed outline of the trees lining The Walks and surrounding the house. Now, as the carriage from the station drew up the curving street, he could make out the bare, dark branches streaking the sky. He told himself the outlines were somewhat clearer, the pain of looking at them less severe. And certainly, the latter, at least, was true. But whether that was simply the effect of Dr. Halston’s German glasses and the cloudy day, or whether he could claim actual improvement, he didn’t know. Certainly, the weight inside him was no lighter. Not after the confidence Arthur had revealed to him during their travel north.

  Before the carriage had come to a complete stop, Dick felt the door beside him being jerked open. “Dick! Oh, I thought you would never come. I’ve been longing to see you—” Livvy stopped mid-sentence. “Arthur—Mr. Merriott. What a pleasant surprise. I had no idea you were traveling with my brother.”

  Livvy immediately returned to her most ladylike demeanor. “Won’t you come in? Mama will be most happy to see you. Although Papa and George…” Her voice trailed off.

  Dick had barely set foot in the ceramic-tiled entry hall before he heard his father and brother bellowing at each other from the library at the top of the stairs. “Oh, dear,” Livvy said. “I had hoped they would have run down by now. It’s the new jolley, you see. It’s stirred everything up.”

  “Livvy, you take Mr. Merriott to Mama and Aunt Lavinia. Tell them I will join them later. I’ve come to tackle Father and George about the pottery. Apparently the fat is already in the fire, so I may as well wade in right now.” He automatically handed his hat to the butler. “Cannock, show my man Kirkham where to put my bags. Mr. Merriott will have the room next to mine. You’ll know where to put Kirkham.”

  Without waiting for anyone to reply, Dick grasped the smooth, well-worn wood of the stair rail and made his way upstairs. The padded runner on the stairs was thicker than he remembered. He fumbled on the first three steps until he could judge the distance precisely. Then he found his stride and bounded the rest of the way up, as he had since his earliest days.

  He paused outside the library door to assess the battle. The situation was certainly not new—some of his earliest memories were of Father and George arguing. They never seemed to tire of it. As Dick got older, he noted that after a particularly prolonged bout, it was not unusual for his mother to suffer an attack of her complaint and require a removal to London for the attentions of a Harley Street physician. Father and George, however, seemed to thrive on controversy.

  Today, as Livvy had indicated, operations of the pottery had sparked the battle. “May I remind you, you young puppy, just whose pottery this is?” Francis Greyston thundered at his son.

  George’s lazy drawl never failed to irritate his father. Dick could picture his brother sprawled in the leather chair before the fireplace, both legs extended with his favorite dog under his knees. “The last I knew, Father, it was still the rightful property of Aunt Lavinia. Unless you have contrived to do her in in the last quarter of an hour, in which case it has passed to me.”

  “Don’t be a smart alec. Females do not manage property, no matter whose name might be on some piece of paper. I am the rightful manager of all the property of this family, and I say these newfangled machines of yours are an unneeded expense and will cause trouble with our workers.” The senior Greyston slammed his fist against his writing table for emphasis.

  “The workers be…” A growl from George’s dog drowned out his words. “They simply need a firmer hand. Raise their quotas. If they choose to waste time protesting against the machines, they may work longer hours, or you can sack them. You are too soft, Father.”

  “Soft? Soft am I? I’ll show you soft, you young whipper-snapper.”

  Dick judged the altercation had reached its climax and would now degenerate into name-calling, so this was as good a time as any to make his presence known. He yanked open the tall double doors and stood on the threshold, feet apart, hands on hips. “Father. George. How pleasant to find such a cheerful homecoming. I needn’t ask if you’re well. I can hear you are both in excellent voice.”

  With a minimum of fumbling, Dick took a straight-backed chair and faced it away from the fireplace. “Thank you, I would be most gratified to sit and join you. Livvy tells me you’ve installed a new jolley at the pottery. I assume that’s the cause of this lively discussion.”

  Jollies and jiggers were the latest inventions to improve the output of pottery and bone china. Both had revolving molds in which a profile shaped the clay, replacing the old process of hand-shaping. The jolley for hollowware, the jigger for flatware—both were hated by the workers for stealing their jobs.

  “The new jolley is an absolute sparkler.” For once George abandoned his laconic drawl. “It turns out perfect cups and bowls every throw—in half the time it takes a potter to do it by hand. I say let ’em complain. Anyone who doesn’t want to work can quit. We can increase production with fewer workers—and pay them less.”

  “No! That’s exactly the wrong approach.” Dick was surprised at the vehemence of his own voice. “Keep them all on. Shorten working hours—that’s the key. Your workers will be happier and do better work.”

  “Nonsense!”

  “Happy? Who cares if they’re happy?”

  Dick smiled. Nothing but his intervention could have put George and his father on the same side. “I shall forebear to point out that they are fellow human beings. As good businessmen, you’ll be more interested to know that Minton and Wedgewood have both increased production and profits with their factory reforms.”

  Francis slammed his fist onto the table again. “Do you throw Minton and Wedgewood in my face, puppy? They both have far larger establishments than Greyston and can afford to hire the best artisans. What do you know of their reforms?”

  “I have read—”

  He was interrupted by a hoot from George. “Read? And since when do blind men read? It’s little wonder you have your information wrong, brother. Why don’t you go play soldiers, and let Father and me run our business?”

  “I may be blind, George—enough to prevent my playing soldiers, as you put it. But I have had my eyes opened to things you apparently can’t see. Yes, others have read the reports to me, but I have my facts straight. I know the suffering caused to children required to work fourteen hours a day lugging saggars to the kilns. I know of the lung poisoning inflicted on women who breathe the raw clay dust for twelve hours a day and are not paid enough to afford decent food. They ‘die a little faster every day,’ the white paper said.”

  Francis and George both took breath to roar at him, and even Bennett growled again from under George’s legs. But Dick was spared further onslaught by the rapping of an ebony stic
k on the dark oak doors. Great-aunt Lavinia, elder sister of Great-aunt Charlotte and matriarch of the family, stood in the doorway. Dick made out her tall, thin, black-clad outline and snapped to his feet. “Great-aunt Lavinia.” He bowed in her direction. George and Francis came to their feet more slowly.

  Lavinia tapped her stick for attention. “We have endured enough of your caterwauling. Richard, I am surprised at you. You always had better manners than to engage in these slanging matches—and before you greeted your ancient aunt. You may take me in to dinner, sir.”

  “With pleasure, Auntie GAL.” Dick grinned, knowing his use of their childhood name for her never failed to soften her.

  “I’ll have none of your impudence now.” Her voice was severe, but Dick heard the softer note at the end. He crossed to her, but misjudged the placement of the low table beside the sofa and took a sharp blow on the shin. His face flushed as he heard George snigger behind him.

  In the dining room his mother was warmly welcoming, Livvy was still dancing her excitement over the arrival of her brother and his friend, and even Arthur seemed less intense than usual.

  But the cheerfulness and the well-served dinner did little to raise Dick’s spirits. It wasn’t the difficulty of trying to convince his father and George to improve the conditions of their workers—he had expected that. Indeed, that was the very reason for his coming. Nor was it the new proof of the awkwardness of his disability—he had had plenty of that already. It was Arthur Merriott’s confidence to him on the train, imparted in a burst of companionship, that he expected to announce his engagement before the end of this parliamentary session. And then when the next election was called, he should be well-placed to stand for Parliament. Richard wished Arthur well in his political career. But Jennifer… he had not realized before that his feelings for her were quite so deep.

  “I said, Richard, did you have a pleasant journey?” His mother’s voice penetrated his consciousness.

  “Oh, yes, thank you, Mama. Quite amazing to accomplish in three hours what formerly took six or more.”

  “Railways.” Great-aunt Lavinia gave a disapproving sniff. “Noise. Soot. Smoke. If the devil traveled, he should travel by railway.”

  “Well, I’m exceedingly glad you’re here however you’ve come.” Livvy’s voice reflected her pleasure. “And just in time, too. The Shrewsbury Cup is running Saturday next. We must make up a party for it. Will you be going, Olivia?” She turned to George’s wife seated on the other side of Arthur.

  “I think not. I had quite enough of horse racing in Yorkshire.” The tall broad shouldered woman in a russet dress shook her blonde head firmly. The former Olivia Thirkell was the only daughter of a wealthy farmer from the Yorkshire Dales—of sufficiently rugged stock that even George’s blustering failed to intimidate her.

  Livvy shrugged. “Windflyer is the favorite, of course. All the county’s talking about him.” Since no one had thought to lower the lights in the dining room, and Dick would not ask that it be done in front of George, he was required to sit with his eyes closed behind his dark glasses. The sound of his sister’s happiness pleased him, but the name Windflyer tickled his memory. There was some controversy attached to the horse—something about his winning an earlier race against large odds… Oh, yes, the voice at Tattersall’s that had turned out to belong to Dr. Pannier collecting his winnings. The horse’s name had been Windflyer.

  “I should like to go, Livvy. It would be pleasant to be around horses again,” Dick said.

  “Yes, and it will give us a chance to show our county to Mr. Merriott.” Again the smile sounded in Livvy’s voice. But it faded when Arthur explained that he must be on his way in the morning to meet two other commissioners to undertake a factory inspection in Sheffield.

  “However, we will also be working in Stafford later.” He turned to Caroline Greyston. “With your permission I will call on our return.”

  She turned to Great-aunt Lavinia sitting at the foot of the table. “It is my aunt’s home, sir, but I am certain—”

  “Always happy to have young people about.” Lavinia nodded her silver head under its black-ribboned lace cap. “Keeps one young. If they’re cheerful, that is. Bickering will drive us all to an early grave.” She looked meaningfully at George. But he was concentrating on his third serving of meat and potatoes.

  Olivia stepped into the uncomfortable silence to inform her listeners about the antics of their little Francis George III, and dinner continued through to the concluding Bavarian cream followed by tart fall apples and a rich, tangy Stilton.

  Later when Richard was alone in his room, he walked around slowly, touching each item to familiarize himself with its placement. Bumps and bruises were simply part of his life now, but he would keep them to a minimum when he could.

  At last he sat in the overstuffed plush chair by the window. It was not the external bumps that concerned him. He knew his work was cut out for him if he were to accomplish anything at the pottery. It would be a long, hard struggle, but he was prepared to make the stand. He began a careful mental outline of all that needed to be accomplished and how he would approach each challenge.

  Richard had been depressed and angry all day, but now as he focused on the task before him, his former discouragement fell away. Gradually he became aware of a vigor he had not known for months. The realization dawned upon him—at last the wall was down; the road was open before him. A steep, twisting road full of boulders and potholes, but there was a road to follow, a cause to fight for, a job to do, and, hopefully, accomplishment at the end. It felt so good he wanted to spread his arms and shout.

  But at his next thought his newfound elation died, leaving him flatter than before. He had momentarily forgotten Jennifer. At least he had been warned. She had mentioned receiving letters from Arthur even in Scutari. He had known the blow was coming. And he had been given no reason to expect otherwise. He simply had not realized how much he would care.

  Squaring his shoulders, he determined to face that when the time came. In the meantime, however, he could not leave Livvy to the same painful fate. He had heard the note of happiness and caring in her voice tonight when she spoke to Arthur. He must warn her.

  A knock at the door brought Kirkham from the adjoining room to answer it. “Is my brother abed yet, Kirkham?” Livvy rushed in without waiting for an answer. “Oh, Dick, I just had to come again to tell you how lovely it is to have you back!”

  “Livvy.” He crossed to her and put his hands on her shoulders. “I am glad you came. I was just thinking of you. There is something I must speak to you of. I fear the topic will be painful to you. But I would speak now to prevent worse pain later.”

  “Dick, what is it? You sound so solemn.”

  “I feel solemn.” He took a breath and rushed ahead. “Arthur Merriott told me this afternoon that he and Jennifer Neville are to be wed early in the coming year.”

  Livvy went stiff under his hands. She was silent for a long moment and then pulled away. “No. That’s all wrong. I don’t believe it. You misheard him.”

  “No, Livvy. I cannot tell you how much I wish I had. But he was very definite, very certain. All timed to have him properly wifed before the next general election.”

  “No. It is wrong. Wrong.” She fled from the room.

  “Something is wrong, Betsy.” Jennifer dropped the letter from Edith Watson that Betsy had just brought. “Mrs. Watson has visited the brigade. The shoeblacks are to lose their home. The landlord has refused to renew their lease for a reasonable rate. First the mission, now the shoeblacks. How can slum property be that valuable?” Jenny thought for several moments. “Bring my blue woollen mantle, Betsy. I should like to see this property that is suddenly worth so much rent.”

  As the hansom drove the familiar route toward the now-abandoned Westminster Mission, Jennifer thought that it was strange how one could feel happier and yet more burdened at the same time. Ever since her talk with the Earl of Shaftesbury at the concert, the meaning of his wo
rds and the conviction of their truth had been growing on her. And then a full understanding had blossomed under Spurgeon’s preaching. She realized that their land must be redeemed spiritually before it could achieve lasting reform.

  The central problem was that faith simply wasn’t a part of most people’s lives. That must change if the nation were to change. The hearts of the people and the homes where the children were nurtured—those were the building blocks of the nation. Good laws and a sound economy could help create a healthy atmosphere, but the key to true reform was spiritual revival. And there was nothing she could do but pray to that end. The fact was dispiriting and yet freeing.

  The hansom lurched over a rough paving stone, and Jennifer looked up from her meditations with a jolt. If she had not been there so many times before, she would not have believed that they were at the correct address. The windows of the former mission were hung with gaudy lace curtains. Even in midday a lamp with a rose glass chimney glowed in the center pane. And the heavily painted woman in the low-cut striped satin dress who lounged by the door was no candidate for ragged school training. Jenny gasped for air.

  “Shall I tell the cabby to drive on, miss?” Betsy asked.

  Jennifer nodded. But just as they moved back into the stream of carts, carriages, and cabs, she glimpsed a stocky male figure in a black cape. “Stop,” she called to the driver and thumped the top of the cab with her fist. “Wait here,” she ordered Betsy as she gathered the full skirt of her brown merino dress and jumped out.

  She was certain the man was Dr. Pannier. If the Health Department was investigating the brothel, maybe there was a chance it would be closed down and the mission could reacquire the property. Or if he was making a professional call, perhaps he would need a nurse. She approached the woman by the door. Poor thing—she must be freezing, standing about in such a flimsy dress on a chill, gray morning. “Excuse me, er—miss. But the man who just went in—I believe he’s a doctor.”