Where Love Illumines (Where There is Love Book 2) Page 16

  “But, Papa, what am I to do?” Sarah sounded truly anguished.

  “I will not have you becoming attached to a title, daughter! And there’s an end to it. You will marry a plain man who will take my name and become my heir. Anyone encumbered with a title will have his own line to worry about. I’ll have none of it.”

  Sarah opened her mouth to argue, but Mr. Child raised his hand. “Enough! And I’ll just drop a hint to that starched-up Duchess of Marlborough that she might as well call off that puppy of hers. She’ll have to rebuild her family fortune with some other heiress.”

  Mary didn’t know Sarah was capable of walking so slowly. As they returned to the passage, Sarah negotiated each step by dragging the toe of her silk embroidered shoe, her chin dropped to her chest.

  “Come, come.” Mary felt far older than her three years seniority to Sarah. “You can’t feel it so deeply. You said you didn’t love Graham.”

  Sarah shrugged. “Graham doesn’t matter. But I must marry someone. And I don’t know anyone at all suitable who doesn’t possess a title.” She started back toward the music of the gallery and then stopped. “I can’t face our guests, and it is so stuffy in here. Mary, let’s just slip out to the temple for a moment I need to collect myself.”

  From the window of Sarah’s room, Mary had glimpsed the Doric garden temple in the west lawn just below the orangerie. Now lanterns among the trees and bushes made it appear indeed inviting. But Mary reminded her friend that the chill of the January night air was not at all inviting. “I can’t face Padlett. She’ll fuss on forever. Mary, you run up and tell her I want both of my fur-lined cloaks. Then we shall be as warm as grigs. I shall just dash on down to the temple very quickly. Meet me there.”

  “Sarah, you’ll be taken with the ague if you get a chill.”

  Sarah laughed as she scampered across the lawn. “I’m very hearty. But do hurry.”

  Mary turned to her friend’s bidding. A few minutes later she descended the staircase wearing one fur cape and carrying another. She dashed across the smooth lawn, hoping the damp grass wouldn’t stain her kid shoes or the filigree silver buckles.

  She slowed her pace as she neared the little building with its four Doric columns facing the front. She heard voices coming from inside and thought Sarah must be talking to herself—until a strong male voice rose in argument. Mary was unsure what to do. Should she creep away and leave her friend to shiver in the cold or risk intruding where she wasn’t wanted?

  As she paused, Sarah decided the matter for her. A trill of laughter rang out. “Oh, la, Westmoreland, I cannot possibly decide such a weighty matter when I am freezing to death. No gentleman would hold a lady at such a disadvantage.”

  “But if you would permit me to hold you in my arms—”

  Mary stepped into the temple, Sarah’s cape outstretched to her. Sarah snuggled into it gratefully. “Ah, sir, you are outdone. This is much warmer than your arms could be. You may leave us now. I thank you for bearing me company until my companion arrived.”

  Westmoreland took his congé in good grace, making a leg to each lady before he departed.

  “Sarah, you were here alone with a man?”

  Sarah giggled. “Well, you mustn’t sound so fusty. You could hardly expect him to propose in front of the entire company, could you?”

  “You mean Westmoreland just made you an offer?”

  “Yes, he declared he had been hoping to get me alone all evening, and when he saw me leave by the side door, he followed me.”

  “And you told him to speak to your papa?”

  “Indeed not. There’s no good to come of that. I told him how the matter stood.”

  “And so you refused him?”

  “Well, not precisely. I explained Papa’s eccentricity, and Westmoreland begged me to elope with him. Wasn’t that romantic of him?”

  “Sarah! You didn’t agree to such a thing?”

  “Certainly not. I simply said I wouldn’t elope without my father’s permission.”

  Mary almost choked on a gurgle of surprise and amusement. “Pray, what kind of elopement is done with permission?”

  “That’s what Westmoreland demanded to know, too. I told him I didn’t know, but I love and respect my father. As much as I’m willing to forsake all others for Westmoreland, I won’t wound or deceive my papa to do it.”

  When they returned to the gallery, Roger approached Mary to request another dance. She couldn’t help noticing a certain unsteadiness as he made his leg. He had apparently been partaking too freely of Mr. Child’s claret. She had no desire to dance with a half-flown partner and was relieved to be rescued by Elizabeth. “There you are, my dear. Clement is anxious we should be off. He has been told that there is a highwayman operating in the vicinity, and he doesn’t wish to cross the heath in the wee hours of the morning.”

  Stifford dispatched a footman to summon the Tudway carriage and Mary bade her friend farewell after thanking her hostess for one of the most memorable evenings of her life.

  A short time later Mary snuggled into a corner of the comfortable chaise with rugs tucked securely around her feet and legs to keep out any chill. She let the images of the evening dance through her head—the beauty, the elegance, the exhilaration; the flirting, the drunkenness, the shallowness. The excitement of her friend receiving two offers in one evening and the sadness that Mr. Child would never consent to either man.

  Yet with all that, now that the transports of the evening were over, she couldn’t help admitting to herself that she felt just the tiniest bit flat, like a ship with no wind in its sail. Again she thought over the opulence and gaiety and wondered what was missing.

  And then she knew—Rowland was missing. How delightful it would have been if he had been there with her. His witty comments on the events and his warm eyes and twinkling smile were all it would have taken to make her evening complete.

  But that could never be. Rowland would not approve of such an affair, and so she must choose between them.

  Mary was jolted out of her reverie by the coach rolling to a stop. “What is it, Wheeler?” Clement opened the carriage door and called to his driver.

  “Tree across the road, Mr. Tudway, sir.”

  “Well, clear it quickly! I don’t fancy being stopped in the middle of the heath in the dark.”

  Wheeler had no more than climbed down off the box, however, when a dark-cloaked figure with a scarf over his face galloped up out of the darkness, a long-barreled pistol pointed at the passengers. “Stand and deliver!” he shouted. His voice was muffled by the scarf, but the words and his determination were clear enough. Clement stepped out of the coach. “And the ladies!” Elizabeth and Mary emerged also.

  This time there was no delivering battle cry from a cloaked rescuer swooping like a giant avenging eagle. The outlaw commanded Elizabeth to lay her necklace and diamond hair ornament in the bag he held out. Clement followed with his gold ring and the contents of his purse. By the steadiness with which this bandit held his pistol and the evident strength of his spirited horse, Mary thought it just as well there would be no rescue attempt this time. It was doubtful that such tactics would have scared off this iron-nerved robber. “And now, miss,” he shouted.

  “I’m not wearing any jewels,” Mary replied, drawing back her cloak to demonstrate the fact. But as she did so, her skirt was also pulled back, and the moonlight shone on her silver buckles.

  “Those will do well enough.” The highwayman pointed his firearm at Mary’s feet.

  Not until that moment had she realized how much Rowland’s gift meant to her. Her fingers trembled as she knelt in the dirt to slip the buckles off her shoes and place them beside Elizabeth’s diamonds. Her last afternoon in Bath with Rowland came back to her, the fun of his companionship, the concern he showed for her, his kind friendship, and the joyous surprise of his gift.

  She stepped forward, shaking a fist at their masked assailant who still kept his gun steadied on her. “How dare you! You should be as
hamed! Those were a gift from a very dear friend. They won’t mean a thing to you—you’ll just melt them down into a little lump of silver and sell it for a few pennies. I would cherish them for the rest of my life. You’re just a lazy bully preying on helpless people instead of earning an honest living. But don’t worry, you’ll get yours. Someday your soul will be required of you. God will—”

  Two sharp shots split the air, and Mary cried out. Elizabeth screamed. Clement dragged both ladies into the carriage with a shout to Wheeler to drive on. The highwayman gave a triumphant, mocking shout of laughter as he clutched the valuables and spun his horse around to gallop across the heath.

  “Mary, Mary, where are you hurt?” Elizabeth clasped her hand. “Mary, can you speak?”

  Mary gave a shout of angry frustration. “Of course, I can speak! He only shot the ground beside me. But to think that I gave in to him like that. I’m so mortified! If only Spit had been with me, he should have shown that ruffian what for.”

  In the following days, Mary told the incident over and over again as she and Elizabeth made the endless round of social calls that filled their calendars. And every time she told the story, Mary was aware that she missed the cherished ornaments far less than she missed the one who had given them to her.

  Eleven

  In spite of the hardships and frequent discouragements of his calling, Rowland progressed in his field preaching all the way down the country to the English Channel. He thought often of Mary and of his family, but his itinerate profession left him no peace for receiving letters and he found the sense of isolation harder to bear than the frequent wettings from rain, peltings of stones and a persistently empty stomach.

  Still, as he often reminded himself, he must count it all for blessing as the difficulties were off-set by the joy of sometimes surprisingly receptive listeners, repentant sinners and the abiding sense that he was fulfilling his Master’s call.

  In the port town of Exmouth, he rode his trusty little pony, whom he had christened Barnabas, to the dock area. He wanted to preach to the sailors who lounged around the quay resting up before their next sailing or waiting for casual labor. They were a weather-beaten lot, with eyes that had seen the sights offered by the seven seas and stomachs that had tasted the rum of every port. And they were not inclined to spend their afternoon being preached to.

  Rowland stayed mounted on Barnabas and kept the seawall to his back, which protected his posterior from flying missiles and projected his voice forward above the surly catcalls. But at length he could see that nothing was to be gained by shouting them down. He held his hands in the air, a gesture which caused some of the less raucous to lower their voices.

  “My lads, I have no right over you. If you do not choose to hear me, I have no authority to force your attention; but I have traveled some miles for the sake of doing or receiving good. I have, therefore, a proposal to make to you. I always did admire British sailors, and I see here some able-bodied seamen. Some of you have no doubt seen a great deal of service and been in many a storm and perhaps in dangerous shipwrecks.”

  “Tha’s right, matey.”

  “So ah ’ave!”

  “Now, as I am very fond of hearing the adventures of seamen, my proposal is that some of you stand up and tell us what you have seen and suffered and what dangers you have escaped. I will sit and hear you out upon the condition that you agree to hear me afterward.”

  Coarse laughter filled the air and bounced against the seawall. “Do you stand up and give a lecture, Skegness.”

  Another called out, “Tha’s a ticket, ’arry. Give ’im a sermon!”

  The sailors laughed and Rowland laughed. Sitting patiently on Barnabas, his reins looped at ease, Rowland asked, “Will none of you fine adventurers take up my proposal?”

  For the first time since his arrival, the quayside was quiet.

  Rowland cleared his throat “Well, I’ll tell you then—you think me naught but a havey-cavey field preacher, one like as not to pitch a strange doctrine; but I came not long since from the University of Cambridge. If you had taken my proposal and heard me, I should have told you nothing but what is in the Bible or prayer book, even though I don’t preach in a cathedral. I will tell you what I intended to say to you if you had heard me quietly, for I too have a story of seafaring adventure to recount to you.”

  And he went on to tell with robust detail of St. Paul’s distresses. “Three times he suffered shipwreck. Once he spent a day and a night in the deep before rescue came. If you had chosen to listen to me preach, I should have told you the message this intrepid sailor bore.” And to his spellbound crowd Rowland Hill began with a declaration of the grace and compassion of Christ in dying to save all penitent sinners. Then he led them to consider the thief on the cross, and then to the character and circumstances of the prodigal son and the compassion of his father.

  His description of what he meant to have said riveted the attention of all, and more and more gathered around to hear. As he spoke, his hearers gradually drew nearer and nearer, hanging upon each other’s shoulders as if they were on shipboard. In this position they listened with almost deathlike silence till he finished telling them what he should have said, if they had been willing to hear him.

  He then took off his hat and made them a bow. “My fine men, I thank you for your courteous civility to me in allowing me to tell you what I should have liked to tell you.”

  An appreciative laugh reverberated against the wall, a far different tone than echoed earlier. “I say we give ’im three cheers!” an old salt near the front of the group yelled.

  “’ip ’urrah!”

  “’ip ’urrah!”

  “’ip ’urrah!”

  On the final cheer the men threw their hats in the air and then scattered to retrieve them. But some remained to talk. “Never ’eard no preachin’ like that ’afore.”

  “When will you come again, sir?” a surprisingly well-spoken midshipman asked.

  Before Rowland could answer, a burly sailor stepped forward. “If ye will come again, I say no one shall ’urt a ’air on yer ’ead if I’m on shore.”

  “I must ride on to Exeter tonight,” Rowland replied. “But should I be able to come this way again, I would consider it an honor to have you serve as bodyguard.”

  “Oh, going to Exeter, is it? Goin’ to take a dish o’ tea with ’is Lordship, the bishop?”

  Rowland laughed at the fellow’s witticism and waved farewell, but inside he felt the tension of drawing near to Exeter. The wit had not been far from wrong. The Bishop of Exeter would be the sixth to receive an application for holy orders from Rowland Hill, A. M. of Cambridge University. He recalled Berridge’s words that when the time was right, ordination would come.

  Well, he had gone out, following his pillar of cloud and fire, preaching wherever he could find hearers. And that had not been difficult through the late summer and harvest months. He had joined the harvesters in the field and preached to them at their horkey, attended harvest home festivals in village churches and preached in the new-mown fields afterwards. And through Advent and Christmas he preached wherever the village waits sang. He spoke of Christ’s coming to earth as a babe and to the hearts of men as Savior. But now the winter months drew on. His reduced allowance was not enough to cover lodging every night, and it was too cold to sleep in the fields where he preached. At one service the Methodist band had proposed to take an offering for the young itinerant. “I hope everyone will give at least a little,” the gentleman taking the offering said.

  “I hope everyone will give a great deal,” Rowland said. They laughed as they turned out their pockets, and he lodged for a week on the generosity of that night.

  Opposition and threats served as spurs to him, but as always, the moments of greatest discouragement for Rowland came from small attendance or lack of response at his meetings. Now the cold weather made attendance and response ever thinner. “Lord, what an unprofitable servant!” he prayed after many a sparse meeting. “Oh
, that I might do better for the future.”

  If only he could receive ordination. Then he could preach in churches, he could return to his family, and he could speak to Mary—the three things he most wanted in this life, apart from the privilege of serving Christ.

  As Barnabas plodded the eleven miles to the cathedral city, Rowland’s thoughts were all of Mary. He knew there was much lacking in her spiritual commitment. He knew she sensed it vaguely, even if she would not admit it to him or to God. And he knew that God could take care of that lack.

  To the clop-clop of his pony’s feet, he prayed for Mary. “If you made her for me, as I believe you did, make her also the woman for my calling, I pray. Visit her with your grace. Enable her to open her heart to your calling.”

  His heart contracted as he thought of Mary because he knew that even if he received ordination, even if she seemed disposed to accept him, he could not take a wife who would oppose God’s call for him. That thought followed him like a small black cloud all the way into Exeter.

  Exeter Cathedral had been the seat of the bishop who held jurisdiction over Devon and Cornwall since the year 1050; for a hundred years before that, the site had been home to a monastic church. As he rode through the black and white Tudor close, Rowland prayed that in this place of great tradition of service to God and man he might at last come into harbor. He spent his last shillings on food and lodging at the inn and sent the boot boy round to the Bishop’s Palace with a note requesting that he might call on Bishop Fullerton to be examined for ordination the following morning.

  The reply was affirmative, so the next morning Rowland dressed with meticulous care in a coat newly pressed by the innkeeper’s wife. Carrying his Bible, prayer book, and Cambridge papers, he walked round to the Palace.

  He was shown into the bishop’s study and welcomed with a degree of courtesy he had grown unaccustomed to meeting in the past months. But after the initial pleasantries and Bishop Fullerton’s cursory perusal of Rowland’s credentials, the interrogation began. “I am pleased to see that you took your university degree with some eclat. We need more clergymen with solid scholarship. But what of the report I have heard that in London you preached at the Tabernacle and at Tottenham Court Road Chapel?”