Where Love Begins (Where There is Love Book 1) Read online

  Catherine could still see the daisies bending on their slender stems in the long grass, feel the gentle sun on her head, and smell the fresh beauty of God’s earth whenever she thought of that meeting. They had sung Charles Wesley’s hymn,

  Jesus, Thine all-victorious love

  Shed in my heart abroad;

  Then shall my feet no longer rove,

  Rooted and fixed in God.

  Catherine was certain she had heard an angel sing along with Charles’ sweet voice leading the crowd in the fresh air.

  And then the words of his sermon brought such joy and comfort to her soul, and now she knew she was God’s child. The warmth of the sun on her head and the warmth of the Son in her heart had fused in an ecstatic moment of light to drive all darkness of doubt from her mind and soul. From that moment she had never doubted God or her acceptance by Him. And from that moment also, she had never doubted her love for Charles Wesley.

  London Bridge approached, claiming all of Catherine’s attention. With Old Biggin’s hooves making hollow clomping sounds she expertly drove the curate cart around the bustling traffic. Young men in phaetons and fashionable women in open landaus jostled with drovers’ carts and pedestrians thronging the shop-lined bridge.

  Once safely across Catherine gave a sigh of relief and returned to her reminiscing. There had been three wonderful years of growth in her assured relationship with God, and in her friendship with Charles—working with him and the others of the Methodist band at the Foundry, attending his meetings when he was preaching in London or when she could get Ned to take her to a nearby area, singing with him when he visited in their home.

  Since her conversion, she had made her home with Ned and his wife so she could work regularly with the Methodist Society. And last year, she began teaching in the day school with twelve infants in her charge. She had not made the move just to be closer to Charles, though the pleasure of that circumstance did bear in her mind. Her supreme reason had been to find opportunity to express more fully her joy and her thanksgiving to God for His perfect salvation; she wished to labor more usefully in the vineyard, as so many Society members were fond of saying. She wanted to fulfill the purpose God had for her life. For with the assurance of her salvation came also the assurance of His guidance, and she had never wavered in this assurance…. Not until now.

  How could she be sure of God’s leading when something so important—so fundamental to the foundation of her life—could go so devastatingly wrong?

  But no matter how wrong the world was, she still had her duty. God was in His heaven, and there was work to be done. Her students would be gathering for instruction in their letters and she must be there. She clucked to Old Biggin and urged him to a faster pace along City Road toward the Foundry. The large white building had been an abandoned ironworks in ruinous condition when John Wesley purchased it. He had reconditioned the building as a galleried chapel holding seventeen hundred people, as well as a smaller chapel to the back. The establishment included a day school, private apartments, and rooms for many other Society activities.

  Catherine left the carriage to Joseph’s care, crossed the cobbled courtyard, and entered the deserted schoolroom, checking that each bench was straight and that the floor was spotless.

  The Foundry school educated sixty poor children under Headmaster Silas Told and two other masters, along with the help of two female teachers. The children began their day at five o’clock with preaching, and attended classes from six until twelve; after a midday meal, they returned to their studies from one until five in the afternoon. Catherine instructed the younger students in reading and Miss Owen supervised the girls’ needlework, which was sold to benefit the school. A frilled shirt brought two shillings, a plain shirt one shilling. The remaining instruction, primarily of writing, casting accounts, and studying Holy Scripture, was in the hands of the masters.

  “Good morning, Miss Perronet.’’ Her first pupil had arrived. Redheaded Isaiah Smithson took his seat on the front form and the others filed in behind him.

  Teaching reading was usually Catherine’s greatest joy. Opening young minds to the wonder of language, giving them the skill to enable them to read God’s Word. Of the sixty children attending the Foundry school, fewer than ten paid their own tuition; the others were so extremely poor that they were taught, and even clothed, gratuitously.

  Catherine looked at the small heads before her bent over their books. What chance would any of them have for a knowledge of the Saviour or of a better life if it weren’t for the work of the Society? But today the job seemed unendingly tedious.

  After a review from their abecedarian, Catherine instructed her pupils to take out their primers. “Isaiah, will you please read the first lesson aloud.” Isaiah stood and rubbed his freckled nose with the back of a grubby hand. “Christ is the t-t-tr…”

  “Truth,” Catherine supplied.

  “Truth. Christ is the l-l-light. Christ is the way. Christ is my life. Christ is my——.” He came to a complete stop.

  “Saviour.” Catherine suppressed a sigh of impatience.

  “Christ is my hope of gl-gl-glory.” Isaiah finished and Catherine reminded herself of John Wesley’s admonition to his teachers: “We must instill true religion into the minds of children as early as possible. Laying line upon line, precept upon precept, as soon as they are able to bear it.

  “Scripture, reason, and experience jointly testify that inasmuch as the corruption of nature is earlier than our instructions can be, we should take all pains and care to counteract this corruption as early as possible. The bias of nature is set the wrong way; education is designed to set it right.”

  Catherine looked at Isaiah’s bruised jaw and scabbed knuckles, undoubtedly won from scrapping with ruffians in the street, and she breathed a prayer of thanks that he and his brother and sisters were all in the school, no matter how tedious it was to listen to his halting reading.

  She moved on to the lesson in moral precepts. The students read silently and then responded to the printed dialogue following the brief table. “What is the usefulest thing in the world?” she asked.

  “Wisdom,” they responded.

  “What is the pleasantest thing in the world?”

  “Wisdom.”

  At last, when Catherine pulled out the watch held tucked in her waistband by a gold fob, she saw it was time to release her students to their midday meal and prayers. Each child placed an abecedarian and primer on the table and filed from the room in an orderly fashion that demonstrated the school’s success in instilling that meekness which John Wesley prescribed for young minds.

  All except Isaiah Smithson. He shuffled his feet at the end of the line, hands behind him, eyes on the floor. “You shall miss your bread and pease porridge if you don’t hurry along, Isaiah.” Catherine tried not to sound impatient.

  “Yes um, Miss Perronet. I jest wanted to say good-bye.”

  “Well, good-bye, Isaiah. I shall see you tomorrow.”

  “No, Miss. That’s not what I meant. I’ll not be comin’ back.”

  “Isaiah, what are you talking about?” She saw the glisten of a tear at the corner of his eye.

  “Me da’ lost his job at the docks. Me and Esther ‘n’ Samuel got to sweep.”

  Catherine’s mind drew a sordid picture of what those few words meant. The two older children would spend their days and most of their nights sweeping horse droppings from the dusty street crossings, in hopes that fine ladies who wanted to cross without soiling their skirts would reward them with a farthing. Isaiah was smaller, too small to defend his place at a crossing against a bigger child who wanted to sweep, and small enough to be sent up a chimney to sweep. Altogether the children might earn a penny or two a day to supplement what their mother could make taking in washing. Catherine could only hope that the little bit wouldn’t be spent on gin by an idle father.

  “Isaiah, we shall see what can be done about this. Perhaps the Methodist Lending Society—I shall look into it.”
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  Isaiah’s blank look told Catherine he had no idea what she was talking about.

  “Well, I shall tell you good-bye for the moment only.” Then she had a thought. “Isaiah, if I give you a primer, will you promise to take very good care of it and have Esther help you read in it every night?”

  “Oh, yes, Miss. I will.”

  Catherine wished she could feel as sure as he sounded, but she must do something to keep the flicker of knowledge burning in this young mind. She placed the small brown book in his hands. “Isaiah, if you persist in your reading, you will find all that is necessary in here—the Creed, the Lord’s Prayer, the Ten Commandments, even a chapter on manners.”

  “Miss Perronet…”

  “Yes?”

  “You sure are pretty.” And he ran out the door, leaving the echo of a sniff behind.

  Three

  IN THE EMPTY ROOM Catherine suppressed a desire to raise a fist and cry out, “Why, God?” Instead she straightened the already tidy tables before crossing the courtyard to the small chapel at the back of the Foundry. Even at midday, the room with its miniscule windows and dark wood was cool and dim, the corners shrouded in shadow. Without bothering to look around her Catherine knelt at the altar. Her mind clouded with the images the day had brought: her brother bleeding from his attack by an angry mob; her beloved Charles Wesley married to another; little Isaiah Smithson doomed to the horrors of sweeping chimneys. She struggled to grope her way through her own darkness as stygian as a sooty chimney.

  Her one solace was her teaching, and now she was to lose her favorite pupil. She had been so happy to feel she was helping bring about the will of God in the life of Isaiah and his family. But now that was to be taken away from her too.

  If God was leading at all, was He leading in another direction? Maybe she was to leave the Foundry? Maybe she should not make her home with Ned and Durial? Nothing seemed to be working right for anyone in her life. Maybe, maybe. She didn’t know, couldn’t even guess. Her hands on the altar clenched with tension as she sought something secure to hold to.

  She must have something or someone to build her life on. If not Charles, if not her teaching, then what?

  And as soon as her mind formed the question, her heart answered, “God.” She must care about Him, believe that He cared about her. That was the still fixed point in her universe. If God dissolved into the maybe, she would be truly lost.

  Perhaps she had misunderstood what she thought was God’s way for her. But wouldn’t the Shepherd be capable of making the sheep understand? Wasn’t faith in understanding an essential element of faith in guidance?

  The silence of the room settled around her as she struggled for an answer. The silence itself comforted like a blanket.

  Slowly the thoughts came. Maybe… maybe… her breathing slowed and steadied as her mind fumbled for the idea… maybe this was all part of the process. Maybe the Shepherd was lovingly leading her through a dark valley where she couldn’t see the path….Maybe her place was simply to follow, one foot in front of the other, without seeing, without understanding.

  As she unclenched her fingers and relaxed, she became aware that she was not alone in the chapel. A tall, gaunt form was kneeling at the far end of the altar. His black suit and hose told her he must be a preacher; his pale blonde hair was not powdered, but tied back neatly with a black ribbon. It was Phillip Ferrar whom Ned had introduced to her, just before his trip to Wales.

  Catherine supposed she should leave him to pray in solitude, but she was caught by the earnestness of his posture and countenance. Ned had told her that the young preacher had held a curacy somewhere in Sussex and was now seeking another position. Curious, Ned hadn’t explained why he left his position and was now doing itinerant preaching. The normal thing would have been to stay in Sussex until he found something else. She couldn’t help thinking that the position he left couldn’t have been a very well-paid living—he didn’t look as if he’d ever eaten a really full meal; and even in the dimness of the room, Catherine could see the patch on the elbow of his coat, and the holes in his shoes.

  As if suddenly aware of her observation, he ended his prayer and looked her way before she had time to bow her head discreetly. They regarded one another for a moment. Then, as if by consent, both walked silently from the chapel. In the courtyard the preacher paused. “Miss Perronet, may I hope you will recall our introduction some weeks ago? I must ask you to forgive my intrusion on your prayers.”

  “Indeed, I remember, Mr. Ferrar. But I’m afraid it was I who intruded on you.”

  “No.” He put on the tricorn hat he carried under his arm. “I had nothing more to say.”

  The forlornness of the words struck her, because that was just how she felt. She looked at the hollows under his deep blue eyes. “Mr. Ferrar, my brother has just returned from Wales, and I believe you were about to make a journey to Hereford when we met. Won’t you come to dinner tomorrow night? I am certain you and Ned will have much to talk about.”

  He accepted her invitation with a formal bow, and with such gravity of manner that she abandoned her usual reserve. “Mr. Ferrar, you appear much troubled. Mr. Wesley admonishes us to bear one another’s burdens. Do you wish to speak of anything? I should be happy to pray for you.”

  Again he bowed slightly. “I appreciate your care, Miss Perronet. But the problem is not a new one. I went into Hereford in hopes of securing a living I had been told was open, but was turned down without an interview because of my Methodist enthusiasms. I shall, of course, continue my itinerant preaching if that is the way God chooses, but I do yearn to shepherd a settled flock.” He paused. Her silence encouraged him to continue.

  “It is always the same. There were many converts after my meetings in Hereford, but then I was forced to leave them. Lambs who had just set their feet upon the path I had to abandon to all the wolves the devil can send. God knows my desire is to stay among them, nurture them, watch them grow. But it does not seem that it is to be.

  “Forgive me, Miss Perronet, I did not mean to weary you with my troubles. It was most kind of you to concern yourself.”

  “I assure you, I am not at all wearied, Sir.” Indeed, she felt she would like to know more of this strange, stiff man with the kind, troubled eyes. “My brother will be happy to receive you tomorrow evening.”

  Phillip watched as Catherine crossed the courtyard to the stables, her wide blue skirts just brushing the cobbles. He turned and walked slowly through Bunhill Fields toward his furnished room, upstairs back in Mrs. Watson’s rooming house. One creaking step at a time, he climbed the dark stairs to his room. The “furnished” part of the arrangement was an iron bed with sadly sagging springs guaranteed to produce a backache, a washstand with a cracked bowl and miniscule, blackened mirror, a wobbly straight chair, and a chest. There was a window for fresh air, if one could pry it open, and a fireplace for warmth, if one could endure the smoke.

  In the months he had lived in the room, Phillip had done nothing to relieve the starkness, perhaps because it was comforting in its likeness to the orphan asylum he had grown up in. Yet, compared to the orphanage, Mrs. Watson’s boarding house bespoke opulence. A small shelf of books was his only concession to making the room his own. Other than those few volumes, the space between the four whitewashed walls was as cold and impersonal as if Mrs. Watson still had the To Let sign in the window.

  Only once in his thirty years had he really taken possession of a place by putting something of himself in it, and that had brought disaster. He put everything he had, heart and soul, into his curacy in Midhurst, his enthusiasm carrying over even into furnishing his cottage. He had polished a Jacobean table he found in the attic under the thatched roof, and then had so praised the pot of flowers the housekeeper set on it that she prided herself in always keeping it full, if only of holly sprigs in the winter. And she saw that the rag rug on the hearth was shaken every day and the teacup on the little dropleaf table by his chair was kept freshly washed for the young cur
ate when he sat by the fire at night to complete his day’s reading.

  That so much contentment and peace should have ended in such bitterness and hurt left a scar that Phillip no longer expected to heal. But at least he had learned to live without leaving anything of himself about—without putting down any roots that could precipitate such an emotional amputation. And that, it seemed was most fortunate. Since he had just been refused for yet another vacancy, it appeared he might never be faced with the temptation to put down roots again.

  If the longing in his heart for a settled parish was from God, as he believed it to be, was he wrong to cling to the Methodist tenets that barred him from such a life? But what would be the good of having a congregation if he couldn’t really share the Gospel with them and lead them in the way of salvation to knowledge of a personal God? No, as long as he had breath in him, he must proclaim God’s truth as he knew it. And that meant another preaching tour next week. With such a schedule there was no danger of his putting down roots in Mrs. Watson’s dreary room, even if he were inclined to try.

  Four

  AFTER AN UNUSUALLY violent bout of morning sickness, Durial was more than happy to leave the ordering of dinner for her husband’s guest in the hands of her sister-in-law. So the next day, Catherine was able to fulfill her wish of setting a really full meal before the painfully thin Mr. Ferrar.

  By late afternoon, however, Durial was recovered enough to join the party to do her duty as hostess and serve from the top of the table. The Perronet household had readily taken to the new “French ease” method of table service whereby the master and mistress carved and served the dishes that were before them at each end of the table, before the guests helped themselves to the other dishes set on the polished mahogany table. “May I cut you another slice of beef roast, Mr. Ferrar?” the hostess asked.

  Phillip declined the sirloin, but accepted another serving of oyster loaf, and Edward served Catherine a slice of boiled turkey with prune sauce. “You are doing very well with your injured arm, Ned.”