Where Love Begins (Where There is Love Book 1) Page 21

  Catherine realized she had been holding her breath awaiting Charles’ answer. Now it escaped in a great sigh. It seemed that suddenly, in the very wake of destruction, God was answering all her prayers. Was this His perfect time? The time she had so long awaited?

  It seemed even more likely that was to be so as Ned joined them and his father turned to him. “My Son, I have come not only as an emissary from your mother, but also as a petitioner in my own behalf.”

  “Sir?”

  “I think you know from visiting my estate in Canterbury last year that Adisham has been looking for retirement. I can put him off no longer. He must be pensioned into a cottage and the burden of running the farm passed to younger, stronger hands. Would you consider being those hands, Ned?”

  “Move to Canterbury? I must give it some thought.” After only a breath’s pause he added. “I do believe Durial would like it above all things.”

  “And you, Ned? It should give you more uninterrupted time for hymn-writing; and the societies in Kent are in need of a firm hand among them.”

  Catherine’s head was reeling. This would solve Ned and Durial’s problem. But what about hers? She looked across the room at the still-silent Phillip. In the midst of the noisy room he was calm and detached. And yet, he looked sad, as if instinctively missing the belonging he had never known.

  She started toward him, but Philothea intervened. “Catherine, I’m longing to hear all about your earthquake adventures! Was it very alarming? All we got in Shoreham was a gentle rolling—no more than a rocking chair.” She sighed. “So unfair to miss all the excitement.”

  And then Whitefield approached Phillip, and Catherine heard him ask, “And what of my invitation? Have you decided to go to American with me?”

  But Phillip’s voice was softer than Whitefield’s and she could not hear the answer.

  Twenty-nine

  DURIAL WAS AT THE HEIGHT of her glory directing her well-trained servants and seeing to her guests’ comfort, and when Ned spoke briefly to her of Vincent’s offer, she immediately declared that the entire company should stay to dinner in celebration. Her well-ordered larders were up to any challenge—even to serving the Countess of Huntingdon on short notice. She dispatched Joseph from the stables to London to fetch Elizabeth and William Briggs so that all available family might be there.

  Ned and his father went into the study for further discussion of their plans, and Philothea requested Catherine to show her around the house and garden. As she left the parlor, Catherine heard Whitefield and Phillip discussing the plans of sailing to America, but only one voice was distinct. “America? Nonsense!” And the Countess snapped her fan to punctuate her words.

  After giving Philothea a quick tour, Catherine took her sister to the guest room to freshen up. Audrey brought in a brass can of hot water from the kitchen and Catherine reveled in repeatedly splashing her face and arms as if she could wash away the fatigue and strain of the past weeks.

  But when she turned to her mirror to arrange her curls she was shocked that her recent fatigue and worry were written so clearly there. What was wrong? God had answered all her prayers—all but one. And surely that was only a matter of time.

  Perhaps as early as tomorrow Phillip would call and their conversation this time could continue uninterrupted. She had determined weeks ago what her answer would be. It only remained for her to voice it. Then she stopped.

  Suddenly she knew the cause of the weight around her heart and the hollow feeling in the center of her stomach. She had known peace the moment she acknowledged her love for Phillip. But she had known nothing but internal turmoil, far greater than any caused by the earthquakes, over her decision to go to America. What of her criterion that if a step were directed of God, it would be accompanied by His peace?

  Could the fact that she had been thwarted at every attempt to speak to Phillip of her decision to go, and the fact that she felt no peace over the decision, mean she wasn’t to go? It was true that she felt no real call to the work in America—no intense desire to minister in that field. But wasn’t a desire to be with the minister himself enough? Had she mistaken her wish to be with Phillip for a call to be a missionary?

  Must she choose between Phillip and God’s will? If that were the case there could be no choice.

  The arrival of yet another carriage told her Elizabeth and her husband had arrived. She must go down and take her place in the family circle Inside, Catherine felt nothing but a gaping hole where her dreams had been, but outside she wore her usual air of calm serenity.

  With tight control Catherine could rule her exterior. But nothing could make her insides obey. Durial’s excellent meal choked her, and when she attempted to reply to a remark directed to her, her bridled voice sounded more awful to her ears than if she had shouted across the table. Phillip responded to a question from Charles Wesley in his slow, thoughtful manner, then looked across the table at her. For an awful moment their eyes held. Then he gave that tiny, half smile of his and she could sit there no longer.

  Summoning all her natural dignity, Catherine asked her hostess to excuse her and walked slowly to her room. Mechanically she went through all the motions of her night-time ritual, then drew the heavy side curtains of her bed around her. She had no sense of God’s presence with her in that small enclosure, only her determination to believe that He was still there.

  The next morning it seemed a miracle to her that she had slept, that the sun had risen again, that birds were singing. Such things were entirely alien to the desolation inside her. Durial looked shocked by her announcement that she did not intend to go in to the Foundry that day.

  “Regular lessons have not been resumed yet; I am certain they can get along very well without me.”

  “A very wise decision, Catherine. I am just surprised you would take so sensible a course. After all, your earthquake gown is yet unfinished. And now we must make one for Philothea too, as Father Perronet does not intend to return to Shoreham before the end of the week. And all the china must be packed—how fortunate that one packing will suffice for earthquake protection and for our removal to Canterbury. I can think of no more satisfactory solution for our needs. Will you live with Elizabeth when we are gone? That seems far the best plan—assuming there remains a London to be lived in, that is.”

  Durial thrust Catherine’s half-sewn gown into her hands and began cutting her final length of muslin for Philothea. “How fortunate that I have just enough fabric left. Now we must decide whether to hold our vigil in the meadows by Hither Green or take to a boat in the Thames. Which do you think would be the best, Ned?”

  Edward looked up from the manuscript of a poem he was composing. “Where do you think we’d find a boat? Besides, those gowns will show off to the best advantage in an open field.”

  Durial was completely unscathed by his sarcasm. “Yes, I suppose that is best. There’s always the danger of a great wave swamping a boat. But I did think that in case of fire, the river might be a wise choice.”

  “Well, to the best of my knowledge, there are no coal fields under Hither Green Meadow, so you should be quite safe there from a conflagration.”

  The prophets had pinpointed the night of April 4 or early morning of April 5, so all day Wednesday Durial worked everyone around her to a frenzy, storing the last of the crockery and silver, securing the furniture with ropes, and packing huge hampers of food. “If the destruction is great we may have to live in the open for some time. Audrey, you and Joseph fill the pony cart with blankets.”

  Catherine obeyed, as did all the others. Hysteria was in the air. As much as Catherine refused to give in to frenzy, however, there was no use trying to fight general bustle.

  Even Vincent Perronet joined in the preparations for whatever might come. “Ned,” Vincent admonished his son about to depart for the Foundry, “you might bring an extra hymnal or two from the book room. Seems we might find it useful to keep the folks occupied with a candlelight hymn-sing.”

  Ned agreed
, and assured Durial for the seventh time that he would not return late from a visit to John Wesley to encourage him in his convalescence.

  By the time Ned returned at five o’clock, Durial had household and carriages in perfect order and all the females of the family and staff properly clad in their earthquake gowns. “Yes, I suppose you must take your cloaks, but it does seem a pity to cover the gowns. Although I imagine by the time it’s really cold it will be dark also. But then, if great fires start, you won’t need a wrap, will you?”

  Catherine was pleased with Ned’s news that the Countess would join them at the meadow. The great lady was bringing her household staff and the Smithson family, as something of a celebration for the newly reunited family.

  But then Catherine was confused at her brother’s next piece of information. “George Whitefield left yesterday for his parents’ home in Gloucester, so the countess is bringing Phillip in place of her private chaplain.” Private chaplain? What could that mean?

  Catherine climbed into the carriage next to Philothea and was thankful for her sister’s chatter all the way to the meadow. The exit route from London was choked with carriages, horseback riders, and pedestrians. Many were well-known to the Perronets and a festival air accompanied the evacuees as they called and waved to their friends. But Catherine sat motionless. Phillip would be there tonight. She was certain he would speak to her, and she would much rather encounter an earthquake than to tell him she couldn’t go to America with him.

  The sun was setting when they reached Hither Green. Durial selected a pleasant spot near a spinney of trees and directed the servants to spread out rugs on the grass. Catherine remained inside the carriage as long as possible; but when the Countess’ party arrived and chose to park not far from them, she could no longer remain hidden. “Come, Cath! Let’s go listen to the preachers!” Philothea tugged at her hand.

  They walked across the meadow grass, enjoying the freedom of gowns, devoid of familiar hoops and petticoats, swishing around their ankles. They stood behind a crowd listening to a doomsaying preacher. “It says it right here, in the Book of Matthew, ‘There shall be earthquakes in divers places. All these are the beginning of sorrows.’” A moan rose from the overwrought audience. “‘Then shall they deliver you up to be afflicted, and shall kill you: and ye shall be hated…’”

  A warm hand touched Catherine’s shoulder, and Phillip’s deep voice said, “He seems to be overlooking the exhortation to avoid the false prophets that shall arrive at that time.”

  It was now dark, and as Catherine turned, the glow of the lantern Phillip carried fell on his hair and gentle eyes. She caught her breath. Catherine had never guessed that her determination to follow God could teeter so precariously.

  “Durial sent me to fetch you. She is serving supper from the hampers.”

  Philothea hung on Phillip’s arm and fairly skipped across the meadow with him, leaving Catherine to walk quietly beside them, wearing the natural calm solemnity of her expression that showed nothing of the pain she was feeling. Was this what it meant to love—to really love? This caring so much you thought you could do nothing but ache? And then not being able to do anything about it?

  Catherine sat on the rug Durial indicated. She held her plate of food and slipped enough of it to Isaiah Smithson to make it appear she had eaten, and then sent her greetings to his parents who were eating with the servants. And she listened to the Countess holding forth, “England is darkened with clouds of ignorance and sin. If God spares us this night, I am determined to do all within my power to reverse the situation.

  “I shall turn upon our country the light of Divine truth. The church is slumbering at ease, benumbed by the poisonous influence of error. I shall arouse the careless sleepers and apply the Gospel antidote. Throughout England, Wales, Scotland, Ireland, I shall relume the ancient altars and enkindle fresh fires. If we are spared the fires of judgment tonight…”

  When Ned and her father began gathering the party together to sing hymns, however, it was more than Catherine could bear. She slipped away to sit in the carriage.

  Across the meadow, candles and lanterns were flickering like overgrown fireflies, and the voices of the singers carried to her on the night air. She opened the door of the carriage the better to hear. Vincent Perronet had wisely chosen to begin with one of Charles Wesley’s most recently penned: “Thou Hidden Source of Calm Repose.”

  It seemed to the listening Catherine that few words could be more appropriate for this moment—either for the crowd on the green or for her own inner turmoil:

  “…my help and refuge from my foes,

  secure I am if thou art mine…”

  They began the final verse:

  “…In want my plentiful supply,

  in weakness my almighty power…”

  A soft rap on the carriage door caught Catherine’s attention. At first it was so gentle she thought she had mistaken, but then she saw Phillip’s dear, craggy profile in the moonlight.

  “Catherine, may I come in? I must speak to you.” The calmness of his voice sounded as forced as was her effort at sounding cheerful as she offered him the seat facing her.

  It seemed he dreaded what he would say as much as Catherine dreaded the reply she must give. He regarded her in silence, a soft glow of moonlight falling through the carriage window. For a moment she who had learned to read him so well saw an opening, a readiness to speak, and then something snapped shut inside.

  Now that they were together, they must speak. If only she could reach him, pry open that spring that always closed her out. Phillip seemed to realize how near he had come to letting the barrier down. He put his hands over his face as if he could rebuild the chink he’d let fall from the wall.

  At last he took a shuddering breath so deep that Catherine felt as if the whole carriage shook. “I shouldn’t have come. I don’t know why I did. Catherine, I cannot speak. I long to, but I may not. Surely you know how I feel about you, how tenderly I regard you. I had hoped to have something to offer you. But I have nothing.”

  And the barrier was sealed again.

  In the dimness of the night, from the dark of her own pain, Catherine reached out to him and took his hand. “Nothing to offer but your dear self, Phillip.”

  The term of endearment seem to wound him. He pulled his hand away. “I had hoped to have something of substance—A place to offer you.”

  “And I had hoped to accept…” she said; she could get no further in her own explanation that she must refuse him.

  “Catherine, I have refused Mr. Whitefield’s offer. Now I have nothing. I tried to accept, but it was wrong. I was considering it for the wrong reasons—to make a home to offer you, not to serve God.”

  The relief was overwhelming. For long minutes Catherine could only swallow. At last the burning lump in her throat dissolved and she could pray, “Thank You, my God, thank You.”

  “Catherine, I cannot tell you…”

  With a sudden force that would make an observer think the earthquake had struck the Perronet carriage, Catherine moved across the seat and into Phillip’s arms. “O Phillip, that’s the best news I’ve ever heard. Why didn’t you tell me? I had come to the same conclusion. I was determined to go in order to be with you, but then I knew it was wrong. I thought you were going to ask me to go and I should have to refuse you. O Phillip!”

  And at last, after months of waiting, he kissed her—or she kissed him. In their close quarters in the dark, it was impossible to tell who made the first move. But as the ad hoc choir in the meadow sang, “Love divine, all loves excelling, Joy of heav’n to earth come down!” the two in the carriage knew they had known a bit of that divine love on earth.

  Then Phillip pulled away. “It’s not possible. Life’s not really that good—not mine.”

  “I intend to do my best to see that it is from here on.” She spoke staunchly, her words accompanied with a smile.

  But he shook his head. “Catherine, in my whole life I’ve never loved an
yone—nor anyone me. I’m afraid I don’t know how to go about this.”

  She traced the hollow of his cheek with a gentle finger. “You’re doing very well for a beginner.”

  Then the tender mood was broken as he firmly set her back on her own side of the carriage. “What was I thinking? Forgive me. Catherine, nothing has changed. The fact still remains that I am a foundling without place or prospect. Even if I were such a selfish bounder as to ask you to sacrifice yourself to me, it must be clear to you that the honorable, respected, not to mention well-to-do Vincent Perronet would never give his daughter to one with such a background.”

  “Phillip, what nonsense! My father believes we are all equal before God, all sons and heirs. There are no foundlings in the kingdom of God.”

  “Spiritually, I do not doubt that. But in the terms of this world I am a foundling who—”

  “A foundling who has found grace in the sight of God and favor in the eyes of the woman who loves him.”

  This time he came to her across the carriage width and, at long last, everything about him told her that he had come home. Phillip had found a place of belonging as he had never belonged before.

  Nothing was solved. Phillip had no home, no employment but that of an itinerate preacher, but for the moment, having Phillip love her, and loving him in return, was enough. And she had her firm faith that God would guide them, would open a door for them in time. No sooner had the affirmation formed in her mind, than the singers in the meadow began, “Thy faithfulness, Lord, each moment we find, So true to Thy Word, so loving and kind…”

  Catherine turned her head slightly from Phillip’s shoulder and looked out the small window. Across the meadow candles and lanterns flickered as the ladies’ pale muslin gowns ruffled in a gentle predawn breeze. The night that had been predicted to be filled with terror and catastrophe was flooded with peace and beauty. She turned back to Phillip and closed her eyes.