Where Love Begins (Where There is Love Book 1) Page 3

  “Yes, thank God it wasn’t broken. What a nuisance that would have been. Afraid it will take a while for some of these bruises to heal, at that.” He gingerly touched a swollen spot on his forehead.

  “Pray, do not let us talk of such unpleasant things.” Durial averted her eyes from her husband’s wounds. “Tell us of the more pleasant aspects of your trip, Ned. What of the wedding?”

  Edward hesitated, not wanting to distress his sister. “Yes, Ned. Tell us.” Catherine’s voice was composed.

  “Charles had kept it so quiet we were all rather surprised to learn that he had been courting Miss Gwynne almost since he first met her four years ago when he was holding service with Howell Harris near her home in Garth. She attended that day with her father Marmaduke Gwynne who, as magistrate of the county, came with a warrant in his pocket to arrest the irregular preacher. But Gwynne was a fair man, and wouldn’t arrest a man without hearing him preach first; as it turned out the magistrate was converted.”

  “And his daughter?” The lace lappets of Catherine’s ruffled cap fell across her shoulders as she leaned forward.

  “Oh, the whole family was soon converted and, it seems, all quite smitten with the younger Wesley brother. All except Mrs. Gwynne, who holds the accounts in the family, and had someone of a higher station in mind for her eldest daughter.”

  Durial swallowed a delicate bite of fish. “La, is that why it took Mr. Wesley four years to bring it about?”

  “There were many hindrances, his lack of a settled home, her age—she’s twenty years younger than he, you know—the fear of causing trouble in the Society…”

  “Trouble?” Durial asked. The conversation had now become a dialogue between the host and hostess with Catherine and Phillip giving their full attention to the stewed venison.

  “Yes, John especially feared that the many disappointed hopefuls for both Sally’s and Charles’ affection might cause dissension in the Society.” Edward showed his discomfort at stating that particular truth in front of his sister and rushed on. “But Charles provided an acceptable marriage settlement from his book sales, and our father’s letter seemed to soothe away some last minute problems.”

  “How enchanting to hear such a charming story, my Love.” Durial smiled across the candlelit table. “And now everyone is blissfully happy.” She gave a contended little sigh.

  Edward gave his wife an uneasy smile and turned to his plate.

  Catherine, relieved that the painful topic seemed to be at an end, looked at their guest across the table and realized that he had spoken hardly a word during the entire first course. Indeed, instead of the felicitous effect she expected her excellent meal to produce, he seemed more tense and drawn than before. This made his nose seem even larger, and his dark blue eyes darker yet in startling contrast to his pale hair. She would have dearly loved to say something to put him at ease, but her own reserved nature could find no light words for the occasion. At Durial’s direction, the servant removed the first course and replaced it with another pattern of dishes bearing anchovy toasts, potato pudding, strawberry fritters, and jam tarts.

  When the serving was completed, Edward turned to their guest. “And what of your work, Ferrar? Is the life of an itinerant suiting you?”

  “If it suits our Master, I shan’t complain.”

  Ned smiled and shook his head. “You’re a man of few words. I should like to hear you preach. I think you might easily avoid the trap of tediousness John Wesley admonishes us to abjure.”

  “Would you truly, Edward?” Phillip raised his fine, surprisingly dark eyebrows in question. “I should be most happy of your companionship on my next tour. Someone to lead the singing would be more than useful, as my abilities in that area are woeful.”

  Ned opened his mouth to reply, but Durial spoke first. “Indeed not, Sir. My husband is not yet recovered from the treatment he received at the hands of the last mob he sought to evangelize. If the rabble insists on going to the devil, I cannot see why you shouldn’t leave them to it.”

  “My treatment was nothing compared to that received by our Lord and His disciples, and that, in His infinite mercy, was not His attitude, my Love.” Edward’s reproof to his wife was gently delivered.

  “You are right, of course. Forgive my temperamental state.” Her apology included Phillip as well. “But I must ask you not to tempt my husband into danger before his wounds are healed.”

  “I would do nothing to distress you, Madam, but there should be very little danger in Canterbury. I have received many letters from Society members throughout Kent requesting a preacher.”

  “But Ned…” Durial began, then laid aside her fork with a sigh. “I know I waste my breath. You must excuse me if I withdraw now. I find I cannot keep late hours.”

  “I shall come with you, sister.” Catherine began to rise.

  “No, Cath, please don’t trouble yourself on my account. Audrey will help me. You stay and serve our guest.”

  Catherine left Durial to the ministrations of her maid and served pink pancakes to Phillip and her brother, as the men continued to discuss Phillip’s upcoming preaching trip. “My father has a farm at Canterbury I should be happy to see to. And from Tunbridge Wells we could come up through Shoreham,” Ned said. “I should much like to visit our parents.”

  “But what of your injuries and—the other objections? I fear I shouldn’t have spoken so rashly.”

  Ned smiled. “My wife is overcareful for my safety. She will get on much better without me here to mess up the house with my books and sheets of music.”

  Her serving finished, Catherine felt it was time for her to withdraw, but again her attempt to exit was thwarted. “Don’t leave us, Cath. If I’m to serve as musician to Mr. Ferrar’s evangelistic efforts, I should give him a demonstration of what he’s in for. Let’s have a bit of music.”

  That was a request Catherine always granted with eagerness, although she hoped Ned would not choose to sing one of Charles Wesley’s hymns. She led the way into the parlor and seated herself at the harpsichord, while Ned lighted the tapers with a stick from the fireplace. The candlelight made shimmers on the holly leaf pattern of her blue damask skirt; the three tiers of Valenciennes ruffles fell gracefully from her elbows as she fingered the keys. The lace was the finest French bobbin work and Catherine spared a thought for her aunt in France who kept her well supplied in fashionable finery.

  “What shall I play, Ned?” She ran a scale up and down the keys, the bright silvery tones of the harpsichord responding to her quick touch.

  “Here,” he set a piece of music before her. “Let’s begin with this by our friend Count Zinzendorf. ‘Jesus, Thy blood and righteousness…’” His rich tenor filled the room…. “‘Thou hast for all a ransom paid, for all a full atonement made.’”

  “Come, come, Phillip. You must join us.” Edward placed another sheet of music on the rack. “You sing too, Cath. This old Welsh hymn melody is best with a group of voices.”

  Catherine hesitated at the words her brother had put before her. Was it a random selection, or did he guess at her spiritual struggles? She forced her fingers to play and hoped her light soprano voice could stay on time without wavering.

  Guide me, O Thou great Jehovah,

  Pilgrim through this barren land.

  I am weak, but Thou art mighty;

  Hold me with Thy powerful hand…

  The words sank into her mind as vocalizing the prayer brought its own pledge of faith. Her voice grew stronger on the second verse.

  Open now the crystal fountain,

  Whence the healing stream doth flow;

  Let the fire and cloudy pillar

  Lead me all my journey through.

  Strong Deliv’rer, strong Deliv’rer,

  Be Thou still my Strength and Shield….

  She had been so caught by the message of the words and their effect on her spirit that it wasn’t until the repeated refrain that her ear caught the discordant note behind her. “Be Thou still
my Strength and Shield.” The voice didn’t lack strength, just correctness of pitch.

  She was caught off guard and gave a gurgle of laughter before she realized what she had done. The dissonance stopped at once. She turned to their guest, afraid she had wounded him by her thoughtlessness.

  But instead of seeing pain on his countenance, she met the merriest twinkle she had seen in his blue eyes and a smile so broad it balanced the size of his nose. It was the first open emotion she had seen from him. “Please forgive me, I—” she stammered.

  “There is nothing to forgive in your quite natural reaction.” The smile continued. “You see now why I hoped your brother would accompany my tour? I fear I take great pleasure in hymn singing, but it must be indulged in only under more harmonious tones from a large congregation.” Then the smile broke into a deep chuckle which was considerably more melodious than his singing, and Ned and Catherine joined in the much needed release.

  At last Ned spoke, “Catherine, I see I’ve taken on a much greater challenge than I realized. I fear I shall need help. I doubt the ability of even a great congregation to drown out this fellow’s caterwauling. Won’t you come with me on his tour? It would be a shame if all the potential hearers of the Word in Kent were to be scared off by the hymn singing.”

  “O Ned, I’d love to!” Her reaction was instinctive before common sense took over. “But alas, I fear it’s impossible. I must not leave my school duties, and we can’t both abandon Durial.” And then fear replaced common sense. “No, I really couldn’t. So far on horseback…”

  Ned put an understanding hand on her shoulder. “We could take the carriage, my dear. As to the school, couldn’t Miss Owen oversee your students for just two weeks? And I’ve been thinking that our sister Elizabeth would be happy of an excuse to be closer to the London Society. She could stay with Durial.”

  Catherine laughed in spite of her concerns. “My, how efficient you are. But perhaps Mr. Ferrar does not want his tour so invaded.”

  Phillip gave one of his small, stiff bows which made the white Geneva bands at his neck fall forward from his black coat. “On the contrary, I would be very honoured to have your company, Miss Perronet.” And in spite of his stiffness, his eyes twinkled. “Besides, your brother is sure to need all the help he can get.”

  “We shall consider the matter further,” Catherine said and turned again to the keyboard where she played a brief melody before stopping to ask, “And have you a new hymn for us to try out, Ned?”

  “Not yet ready to show even to so select a company, I fear. I have an image that seems stuck in my head every time I try to write, but I haven’t been successful in putting it into words. I see Christ on a great white throne with angels kneeling around Him, each one offering a crown and praising the power of His name. But the wording eludes me. I want to write a hymn of regal power and dignity that will bring honour to His majesty. I pray I will be worthy of the task.”

  “That is the prayer of each of us, is it not? To be worthy of our task?” Catherine rose from the harpsichord bench and after a few more comments of a general nature, joined her brother in bidding their guest a good-night.

  And later, alone in her room, the side curtains of her bed drawing her into her own little world, Catherine pondered Ned’s parting remarks to her, “Do come with us, Cath. You need a change of scenery. It will take your mind off more painful things. And you can do some real good.”

  Catherine doubted just how much actual good she could accomplish. It seemed to her that the female members of the Society who so often accompanied preachers on their journeys went more for their own enlightenment or amusement —or for more subtle purposes, as she suspected of Grace Murray who often accompanied John Wesley. Then she reprimanded herself for being unfair. Women Society members were often invaluable at the services, counseling their seeking sisters in matters men would have no knowledge of.

  She was almost to decide in favor of going when the vision of a large bay horse loomed, snorting, before her. She cowered into her pillows. What utter nonsense… she should be ashamed…. Unthinkingly she rubbed her fingers over her left collarbone and felt the sharp dip there. The imaginary horse snorted again, and the remembered pain in her shoulder was lost in the cries of her little brother who had toddled too close to the stamping feet.

  But that was years ago; the crazed horse had been put down, her shoulder rarely ached anymore, and a rambling rose grew over the grave of little David in the Shoreham churchyard. She had overcome her fear sufficiently to ride when the occasion absolutely demanded it, but her greatest victory had been in becoming an expert driver.

  So, if they could take the carriage, and Elizabeth could stay with Durial, and Silas Told would agree to allow Miss Owen to take her classes…. She must admit there was something that appealed to her in the idea of helping Ned’s strangely aloof colleague. As Ned had said after Phillip left that evening, “We’re not exactly friends. I certainly like him well enough. He’s a fine fellow—don’t know that I ever met better—but one can’t get close enough to him to feel free to use the word friend.” Yes, it might be worth knowing what was on the other side of that wall Phillip Ferrar had erected around himself.

  Five

  THREE DAYS LATER as the carriage rolled eastward along the old Roman Road through the green countryside below the Thames, Catherine was glad of her decision. Whatever else might come of the arguments advanced in favor of her taking this journey, Ned’s promise of a change of scene had been gloriously fulfilled. Hedgerows in new leaf sprouted buds that promised busy jam-making in cottage kitchens this summer; and rich, brown earth, yielding to the farmer’s plough would, in a month or two, be showing equal promise for a joyous Harvest Home festival in the fall. The fact that few trees had advanced past the bud stage was no hindrance to the flocks of chirping birds building their nests. “O Ned, just listen to that chorus,” Catherine said to her brother beside her on the carriage seat. “Surely that will inspire your hymn-writing.”

  “Pardon?” He looked up absently from his paper.

  “What poor company you make, Sir. You are far too busy listening to the poetry in your head to attend either to your sister or to nature’s choristers. I find you quite hopeless.”

  “Phillip!” Edward called to the rider just ahead of the carriage. “You must help me. My sister complains of my company, and I find her incessant chattering an intolerable interruption. Give me your horse.”

  “Incessant chattering! Sir, I protest. It was the second line I spoke to you in the better part of an hour. And how, pray tell, do you think to go on with your work on horseback?”

  “I shall go on very well. Charles Wesley composes nearly all his hymns on horseback; he says the pace of the horse aids his sense of stately rhythm.”

  “Yes.” Catherine guided Old Biggin around a mud hole left by recent rains. “And John Wesley gives all his attention to reading whilst on horseback. And they are both famous for their continual riding disasters because they never attend to their mounts. This time you’re sure to break your arm, and then what will Durial say?” But her good-natured protest was of no avail, and soon Phillip was sitting beside her on the carriage seat, while Ned, his reins looped across the saddle, followed at a distance. Here was her chance to get acquainted with the enigmatic man beside her. Her reticence, however, took over and she could think of nothing to say that didn’t seem unaccountably prying. So in spite of the recent accusations of her being a chatterbox, it was Phillip who broke the silence. “I am pleased you chose to come, Miss Perronet.”

  “Yes, I am too. But you must call me Catherine. Being traveling companions is almost like being family members.”

  “I would be honoured—to use your name and to be so considered. You have a large family, I believe?”

  Well, if she couldn’t ask him about himself, she could use the opportunity to tell him about herself; then maybe he would feel comfortable to be more open. “There were an even dozen of us, Mr. Ferrar.”

&nb
sp; “No, no. That will never do. If I am to call you Catherine you must call me Phillip…. Would you call your brother Mr. Perronet?” He had paused before referring to her analogy.

  “No, I wouldn’t—Phillip.”

  “There. Now, tell me more of your family.”

  “I shall do so, but you must absolve me of all accusations of chattering.”

  He raised his hand in a gesture of absolution.

  “Well, Ned was always my favorite brother. With twelve children in the family it would be easy to get lost, be just one of a crowd, but I was never that to Ned. He taught me to climb trees, helped me with my sums—which were always so easy for him and so impossible for me. He took me on long walks in the woods and taught me the names of the birds and flowers. I still keep my scrapbook of pressed flowers and hope to gather some new specimens on this trip.”

  She paused to observe the clumps of fresh violets growing along the road.

  “Ned encouraged my music when I became disheartened. Later I was able to return the favor by sharing the excitement over his poetry and I was often the first to play a hymn tune that would set his words to music.” She felt Phillip’s urging to continue her story.

  “Little Charl was always my special charge, like I was Ned’s—I suppose that’s the way it works in all big families—each one looking out for the next younger. At least, that’s how we did it, whether by rule or by inclination I don’t know. Anyway, Charl needed all the attention I could give him—he was forever wandering off and getting lost, or getting hung up on a blackberry bush, or losing a boot in the mud. And it was my job to rescue him. Most of the time I didn’t mind, even if it did interrupt my reading.”

  Catherine paused in her narrative, hoping her companion would offer a remark, perhaps even to reveal something of his own childhood. Seeing that it was not to me, however, she continued. “I suppose I was bred for Methodist Society work even before there was such a thing, because from my earliest memories I accompanied Mother when she visited the sick and needy in Papa’s parish every week. Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday were her regular visiting days, and at least three of us children always went with her, carrying baskets of garden vegetables, or a fresh cheese, or herbs from the woods—whatever we had at hand or something she knew was needed.